Tuesday, February 3, 2026
Grog Fun" Hoisting the Benson Boys
Just realized Grok has one of the boys defying gravity! Guess he fell!
Kirk.
Monday, February 2, 2026
Desperate Escape (story)
Desperate Escape
Chapter 1: Morning at the Frat House
The sun wasn't even up when Pops' voice boomed through the second floor like a drill sergeant's reveille.
"Get your lazy asses outta those racks! Daylight's burning and we got work to do!"
Billy Jr. groaned and pulled his pillow over his head. From the bunk above him, Jake's boots hit the floor with a thud.
"Jesus Christ, Pops, the sun ain't even up yet," Jake hollered back.
"That's the goddamn point, boy! Cattle don't feed themselves!"
Across the room, Billy was already pulling on his jeans. "You heard the man, Junior. Up and at 'em."
Colt "Louisiana" sat up on his mattress between the bunks, his Cajun drawl thick with sleep. "I swear that old man don' need no alarm clock when he got lungs like dat."
Celab laughed from his bunk. "Fourteen months living here and you still ain't used to it?"
"Don' think I ever will, cher."
The frat house came alive with the sounds of boots stomping, belt buckles clinking, and the general chaos of five ranch hands getting ready for the day. Billy Jr. splashed water on his face from the sink in the corner while Jake and Celab argued over whose turn it was to do laundry.
"Your socks smell like death, Jake."
"That's rich coming from you, Beaumont."
By the time they made it downstairs, the kitchen was already bustling. Sarah Benson had coffee brewing and was flipping pancakes on the griddle while Rebecca set the table. The smell of bacon filled the air.
Pops was already seated at the head of the long table, cigar in one hand and coffee in the other. "About damn time you boys showed up. Thought I was gonna have to come drag you down here by your ears."
"Morning, Pops," Billy Jr. said, sliding into his usual seat.
"Don't you 'morning Pops' me, boy. We got a full day ahead."
Josh walked in from the extension, clipboard in hand, already looking like he'd been up for hours. As General Manager, he usually was. Ray followed behind him, phone already pressed to his ear discussing feed prices with someone.
Tom Benson came in last, grabbing a cup of coffee. "Alright, let's talk assignments while we eat."
The family and ranch hands dug into breakfast while Josh reviewed the day's work.
"Ray's got the feed delivery coming in at ten, needs two guys to help unload. Billy, Jake—that's you two."
"Got it," Billy said through a mouthful of pancake.
"Celab, you're helping Dad check the south fence line. Storm last week tore up a section pretty good."
"Yes, sir."
"Louisiana, you're with Rebecca today. She needs help moving some equipment at the hospital, then you're back here for afternoon rounds."
Colt nodded. "Oui, no problem."
Josh turned to his son. "Junior, we got three surveillance cameras down on the northeast perimeter. Need you to ride out and see what's going on. Probably just loose connections after that storm, but could be more serious."
Billy Jr. nodded, already mentally running through the equipment he'd need. "I'll grab the repair kit and head out after breakfast."
"Take the Polaris," Josh added. "It's a good ten miles out."
Pops pointed his cigar at Billy Jr. "And don't you dare let them fancy cameras break on my watch. Cost us a damn fortune."
"They won't break, Pops. Probably just need to reset the connections."
"Better not be more than that. We spent seventy-five thousand dollars on that system—"
"Closer to eighty after the satellite phone upgrade," Ray interjected, still on his phone.
Pops waved his cigar dismissively. "My point exactly! That's a lot of damn money for cameras that don't work."
"They work fine, Pops," Billy Jr. said with a grin. "Just need a little maintenance now and then."
After breakfast, Billy Jr. headed up to the command center to grab his gear. The room was packed with monitors, radio equipment, and all the high-tech surveillance systems he and the other wiz kids had installed over the past year. He pulled out his encrypted satellite phone and keyed the radio frequency.
"Renzo, you copy?"
Static crackled, then Billy Renzo's voice came through. "Yeah, I copy. What's up, Junior?"
"Got three cameras down on the northeast perimeter. You free to give me a hand? Could use the extra set of eyes."
"Yeah, I can do that. Mattern and Rodriguez are helping my dad with the herd today anyway. Where you want me to meet you?"
"I'm taking the Polaris from here. Meet me at checkpoint seven in about thirty minutes?"
"Copy that. See you there."
Billy Jr. grabbed the equipment bag, slung it over his shoulder, and headed back downstairs. Jake was already out the door with Billy and Celab, heading toward the equipment barn. Colt was climbing into Rebecca's truck.
Josh caught Billy Jr. at the door. "You got your radio?"
"Yes, sir."
"Emergency button works?"
"Tested it yesterday."
"Good. Keep in touch. If those cameras are more than just loose wiring, call it in. Don't try to jury-rig something out there."
"I won't, Dad."
"And take some water. It's gonna be hot today."
Billy Jr. grabbed two water bottles from the fridge and headed out to the Polaris. The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, painting the Texas sky in shades of orange and pink. He loaded his gear, started the engine, and headed northeast across Benson land.
The radio crackled.
"Junior, this is Pops. You read me?"
Billy Jr. grinned and keyed his radio. "I read you, Pops."
"Don't you boys go screwing around out there. Fix them cameras and get your asses back here. We got work to do."
"Yes, sir, Pops."
"And tell Renzo I said hello. That boy needs to come by for cigars and brandy again soon."
"Will do."
Billy Jr. pushed the Polaris faster across the open range, the morning air cool on his face. Checkpoint seven was just ahead, and he could see Billy Renzo's truck already waiting.
Time to get to work.
Chapter 2: Taken
Billy Renzo was leaning against his truck when Billy Jr. pulled up in the Polaris, equipment bag already slung over his shoulder.
"Morning, Junior. Pops still riding everybody's ass at five in the morning?"
"You know it. Says hello, by the way. Wants you to come by for cigars and brandy."
"Tell him I'm there. That old man's got the best bourbon in three counties." Renzo grabbed his own tool kit from the truck bed. "So what are we looking at? Storm damage?"
"Probably. Three cameras went dark after those lightning strikes last week. Northeast perimeter, cameras twelve, fourteen, and fifteen."
"That's a big stretch of fence line."
"Yeah, which is why I called you. Could take all morning if we're climbing poles."
They loaded Renzo's gear into the Polaris and headed out together, the ATV bouncing over the rough terrain. The northeast perimeter was remote—nothing but open range, mesquite trees, and the occasional windmill. Perfect cattle country. Also perfect for blind spots.
Camera twelve was first. Billy Jr. climbed the pole while Renzo steadied the ladder, toolbox in hand.
"Connection's loose," Billy Jr. called down. "Just like I thought. Hand me the—"
"I got it." Renzo passed up the wire strippers.
Twenty minutes later, camera twelve was back online. They moved to camera fourteen.
"You see the game last night?" Renzo asked while Billy Jr. worked on the mounting bracket.
"Nah, Pops had us doing inventory until nine. Jake nearly threw Celab through a window over a missing case of feed."
"Those two ever stop fighting?"
"Not in this lifetime."
Billy Jr. was tightening the last bolt when he heard it—the low rumble of an engine that didn't belong. Not a ranch vehicle. Not consortium.
He froze. "Renzo, you hear that?"
Renzo's head snapped up, already scanning the horizon. "Yeah. That ain't one of ours."
A white panel van came over the rise, moving fast. Too fast for a random vehicle on private land.
"Junior, get down. Now."
Billy Jr. dropped the wrench and started down the ladder, but he wasn't fast enough. The van skidded to a stop twenty yards away, and four men jumped out—ski masks, gloves, moving with military precision.
"Run!" Renzo shouted, already sprinting toward the Polaris.
Billy Jr. hit the ground running, but one of the men was faster. A hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him backward. He swung hard, connected with something solid, heard a grunt—then pain exploded across the back of his head.
His knees buckled.
"Junior!" Renzo's voice sounded far away.
Billy Jr. hit the dirt, vision swimming. Through the haze, he saw Renzo fighting—two men on him, struggling—then a third man stepped in with something in his hand. A crack. Renzo dropped.
Rough hands grabbed Billy Jr., flipped him onto his stomach. His arms were wrenched behind his back, and he felt the bite of rope around his wrists—tight, professional knots, no give.
"Get the other one," someone barked.
More rope. Billy Jr. tried to kick, got a boot to his ribs for his trouble. The air left his lungs in a rush. A rag was shoved into his mouth, then tape slapped across his face, sealing it in. He couldn't breathe right, couldn't yell, couldn't—
"Load 'em up."
Billy Jr. was lifted like a sack of feed and thrown into the back of the van. A second later, Renzo landed beside him, hands tied behind his back, gagged just like him. Their eyes met—Renzo's were wild, furious.
The doors slammed shut. The engine roared.
And they were gone.
The van drove for what felt like hours but was probably only thirty minutes. Every bump sent pain shooting through Billy Jr.'s shoulders. His wrists were already going numb from the ropes.
When the van finally stopped, the doors opened to reveal an abandoned barn—rotted wood, rusted tin roof, middle of nowhere. One of the men grabbed Billy Jr. by the collar and dragged him out, dropping him onto the dirt floor inside. Renzo hit the ground beside him a second later.
The barn smelled like decay and old hay. A single bulb hung from a rafter, casting harsh shadows. In the center of the space, someone had set up a camera on a tripod. Professional. Deliberate.
This wasn't random.
One of the men—the leader, Billy Jr. guessed—crouched down in front of them and pulled off his ski mask. Forties, scarred face, dead eyes.
"Now boys," he said, almost conversational, "we're here to tie you up for the ransom photos. It's going to fuckin' hurt like hell, so prepare yourselves."
Billy Jr.'s blood went cold.
Two men hauled him and Renzo to their feet, forced them onto their stomachs in front of the camera. Billy Jr. tried to fight, but with his hands already bound, there was nothing he could do.
More rope. Thick hemp, coarse and rough. They pulled his forearms together behind his back—tight, tighter—until his elbows touched. He bit down on the gag to keep from screaming. The rope wrapped around his elbows, then his mid-forearms, cinched hard and knotted. His shoulders screamed in protest.
"Branch," the leader said.
A thick tree branch, maybe three feet long, was shoved between his upper arms and his back. The men lashed his biceps to it on both sides, wrapping the rope again and again, frapping it tight until the branch pressed hard against his spine.
Billy Jr. couldn't move his arms. At all. The pressure was immediate—his circulation slowing, veins starting to pop against his skin. He could feel his arms beginning to go numb, turning cold.
Beside him, Renzo was getting the same treatment. His face was red, jaw clenched behind the gag, breathing hard through his nose.
"Boots," the leader said.
They yanked off Billy Jr.'s work boots—the same steel-toed Ariats he'd been wearing all morning for the camera repairs. Then they bent his legs back hard, forcing his feet up toward his bound wrists. More hemp rope wrapped around the boots at the ankles, then looped through the ropes binding his wrists, cinching everything together in a cruel hogtie. His legs were bent back so far his boot heels nearly touched his lashed forearms. Every muscle in his body was stretched taut, already cramping.
The same was being done to Renzo beside him—his work boots yanked off and tied directly to his bound wrists, legs pulled back in the same agonizing position.
Billy Jr. couldn't move. Could barely breathe. His arms were already turning blue, veins bulging against the hemp rope.
The camera flashed.
Again.
Again.
"Good," the leader said. "Real good. Daddy's gonna love these."
He crouched down next to Billy Jr., grabbed a fistful of his hair, and forced his head up toward the camera. "Smile for the consortium, kid."
Another flash.
Then they left. The barn door slammed shut, and the sound of the van fading into the distance was the loneliest sound Billy Jr. had ever heard.
He and Renzo were alone, bound, helpless.
And no one knew where they were.
Back at the Benson Ranch, Colt "Louisiana" finished loading the last of the medical equipment into Rebecca's truck and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"That's the last of it, Miss Rebecca."
"Thanks, Colt. You're a lifesaver." Rebecca climbed into the driver's seat. "You heading back to the house?"
"Non, I t'ink I'm gonna quad out to da northeast perimeter. See if Junior and Renzo need any help wit' dem cameras. Might be more work dan dey t'ought."
"Alright. Be safe. And tell Junior to call his father when he gets a chance."
"Will do."
Colt grabbed one of the ATVs from the barn and headed out, following the tracks from Billy Jr.'s Polaris. The ride took about twenty minutes, and when he crested the last rise, his stomach dropped.
The Polaris was there. So was Renzo's truck.
But no Billy Jr. No Renzo.
Colt killed the engine and climbed off, already pulling his radio. "Junior? Renzo? Y'all out here?"
Nothing.
He walked toward the Polaris. The equipment bag was still there, tools scattered on the ground. A ladder lying on its side. The wrench Billy Jr. had been using was in the dirt.
Then he saw it.
Tire tracks. Deep ones. A vehicle that didn't belong.
And rope. Cut pieces of hemp rope, scattered near the Polaris.
Colt's blood turned to ice.
He didn't hesitate. He pulled out his encrypted satellite phone and hit the emergency button.
The automated system kicked in immediately, broadcasting across the entire consortium network:
"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. COLT LOUISIANA."
Colt keyed the mic, his voice shaking. "Junior and Renzo have been kidnapped. Northeast perimeter, checkpoint seven. Their vehicles are here. Tools scattered. I found cut rope. They're gone. I repeat—Junior and Renzo have been taken."
The radio exploded.
"WHAT?!" Pops' voice roared through, loud enough to make Colt wince. "The hell you mean kidnapped?! WHERE ARE THEY?!"
Josh's voice came next, ice-cold and deadly calm in a way that was somehow worse than Pops yelling. "Colt, this is Josh. Are you certain? Is there any sign of—"
"They're GONE, Josh!" Colt cut in. "Their stuff is here, but they ain't. There's tire tracks from another vehicle and cut rope everywhere. Someone took 'em."
Billy's voice crackled through, raw panic. "Junior! Oh God, that's my nephew—Colt, you're sure? You're absolutely sure?"
"I'm sure, Billy. I'm so sorry. I'm—"
Then Michael Renzo's voice cut through, thick with fear. "Where's my son? COLT, WHERE IS MY SON?!"
"I don't know, Mr. Renzo. I swear I don't know. They were just—they were just here working on the cameras and now—"
Sheriff Wade Nelson's voice came through, all business. "Colt, don't touch anything else. I'm en route with Ryan and Wilson. ETA twelve minutes. Josh, Tom—get everyone to the command center. Now."
"On it," Tom Benson replied.
Pops came back on, his voice shaking with fury. "Those sons of bitches took my boys. They took my great-grandson. I swear to God—"
"Pop, not now," Josh said, his voice tight. "Colt, stay put. Preserve the scene. We're coming to you."
Ray Benson's voice joined in. "I'm calling the other consortium families. Mattern, Rodriguez, Beaumont—everybody needs to know."
"Do it," Josh said. "And someone tell Rebecca. She needs to get back here."
Colt stood in the middle of the empty range, staring at the abandoned vehicles, the scattered tools, the cut ropes in his hand. The radio was still buzzing with voices—panicked, angry, desperate.
Billy Jr. and Renzo were out there somewhere.
And whoever took them had a head start.
Chapter 3: Desperate Escape
The barn was silent except for their labored breathing through their noses. Billy Jr. lay on his stomach, every muscle screaming, the hemp rope biting into his flesh. His arms were completely numb now—dead weight behind his back, veins bulging purple against the tight bindings. The tree branch pressed hard into his spine with every shallow breath.
Beside him, Renzo was in the same position. Their eyes met across the dirt floor.
They were both thinking the same thing.
We're getting out of here.
Billy Jr. tried to shift his weight, but the movement sent fire shooting through his shoulders. The hogtie was brutal—his work boots tied so tightly to his wrists that any attempt to straighten his legs pulled harder on his already-tortured arms. His circulation was cut off. He could feel it. Another hour like this and permanent damage would set in.
Renzo grunted behind his gag, trying to communicate something. His eyes were wild with fury, not fear. That was good. Fear would get them killed. Anger would keep them alive.
Billy Jr. focused on his breathing. In through the nose. Out through the nose. Don't panic. Think.
The boots.
That was the key. If they could somehow get the rope off their boots, they could at least straighten their legs. The hogtie would break. They'd still have their arms bound—the elbows lashed together, the branch tied to their biceps—but they could move. They could run.
He met Renzo's eyes again and nodded toward their feet. Renzo understood immediately. They'd been best friends since they were kids, worked together on a hundred ranch projects, communicated without words more times than either could count.
This was just another problem to solve.
A deadly one.
Billy Jr. tested the rope around his boots. The kidnappers had tied it tight—professional knots, multiple wraps—but they'd underestimated one thing. Ranch kids knew rope. Knew knots. Knew how to work them loose even when you couldn't see what you were doing.
His fingers were numb, but he could still feel the edge of the rope where it looped through his wrist bindings. If he could just get some leverage—
Pain shot through his arms as he tried to move his hands. The branch pressed harder into his back. He bit down on the gag to keep from screaming.
Breathe. Focus.
Renzo was working his own ropes, wiggling his boots, trying to create slack. His face was red, sweat pouring down his temples. The veins in his arms looked ready to burst.
Billy Jr. knew what he was thinking. How long before the families realize we're gone? How long before they start searching? Will they find us in time?
And the darker thought neither of them wanted to acknowledge: What if the kidnappers come back before we get loose?
Billy Jr. pushed the thought away. Pops always said fear was useless. Action was everything.
We're tough as nails, Billy Jr. thought, echoing what everyone always said about the wiz kids. We've been hunting, tracking, surviving in the backcountry since we could walk. We've dealt with rattlesnakes, broken bones, equipment failures miles from help.
We can handle this.
He focused on the rope again. His fingers found a knot—tight, but not impossible. If he could just work it loose enough to create some give in the hogtie...
Beside him, Renzo had stopped moving. Their eyes met again, and Billy Jr. saw something flicker across his friend's face. Not fear. Strategy.
Renzo tilted his head toward the barn wall, then back to his own boots. He was trying to say something.
Billy Jr. followed his gaze. There—a jagged piece of metal sticking out from one of the rotted support beams. Rusty, sharp.
If they could get to it. If they could use it to cut or fray the rope...
Billy Jr. nodded. It was a long shot, but it was something.
The question was: could they move?
Billy Jr. tested his weight, trying to rock himself sideways. Every movement was agony. The ropes bit deeper. The branch dug into his spine. His arms felt like they were being torn from their sockets.
But he moved. Inch by inch.
Renzo was doing the same, grunting with effort behind his gag, his body trembling with the strain.
They were ranch kids. Hunters. Survivors.
And they were pissed.
Whoever these bastards were, whatever they wanted, they'd made one critical mistake:
They'd left Billy Jr. and Billy Renzo alone.
And that meant the boys had a chance.
A desperate chance.
But a chance all the same.
Billy Jr. looked at Renzo one more time. Despite the gags, despite the pain, despite the impossible situation they were in, they understood each other perfectly.
We're getting out of here.
No matter what it takes.
Billy Jr. rocked his body again, pushing through the pain, inching toward that piece of metal on the wall.
The escape had begun.
Chapter 4: The Hunt Begins
The command center was chaos.
Colt sat at the main terminal, fingers flying across the keyboard, pulling up camera feeds from across the consortium's surveillance network. Ryan Mattern was on his right, monitoring radio frequencies. Daniel Rodriguez was on his left, already launching the drone control software.
"Camera twelve came back online twenty-three minutes before Colt found the scene," Mattern said, his voice tight. "If Junior fixed it before they got taken—"
"Pull it up," Colt snapped, his Cajun drawl gone, replaced by pure focus. "Now."
The screen flickered. Grainy footage appeared—timestamp showed 9:47 AM.
There. Billy Jr. on the ladder. Renzo below, holding the toolbox. Working. Talking. Everything normal.
Then the white panel van cresting the rise.
"Dere!" Colt pointed. "Dat's dem!"
The room went silent as they watched the ambush unfold. The van skidding to a stop. Four masked figures jumping out. Billy Jr. dropping from the ladder. Renzo running. The brief, brutal fight. Both boys going down.
Dragged to the van. Thrown inside. Gone.
Nine minutes and forty-two seconds from arrival to departure.
Professional. Efficient. Terrifying.
"Zoom in on the plates," Rodriguez said, his voice shaking.
Colt tried. The angle was wrong. The dust too thick. But he got a partial—white van, possibly a Ford Transit, two letters visible on the plate: "KX."
"Kings County plates," Mattern muttered. "They're local."
Behind them, the door slammed open. Pops stormed in, brandy bottle in one hand, cigar in the other, his face purple with rage.
"Show me," he growled. "Show me the sons of bitches who took my boys."
Colt played it again. Pops watched, his jaw clenched so tight Colt could hear his teeth grinding. When it ended, Pops took a long pull from the bottle.
"Find them," he said, his voice deadly quiet. "I don't care what it takes. You boys find my great-grandsons, you hear me?"
"Yes, sir," all three wiz kids said in unison.
Downstairs, the sound of splintering wood echoed through the house.
"JAKE!" Billy's voice roared. "Stand down!"
Another crash. Something heavy hitting a wall.
Colt winced. Jake Benson was a hothead on a good day. Right now, with his nephew missing, he was a wrecking ball.
"I'm gonna kill 'em!" Jake's voice carried up the stairs. "I'm gonna find every last one of those bastards and—"
"You ain't gonna do nothin' but calm the hell down!" That was Celab, struggling to hold his friend back. "Billy, a little help here!"
"Got him," Billy Sr. grunted. "Jake, brother, you gotta breathe. Bustin' up the house ain't gonna bring Junior back."
"Then what the hell am I supposed to do, Billy?! That's our nephew! That's Josh's boy! They got him tied up somewhere and we're just standin' here—"
"We're workin' on it!" Colt yelled down the stairs. "We got footage! We got a partial plate! Just give us time!"
In the living room, the consortium fathers had gathered around Tom Benson's big oak table. Tom, Josh, Ray, Sheriff Wade Nelson, Michael Renzo, Robert Beaumont, and the heads of the Mattern and Rodriguez families. All of them looking at maps, drawing search grids, coordinating with the other deputies.
Josh sat at the head of the table, his face carved from stone. He hadn't said much since Colt's emergency call. Just listened. Planned. But Colt could see it in his eyes—the fear, the fury, the desperation of a father who didn't know where his son was.
Michael Renzo was worse. The man looked like he'd aged ten years in the last hour. His hands shook as he traced possible routes on the map.
"They had a thirty-minute head start," Wade was saying. "Could be anywhere within a fifty-mile radius by now."
"Then we search fifty miles," Josh said, his voice flat. "We get every man, every vehicle, every—"
"Josh." Rebecca's voice cut through from the kitchen doorway. She was pale, holding her phone, her nurse's composure cracking. "You need to see this."
The kitchen had become the women's command post. Sarah Benson, Mary Renzo, Caroline Beaumont, and the other consortium mothers, all making calls, coordinating supplies, preparing for... whatever came next.
Rebecca handed Josh her phone.
The screen showed an email. No sender. No subject. Just an attachment.
Josh opened it.
The room went silent.
The photo showed two figures on a barn floor. Bound. Gagged. Arms twisted behind their backs in ways arms shouldn't bend. Boots tied to wrists. Veins bulging. Faces red with strain and fury.
Billy Jr. and Billy Renzo.
The second photo was worse. A close-up. Billy Jr.'s face forced up toward the camera, terror and defiance warring in his eyes.
The third photo showed text: $5,000,000. Instructions to follow. You have 48 hours.
Mary Renzo made a sound—something between a sob and a scream. Sarah grabbed her before she collapsed.
"Oh God," Michael Renzo whispered. "Oh God, that's my boy. Look what they did to my boy—"
Josh's hand clenched around the phone so hard Colt heard the case crack.
Pops looked at the photos, took another pull from his brandy, and turned to the command center.
"You three," he said, pointing his cigar at Colt, Mattern, and Rodriguez. "You're the smartest damn kids in this county. You built this whole system. Those cameras, those drones, those fancy computers—this is what it's all for."
He moved to the window, staring out at the range where his great-grandsons had been taken.
"Find that fuckin' truck that took them," Pops said, his voice raw. "I don't care if you gotta fly every drone we got. I don't care if you gotta hack into every traffic camera in Texas. You find that truck, you find my boys, and you bring them home. You hear me?"
"Yes, sir," Colt said, already turning back to his terminal.
Mattern pulled up the drone interface. "We've got ten drones with thermal imaging. If we grid search from checkpoint seven outward—"
"Do it," Josh said, moving into the command center. "Launch them all. Wade, coordinate ground teams to follow the drone paths."
"On it."
Rodriguez pulled up satellite imagery, overlaying it with the consortium's property maps and known roads. "If they stayed off main highways, there's maybe twenty abandoned structures within the thirty-minute radius. Barns, warehouses, old ranch buildings—"
"Flag them all," Tom Benson ordered. "We check every single one."
Colt's fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling data from the repaired camera, enhancing the footage, trying to extract any detail about the van, the men, anything that could help.
The command center hummed with activity. Three teenage tech geniuses working with the most advanced surveillance equipment money could buy.
Below, the families waited. Prayed. Prepared for war.
And somewhere out there, in an abandoned barn, Billy Jr. and Billy Renzo were fighting for their lives.
"Come on," Colt muttered under his breath, pulling up the first drone's live feed. "Come on, Junior. Where are you, cher? Give us somethin' to work wit'..."
The hunt had begun.
And failure wasn't an option.
Chapter 5: Run
Night had fallen. The single bulb in the barn had been turned off hours ago, leaving Billy Jr. and Renzo in near-total darkness. Through the gaps in the rotted walls, they could see moonlight filtering through the trees.
And they could hear the kidnappers.
Voices outside. Slurred. Laughing. The unmistakable clink of bottles.
They were drinking.
Billy Jr.'s heart pounded. This was it. This was their chance.
He'd been working the rope around his boots for hours. His fingers were raw, bleeding where the hemp had cut into them. But he'd finally felt it—the slightest give in the knot. Just enough.
He looked at Renzo. Even in the darkness, he could see his friend's eyes were alert, focused. Renzo had been working his own ropes too.
The voices outside grew louder. More laughter. Someone stumbled. A bottle shattered.
Now.
Billy Jr. twisted his wrists, ignoring the burning pain in his shoulders. The rope around his boots loosened. Another twist. Another pull. His fingers found the loop, worked it, and—
There.
The boot rope came free from his wrists.
His legs straightened for the first time in hours. The relief was immediate, overwhelming. He could move. He could—
He looked at Renzo. His friend had done it too. Both of them with their legs free, boots still on the ground but no longer connected to their wrists.
But their arms. God, their arms were still bound. Elbows cinched together. Forearms lashed. The branch still pressed hard against their spines, their biceps tied to it on both sides. The circulation was almost gone. Their hands were purple, swollen.
They had to get the gags off.
Billy Jr. rolled onto his side, pain shooting through every muscle. He scooted closer to Renzo, turning his back. His bound, numb fingers fumbled behind him, searching for the tape across Renzo's mouth.
Come on. Come on.
His fingertips found the edge. He pulled slowly, carefully. The tape peeled away with barely a whisper. Renzo gasped quietly, spitting out the rag.
Renzo's hands were just as numb, just as clumsy, but he worked the tape on Billy Jr.'s face. It came free. Billy Jr. sucked in air, the rag falling from his mouth.
"The arm ropes," Billy Jr. whispered, barely audible. "Can you—"
"No time," Renzo breathed. "We gotta go while they're drunk."
Billy Jr. looked at his friend. At the branch still tied to both their backs. At their elbows and forearms still lashed together behind them. At their hands, useless and numb.
Then he looked at the barn door.
We're tough as nails, Pops always said. Ranch kids don't quit.
"Alright," Billy Jr. whispered. "Quiet."
They struggled to their feet as silently as possible. Standing was agony—their legs cramped from hours in the hogtie, their balance completely off with their arms bound behind them and the branch throwing off their center of gravity.
But they stood.
Billy Jr. moved to the barn door. It wasn't locked—why would it be? They were supposed to be tied up. Helpless.
He pushed it open with his shoulder, inch by careful inch.
Cool night air hit his face. Freedom.
Thirty yards away, the kidnappers were gathered around a fire. Four of them, all drinking, bottles scattered around. One was slumped over, passed out. The others were loud, arguing about something, not paying attention to anything but their booze.
Beyond the clearing: woods. Deep, dark Texas woods.
"Now," Renzo breathed.
They moved into the shadows, staying low, moving as quietly as two bound men could move. Every step was calculated. Every sound a potential death sentence.
Billy Jr.'s heart hammered so loud he was sure the kidnappers would hear it. But the men kept drinking, kept arguing, oblivious.
Ten yards to the tree line. Five yards.
Billy Jr. stepped on a twig. It snapped.
He froze. So did Renzo.
One of the kidnappers looked up, squinting toward the barn. "You hear somethin'?"
"You're drunk," another one slurred. "Ain't nothin' out there."
"Maybe we should check on—"
"They ain't goin' nowhere. You saw how we tied 'em. Relax."
The man shrugged, took another drink, turned back to the fire.
Billy Jr. didn't breathe. Didn't move. Then, slowly, he took another step.
The tree line.
They were in.
The moment the woods swallowed them, they moved faster. Still quiet, but faster. Every step taking them farther from the barn. Farther from the kidnappers.
The voices behind them faded. The firelight disappeared.
They were in complete darkness now, moving by feel and moonlight, their arms still bound behind them, the branch making every movement awkward and painful.
But they were free.
Billy Jr.'s lungs burned. His legs were cramping. The ropes cut deeper with every movement. But he kept going.
Because the alternative was going back to that barn.
And that wasn't happening.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
"Keep moving," Renzo whispered. "Put distance between us and them."
They pushed deeper into the woods. No paths. No lights. Just two bound figures stumbling through the darkness, running on pure determination.
Behind them, the kidnappers kept drinking.
Still unaware.
Still oblivious that their prisoners were gone.
Billy Jr. crashed through another thicket, Renzo right behind him, both of them bound, bleeding, desperate.
But free.
And they were going to find their way home.
Chapter 6: The Assault
The command center had been running non-stop for six hours. Colt's eyes burned from staring at screens, but he didn't dare blink. Not now. Not when they were this close.
"Drone six, northeast quadrant," Rodriguez said, his fingers dancing across his iPad. "Thermal signature—vehicle matching the description."
Mattern leaned in, zooming the feed. "White panel van. Parked behind an old barn. That's gotta be it."
"Location?" Pops barked from behind them, cigar clenched between his teeth.
"Twelve miles northeast of checkpoint seven," Colt said, pulling up GPS coordinates. "Old Harrison property. Been abandoned for years."
Sheriff Wade Nelson was already on his radio. "All units, we have a location. Repeat, we have a location on the suspects."
The house exploded into action.
Billy and Jake were already geared up—vests, rifles, Glocks holstered at their hips. Celab was right behind them, checking his magazine. Tom Benson, Ray, Josh—all of them armed, all of them ready.
"Portable command center's loaded," Billy called up the stairs. "Colt, you boys ready?"
"Born ready," Colt said, grabbing his iPad and encrypted phone. Mattern and Rodriguez did the same, each of them with their own Glocks—gifts from Pops after they'd completed their firearms training last year.
"You three stay with the command unit," Josh ordered. "You're our eyes. We need that drone data real-time."
"Yes, sir," all three said.
Pops stood at the window, watching the convoy assemble in the yard. Trucks, ATVs, the portable command trailer hitched to Tom's F-350. Sheriff Wade's department vehicles, lights already flashing.
"Bring my boys home," Pops said quietly. "And those sons of bitches who took them? You make sure they don't ever take anyone else's boys again."
"Yes, sir," Wade said, his voice hard as iron.
In the kitchen, Rebecca was coordinating with the other consortium women—all of them with iPads, all linked into the same network the wiz kids had built.
"We've got the feed," Sarah Benson confirmed. "Mary, Caroline—you seeing this?"
"Copy," Mary Renzo said, her voice tight. "Michael's in truck two with Josh and Tom."
"Ladies, keep the channel open," Josh said over the radio. "If anything changes, we need to know immediately."
The convoy rolled out.
Four trucks. Six ATVs. Twelve armed men. Three tech geniuses in the portable command center with enough electronics to run a small military operation.
And one objective: get Billy Jr. and Billy Renzo back.
The drive took twenty minutes. Colt kept his eyes glued to the drone feed, watching the barn, watching for movement.
"Thermal's showing four signatures outside the barn," Rodriguez said. "Looks like they're around a fire."
"Any movement inside the barn?" Josh asked over the radio.
Colt switched to infrared, zooming in on the structure. "Negative. No heat signatures inside. Wait—" He adjusted the settings. "There's something, but it's faint. Could be residual heat. Hard to tell with these old walls."
"They could be in there," Mattern said. "Just... not moving much."
The thought made Colt's stomach turn. Not moving much could mean a lot of things. None of them good.
"ETA three minutes," Wade's voice crackled through.
The convoy slowed as they approached, killing lights, moving into position. Josh's tactical training from his Army days was on full display—he had them surrounding the property in minutes, every angle covered.
Colt watched from the command center screen as the men moved into position. Billy and Jake on the north side. Celab and Ray on the south. Wade's deputies covering the access road. Josh, Tom, and Michael Renzo approaching the barn directly.
"Drone six, give me a count," Wade ordered.
"Four targets, still by the fire," Colt confirmed. "They look... drunk, Sheriff. Real drunk. One's passed out."
"Good," Wade muttered. "On my mark. Three... two... one—GO!"
It happened fast.
Flashlights blazed. Voices shouting: "SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT! HANDS UP!"
The kidnappers scrambled, reaching for weapons—
Gunfire erupted.
Colt flinched at the sound, even from this distance. On the drone feed, he watched it unfold like a video game, except this was real. This was his friends' fathers, uncles, the men he'd lived with for over a year, putting their lives on the line.
The firefight lasted maybe thirty seconds. The kidnappers were drunk, disorganized, outgunned. One went down immediately. Another tried to run—Billy dropped him with two shots. The third surrendered, hands up, screaming.
The fourth—the leader, Colt guessed—made a break for the van.
Josh was faster. Three shots. The man crumpled.
"Clear!" Wade's voice rang out. "All targets down! Medic to target three—he's still breathing!"
"JUNIOR!" That was Michael Renzo, his voice raw with panic. "BILLY!"
Colt watched as the men rushed the barn. Josh kicked the door open, flashlight sweeping the interior.
Empty.
"They're not here!" Josh's voice cracked through the radio. "The barn's empty!"
"What?!" Tom Benson's voice. "Where the hell are they?!"
Colt's blood ran cold. He zoomed the drone camera, scanning the area, searching for any sign of—
"Wait," Mattern said, pointing at his screen. "Look. Rope on the floor. Cut rope. And... is that blood?"
The camera feed from Josh's body cam showed it clearly now. Hemp rope, cut and scattered. Dark stains on the dirt floor. Boot prints leading to the door.
And then past the door. Into the woods.
"They escaped," Rodriguez whispered. "They got loose and ran."
"Which direction?!" Josh was already moving, flashlight scanning the tree line.
Colt pulled up the wider drone view, switching to thermal. "Give me a second, I'm scanning—there!" Two faint heat signatures, maybe half a mile into the woods, moving slowly. "Northeast, point-four miles from your position. Two signatures, moving together."
"That's them," Josh said, his voice shaking with relief and fear. "That's gotta be them. All units, we're going in. Colt, keep that drone on them. Don't lose them."
"I won't," Colt promised.
The men moved into the woods, following the GPS coordinates Colt was feeding them in real-time.
Behind them, one surviving kidnapper sat zip-tied and bleeding, guarded by two deputies.
The others were dead.
And somewhere in those dark Texas woods, Billy Jr. and Billy Renzo were running for their lives, still bound, still desperate.
But not alone.
Not anymore.
Help was coming.
Chapter 7: Found
Billy Jr. stumbled over another root, his shoulder slamming into a tree. The branch on his back caught on something, yanking him backward. Pain shot through his bound arms.
"You good?" Renzo gasped beside him, equally exhausted.
"Yeah. Keep—"
Then he heard it.
A low mechanical hum. Getting closer.
Billy Jr. froze, looking up through the canopy. Moonlight reflected off something small, hovering, moving with purpose.
"Drone," Renzo breathed. "Junior, that's one of ours!"
The drone descended lower, and suddenly Colt's voice boomed through its speaker, thick Cajun accent unmistakable even through the electronic distortion.
"JUNIOR! RENZO! C'est moi, cher! It's Colt! Follow da drone! We comin' for you!"
Billy Jr. felt his knees nearly buckle with relief. "COLT! We're here! We're—"
"I see you on thermal, mon ami! Follow da drone! Keep movin'—we right behind you!"
The drone moved forward slowly, deliberately, like a sheepdog herding them. Billy Jr. and Renzo followed, stumbling through the underbrush, their bound arms making every step treacherous but hope giving them renewed energy.
"Dat's it! Keep comin'! Turn left by dat big oak—yeah, dat one!"
Behind them, through the woods, Billy Jr. could hear voices. Flashlights. Men running.
"JUNIOR!" That was Josh, his father's voice raw with desperation. "BILLY, WHERE ARE YOU?!"
"DAD!" Billy Jr. shouted with everything he had left. "WE'RE HERE! WE'RE—"
And then they broke through a thicket into a small clearing, and there they were.
Josh hit Billy Jr. like a freight train, nearly knocking him over. His father's arms wrapped around him—careful of the branch, the ropes—and Billy Jr. felt his dad shaking.
"Oh God, son. Oh God, you're alive. You're—"
Michael Renzo had Billy Renzo in the same desperate embrace, both of them talking at once, neither making much sense.
Then Billy and Jake were there, and Celab, and Tom, and everyone, all talking, all reaching out to touch them like they couldn't believe they were real.
"Get these ropes off them!" Josh barked, his voice suddenly all business. "NOW!"
Tom already had his knife out, moving behind Billy Jr. "Hold still, son. This is gonna hurt."
He wasn't kidding. As the ropes around his biceps and the branch started to give, Billy Jr. felt fire shoot through his shoulders. The circulation rushing back was agony. He bit down hard to keep from screaming.
"Easy, easy," Tom said, working the knots. "Almost got it—there!"
The branch fell away. Then the ropes around his elbows. His forearms. His wrists.
Billy Jr.'s arms dropped, useless and numb. He couldn't move them. Couldn't feel them. They were purple, swollen, veins still bulging.
"Rebecca!" Josh shouted into his radio. "I need you at the clearing, north of the barn. NOW!"
"On my way," Rebecca's voice came back, already running.
Beside him, Michael and Wade were cutting Renzo free. His friend collapsed the moment the last rope fell away, his arms just as damaged, just as useless.
The wiz kids came crashing through the woods—Colt, Mattern, Rodriguez, all of them talking at once.
"Cher, you crazy bastard!" Colt grabbed Billy Jr. in a hug. "We t'ought—we didn't know if—"
"We're okay," Billy Jr. managed. "We're—"
Rebecca burst into the clearing, medical bag already open. She went straight to work, checking circulation, feeling for broken bones, her nurse training taking over.
"Josh, get on the radio," she ordered. "Tell Sarah and Mary their boys are alive. Do it now."
Josh fumbled for his radio, his hands shaking. "Sarah? Mary? We got them. They're alive. They're—"
The radio exploded with sound. Sarah's voice, crying. Mary Renzo sobbing. Caroline Beaumont cheering. All the consortium women at once, all of them linked in on their iPads, all of them listening.
"Let me talk to them," Billy Jr. said.
Josh handed him the radio.
"Mom?" Billy Jr.'s voice cracked. "Mom, I'm okay. We're okay."
"Billy Junior Benson!" Sarah's voice was half-sob, half-laugh. "You scared me half to death! Don't you ever—don't you—"
"I know, Mama. I'm sorry. We're coming home."
Renzo took the radio next. "Mama? It's me. I'm here. I'm—yeah, I'm okay. We're both okay."
Mary Renzo's response was mostly incoherent, just relief and joy and tears.
Rebecca finished her examination. "They're dehydrated, exhausted, and their arms are going to need attention. But nothing's broken. They'll be okay."
"Damn right they'll be okay," Pops' voice came through the radio. He must have grabbed it from one of the ladies. "Those are Benson boys. Tough as nails. Now somebody get my great-grandsons home so I can give them proper hell for scaring an old man!"
That got a laugh from everyone, breaking the tension.
"Oh man," Renzo said suddenly, looking at Billy Jr. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Damn, we're starving!" they said in unison.
More laughter. Tom clapped them both on the shoulders—gently, mindful of their injuries.
Pops materialized from the woods, somehow keeping pace despite being seventy-six. He had not one but two flasks in his hands.
"Here," he said, handing one to Billy Jr., the other to Renzo. "Medicine. Doctor's orders."
Billy Jr. took a pull. Brandy burned down his throat, warming him from the inside. Best thing he'd ever tasted.
Pops passed the flasks around. Josh took a drink. Michael Renzo. Tom. Billy. Jake. Celab. Even the wiz kids got a sip.
"To my great-grandsons," Pops said, his voice gruff with emotion. "The toughest damn kids in Texas."
"To the wiz kids," Josh added. "Who built the system that found them."
"To the consortium," Wade said. "Family looks after family."
They started the trek back to the vehicles, Billy Jr. and Renzo supported between their fathers, their arms slowly coming back to life with pins and needles and burning pain.
But they were alive.
They were free.
And they were going home.
The portable command center came into view, and Sarah's voice crackled through one more time.
"Colt? You boys did good. Real good."
"We just flew da drones, Miss Sarah," Colt said, his Cajun drawl thick with emotion. "Junior and Renzo—dey saved demselves."
"Yeah," Billy Jr. said, looking at his best friend. "We did."
Renzo grinned back at him, exhausted and battered but alive.
"Damn right we did."
The convoy loaded up. Billy Jr. and Renzo rode in the command center trailer, Rebecca monitoring their vitals, the wiz kids surrounding them like protective brothers.
And as they rolled toward home, with Pops' brandy warming their bellies and their families around them, Billy Jr. realized something:
They'd survived.
Not because of luck.
Not because someone saved them.
But because they were ranch kids. Hunters. Survivors.
Tough as nails.
Just like Pops always said.
The Benson Ranch lights came into view over the horizon.
Home.
Chapter 8: Home
The Benson kitchen was organized chaos. Sarah and Rebecca were pulling out every leftover in the fridge—fried chicken, potato salad, biscuits, cornbread, three-bean casserole, half a meatloaf—anything that didn't require actual cooking because everyone was too wired to wait.
"Move over, I got the beans," Mary Renzo said, squeezing past Caroline Beaumont with a casserole dish that was still cold from the fridge.
"Just microwave everything," Sarah declared. "We're eating in ten minutes whether it's hot or not."
"Amen to that," Jake said, already grabbing plates. "I'm starving."
"You're always starving," Billy shot back.
"Yeah, but today I earned it. I punched three walls."
"Four," Celab corrected. "Don't forget the one in the bathroom."
In the living room, Pops had transformed Tom's big oak table into his personal bar. Three bottles of his best brandy lined up like soldiers. A bottle of bourbon for the whiskey drinkers. And a case of beer cooling in an ice bucket that definitely hadn't been there this morning.
"Junior, Renzo—front and center," Pops ordered, already pouring. "Doctor's orders. More medicine."
Billy Jr. and Renzo shuffled over, their arms still wrapped in compression bandages and ice packs, moving like a pair of broken robots.
Rebecca materialized beside them. "Small sips, boys. You're both dehydrated, on painkillers, and probably in shock."
"Yes, ma'am," they both said, taking the offered glasses of brandy.
"Don't 'yes ma'am' me and then chug that," Rebecca warned. "I mean it."
Pops was already pouring rounds for everyone else—Josh, Tom, Ray, Billy, Jake, Celab, Michael Renzo, Wade Nelson, Robert Beaumont, all the consortium fathers who'd been part of the assault.
"To survival," Pops raised his glass.
"To family," Josh added, his voice still rough.
"To not having to post bail," Wade said, getting a laugh.
They drank.
In the corner of the living room, Colt, Mattern, and Rodriguez had commandeered the coffee table, laptops open, cables running everywhere, looking like they were launching a space shuttle.
"What are you three up to?" Tom asked suspiciously.
"Nothin' illegal, Mr. Tom," Colt said innocently. Too innocently.
"That's not reassuring," Wade muttered.
"We jus' compilin' footage from today," Colt continued. "Body cams, drone feeds, da whole operation. T'ought everybody might wanna see it."
"Like a highlight reel?" Jake perked up immediately.
"Exactement. Give us ten minutes."
"Y'all better not be putting this on YouTube," Wade warned.
"Non, Sheriff. Dis is jus' for da family. Private screenin', you know?"
Dinner was chaos—people eating standing up, sitting on couches, perched on the stairs, plates balanced on laps. Billy Jr. tried to use his fork but his hands were still too swollen and numb.
Rebecca cut his chicken without comment, the way she used to when he was little.
"Mom, I can—"
"No, you can't. Eat."
Across the room, Mary Renzo was doing the same for her son, much to his visible embarrassment.
"Ma, I'm fine—"
"You were tied up and left in a barn. You're not fine. Eat your potato salad."
"We survived a kidnapping but we can't escape our mothers," Renzo muttered to Billy Jr.
"At least they're not asking if we need to pee," Billy Jr. whispered back.
"Don't give them ideas."
Twenty minutes later, Colt stood up and whistled loud enough to make everyone wince. "Alright, everybody! Clear da living room. We got somethin' to show you. Billy, kill da lights. Jake, help me hook dis up to da TV."
The living room went dark. The big screen flickered to life. Someone had even made a title card: "OPERATION DESPERATE RESCUE - A Consortium Production."
"Did you really make a title card?" Josh asked, incredulous.
"Presentation matters, Mr. Josh," Mattern said seriously.
"You three are ridiculous," Rebecca said, but she was smiling.
"Alright," Colt announced. "Part One: Da Assault."
The footage opened with drone camera view, timestamp in the corner: 22:47:33. Infrared thermal imaging showed the barn, the kidnappers' van, and four heat signatures gathered around a fire.
"There's the bastards," Pops growled.
The view switched to helmet cam footage—Wade's perspective as the convoy approached. Quiet. Dark. Professional.
Wade's voice over radio: "All units in position?"
A chorus of confirmations.
"Remember—suspects are armed and dangerous. We go on my mark. Josh, you and Tom take point on the barn. Billy, Jake—you've got the north approach. Celab, Ray—south side. Nobody fires unless fired upon, but if they draw down, you drop them. Clear?"
"Clear."
The tension in the room was palpable even watching the replay.
"On my mark," Wade's voice was ice-cold. "Three... two... one—GO!"
The room erupted like they were watching the Super Bowl.
Multiple camera angles now—body cams from Wade, Josh, Billy. Flashlights blazing across the dark field. Men moving fast.
"SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT! HANDS UP! HANDS IN THE AIR!"
The kidnappers scrambled—one reaching for a rifle—
"WEAPON!" someone shouted.
The first shots rang out. Muzzle flashes in the dark.
"THERE!" Jake jumped up from the couch, pointing at the screen. "That's the one who shot first!"
The kidnapper went down—multiple shooters, impossible to tell who got him.
"That's teamwork right there," Wade said approvingly.
The second kidnapper was running, sprinting for the tree line. Billy's helmet cam showed him tracking the target, leading it slightly—
Two shots. The running figure dropped.
"BILLY BENSON!" Sarah shouted. "That was a moving target at fifty yards in the dark!"
"More like sixty," Billy said modestly.
"Show off," Jake muttered, grinning.
The third kidnapper had dropped his weapon, hands in the air, screaming. "DON'T SHOOT! DON'T SHOOT! I GIVE UP!"
"Smart man," Pops said. "Lived to see a courtroom."
The fourth—the leader—made a break for the van.
Josh's body cam showed him pivot, rifle coming up smooth and controlled. The leader was maybe forty yards out, running hard—
Three shots. Bang. Bang. Bang.
The figure dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
The room exploded. Hooting, hollering, Pops whistling through his teeth.
"THAT'S MY BOY!" Tom Benson roared, pulling Josh into a headlock and giving him a noogie like he was twelve.
"Dad—get off—"
"Army training!" Billy shouted. "Tell 'em what you got, Josh!"
"Expert Marksman qualification," Josh said, trying not to smile. "It's not that impressive—"
"The HELL it isn't!" Michael Renzo was on his feet. "That man was running full speed!"
"In the dark," Wade added.
"Uphill," Celab contributed.
"It was flat ground," Josh protested.
"UPHILL," Jake insisted. "In the official version."
The footage continued—the assault team converging on the barn. Josh in the lead, rifle up, flashlight cutting through the darkness.
He kicked the door open. Hard.
The barn was empty.
Josh's body cam swept the interior—dirt floor, rotted beams, that single hanging bulb. And there—rope. Lots of rope. Cut pieces scattered everywhere.
"They're not here!" Josh's voice cracked with panic. "THE BARN'S EMPTY!"
The room watching went silent. Even though they knew how it ended, the tension was real.
"Where the hell are they?!" That was Michael Renzo on the footage, his voice raw.
"Look!" Tom's voice. "Boot prints. Leading out. They escaped!"
"Oh thank God," Sarah breathed, watching. Mary Renzo was already crying.
"Those clever little shits," Pops said with fierce pride. "They got themselves loose."
The footage switched to drone camera—Colt's perspective now as he piloted Drone 6 over the woods. Thermal imaging showing two faint heat signatures moving through the trees.
"Dere!" Colt pointed at his laptop screen, even though they could all see it on the TV. "Dat's when I found dem!"
The drone descended, and they could hear Colt's voice over the speaker: "JUNIOR! RENZO! C'est moi, cher! It's Colt!"
"Did you really call them 'cher' during a rescue operation?" Wade asked.
"It worked, didn't it?" Colt shot back.
The body cam footage resumed—men running through the woods now. Josh in the lead, following the GPS coordinates Colt was feeding them.
"JUNIOR!" Josh's voice, desperate. "BILLY, WHERE ARE YOU?!"
Then faintly: "DAD! WE'RE HERE!"
"There!" Rebecca pointed, tears streaming. "That's my boy!"
The camera broke through the tree line into a clearing—
And there they were.
Billy Jr. and Billy Renzo stumbled into view, and the room gasped.
Even knowing they were safe now, seeing them like that was brutal. Arms twisted behind their backs, still lashed together at the elbows and forearms. That thick tree branch still strapped across their shoulders. Their faces exhausted, dirty, desperate—but determined.
"Jesus Christ," Ray breathed. "Look at their arms."
The veins were visible even on the grainy body cam footage—bulging, purple, the circulation clearly cut off.
"How long were they tied like that?" Caroline Beaumont asked.
"Hours," Rebecca said quietly. "At least six. Maybe more."
The footage showed Josh hitting his son like a linebacker, wrapping him in a desperate hug while being careful of the ropes. Michael doing the same with his boy.
"Oh God, son. Oh God, you're alive."
"I'm okay, Dad. We're okay."
"The hell you are," Josh's voice cracked. "Look at you. Look at—"
"We're alive," Billy Jr. insisted. "We're alive."
Tom Benson moved in with his knife, starting to cut the ropes. "Hold still, son. This is gonna hurt."
The footage showed Billy Jr.'s face as the circulation rushed back into his arms—the way he bit his lip, trying not to scream.
"That's my nephew," Billy said quietly. "Tough as nails."
When the last rope fell away and Billy Jr.'s arms dropped, purple and swollen and useless, Sarah made a sound like she'd been punched.
"My baby," she whispered.
On screen, Rebecca was already there with her medical kit, checking pulses, testing circulation, her nurse training taking over.
"They're okay," Mattern said from his laptop. "We checked at da hospital later. No permanent damage. Dey gonna be sore for a week, but dey okay."
The final footage showed the trek back—Billy Jr. and Renzo supported between their fathers, the whole consortium surrounding them like a protective wall. Pops passing his flasks around. Everyone together.
The video ended with Billy Jr. on the radio: "Mom? Mom, I'm okay. We're okay."
And Sarah's voice, breaking: "Billy Junior Benson! You scared me half to death!"
The screen went dark.
Nobody spoke for a long moment.
Then Pops cleared his throat. "Bar's open," he announced, his voice rough. "Everybody drink up. That's an order."
The mood shifted. More drinks poured. More food consumed. The consortium fathers started their own play-by-play analysis.
"That thermal imaging saved us hours," Wade said. "Without the wiz kids' system—"
"We'd still be searching," Josh finished. "I know."
"Seventy-five thousand dollars," Tom said. "Best money we ever spent."
"Eighty thousand," Ray corrected. "After the satellite phone upgrade."
"Still worth every penny."
Around midnight, families started heading home. Hugs all around. Promises to debrief properly tomorrow. The Matterns. The Rodriguez family. The Beaumonts.
Billy Renzo stood up, wincing as his sore muscles protested.
"I'm staying here tonight," he announced. "No way I'm going home after all this."
"You sure, son?" Michael asked.
"Yeah, Dad. I just... I need to be here. With them."
Michael understood. "Alright. I'll bring you fresh clothes in the morning."
"The mattress between the bunks is yours, cher," Colt said. "We'll make room."
They headed upstairs—all six of them. Billy and Jake took their bunk. Celab claimed his. Billy Jr. climbed carefully into his spot, arms still wrapped. Colt flopped onto his mattress. And Billy Renzo squeezed in beside him.
"Cozy," Renzo observed.
"You complainin'?" Colt asked.
"Hell no. This is perfect."
"Hey," Jake said, already grinning. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"The stash," Billy confirmed, dropping from his bunk.
"Wait, what stash?" Renzo looked confused.
"Oh man," Billy Jr. said. "You're about to learn the best-kept secret of the Benson Ranch."
Jake and Billy moved to the far corner, pried up three loose floorboards, and revealed their hidden cache.
A full case of beer. Twenty-four bottles. Still cold.
"Holy SHIT," Renzo breathed. "You have a beer fridge under your floor?"
"Better," Celab said. "Pops stocks it."
"I'm sorry, WHAT?"
"Every week," Billy Jr. explained. "Like clockwork. He pretends he doesn't know about it. We pretend we don't know that he knows."
"Your great-grandfather... supplies you... with beer?"
"Pops says if we're gonna drink, better we do it at home where somebody can keep an eye on us," Jake said. "His exact words."
"That man is a LEGEND," Renzo said reverently.
Six caps popped. Six bottles raised.
"To desperate escapes," Billy Jr. said.
"To surveillance systems dat save your ass," Colt added.
"To Pops' brandy AND his beer," Renzo said.
"To family," Billy said simply.
They drank.
"Alright," Renzo said, settling back on the mattress. "I gotta know. When you were working those boot ropes, what was going through your head?"
Billy Jr. thought about it. "Honestly? I kept thinking about when we were twelve and got lost tracking that deer. Remember? Three hours in the dark?"
"And your dad grounded us for two weeks," Renzo laughed.
"Yeah, but we figured it out then. Just like we figured this out."
"Y'all are crazy," Colt said. "I saw da footage—you were runnin' through dem woods wit' your arms tied behind your back like some kinda horror movie monsters."
"We prefer 'determined,'" Billy Jr. said.
"I prefer 'insane,'" Renzo countered. "But it worked."
"That's cause you're ranch kids," Jake said. "Pops always says—ranch kids don't wait for rescue."
"They rescue themselves," Billy finished. "Then let the consortium shoot the bastards who took them."
"SPEAKING OF," Celab sat up. "Can we talk about Josh's shots? THREE perfect hits on a running target?"
"In the dark," Billy added.
"While the guy was sprinting," Jake continued.
"I was just doing my job," Josh's voice came from the doorway.
Everyone jumped. Josh stood there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, holding his own beer.
"Dad!" Billy Jr. said. "We thought you went to bed!"
"With all this noise? Not a chance." Josh came in, surveyed the revealed beer stash, and shook his head. "Pops restocked, I see."
"You KNEW?" Jake said.
"Son, I was drinking from this same stash twenty years ago. You think I don't know where it is?"
"Does Mom know?" Billy Jr. asked cautiously.
"Your mother knows everything. She just chooses her battles." Josh sat on the floor, leaning against Celab's bunk. "So what are we drinking to?"
"Everything," Billy Jr. said. "All of it."
"To everything," Josh agreed.
The night wore on. The beer kept flowing. The stories got bigger—Jake's version of punching walls grew more dramatic with each telling. Celab claimed he'd held Jake back singlehandedly (he hadn't). Colt embellished his drone piloting skills (though honestly, they'd been pretty impressive).
"I still can't believe you called them 'cher' over the speaker," Billy Jr. said for the third time.
"It's called psychological warfare, Junior," Colt said seriously. "Make da enemy t'ink we're crazy Cajuns who don't care about nuttin'."
"You ARE a crazy Cajun," Jake pointed out.
"Exactement."
Around 2 AM, Josh finally stood up. "Alright, I'm out. But boys?" He looked at all of them. "What you did today—all of you—I'm proud. The system worked. The training worked. You worked." He looked at his son. "And you two... you got yourselves out. That's what matters most."
"Thanks, Dad," Billy Jr. said.
"Don't stay up too late. Pops will have you up at five regardless."
"Yes, sir."
Josh left. The door closed. Thirty seconds of silence.
Then Jake: "He's definitely telling Mom about the beer."
"Worth it," Billy said.
Around 3 AM, they were still going—six guys in one room, lights blazing, voices overlapping, rehashing every moment of the worst and best day of their lives.
"Hey Renzo?" Billy Jr. said.
"Yeah?"
"You sleeping over more often now?"
"Every weekend if you'll have me."
"Da mattress is always yours, mon ami," Colt said. "We make room for family."
"Six guys, one room, two bunks and a mattress," Celab said.
"The frat house," Jake declared.
"Best damn room in Texas," Billy added.
"TO THE FRAT HOUSE!" They all shouted, bottles raised.
Outside, the Texas night was silent and still. Inside, the second floor of the Benson Ranch was alive with laughter, brotherhood, and the simple joy of being home and whole.
Eventually—probably around 4 AM—they'd crash. But not yet.
Not while the beer held out and the stories kept flowing.
Because this was what it meant to be ranch kids. Consortium brothers. Family.
Tough as nails.
Just like Pops always said.
And tomorrow morning, when they stumbled downstairs hungover and exhausted, Pops would take one look at the empty case, grunt, and say, "About damn time you boys learned to hold your liquor."
Then he'd restock the stash.
Because that's what family did.
THE END
Sunday, February 1, 2026
Saturday, January 31, 2026
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