Billy Renzo stood there, coacky as ever. Just turned 21, white cowboy hat, burgandy Wrangler cowboy short, sleeves rolled up to his shoulders sowing his tatto. Jeans with cowboy buckled, thumbs in his pocket. cigarette in his mouth. "Go fuck yourselves," he said to the Benson brothers, one aiming a pistol at him, the other holding coils of hemp ropes. "We've been waiting a long time to get you Renzo. Hope you like being tied up. Time to get revenge on your father!"
Billy Renzo stood defiantly, his arms forced behind his back. Hank took the coarse hemp rope, starting with Billy's wrists. He crossed them painfully, one over the other, and wrapped the rope around them four times, pulling each loop tight enough to dig into the skin. He threaded the rope between the wrists in a figure-eight pattern, cinching it brutally before knotting it secure.
"Remember how they taught us to hog-tie calves?" Hank sneered. "Works just the same on cowboys."
Cole laughed as Hank continued working the rope upward. He looped it around Billy's forearms, three inches above the wrists, forcing his elbows closer together with each winding. Billy's shoulders strained against their natural range of motion. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he refused to make a sound.
Next, Hank crafted an intricate web between Billy's upper arms, weaving the rope in tight crisscross patterns that pinched the flesh between his biceps. Each time the rope completed a circuit, Hank jerked it violently, causing Billy to clench his jaw against the pain. The lattice of hemp strands dug deep channels into his muscles.
"That's how my daddy taught me to tie a troublesome steer," Hank said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "But we ain't done yet."
Taking another length of rope, he fashioned a harness that circled Billy's chest and connected to the bindings between his arms. Then, with a final length, he created a hoisting line that ran from the complex knot between Billy's biceps up to the weathered wooden rafters of the abandoned ranch.
Cole holstered his gun and joined his brother. Together they pulled the rope, slowly lifting Billy's body until his boots no longer touched the ground. His entire weight now hung suspended from the bindings cutting into his arms, his shoulders wrenched into an unnatural position that sent waves of agony through his frame.
"Go fuck yourselves," Billy spat, his voice surprisingly steady despite hanging by his arms. "When my old man finds you—"
"Your old man ain't finding nobody," Cole interrupted, unfolding a bandana. "He's just gonna watch."
Hank grabbed Billy's jaw roughly, squeezing until his mouth opened in pain. Cole shoved the wadded bandana deep inside, muffling Billy's curses. They wrapped another length of rope around his head several times, securing the gag tightly between his teeth.
"Set up that camera, Cole," Hank ordered, adjusting the rope to make Billy swing slightly, intensifying the pressure on his bound arms.
Cole positioned the tripod carefully, angling the camera to capture Billy's suspended form. He connected cables to a laptop on a weathered table, typing rapidly.
"We're live in three... two... one..." Cole announced, giving his brother a thumbs-up. "Old man Renzo is getting the feed right about now."
Five miles away, James Renzo's phone buzzed with an unknown notification. When he opened it, the blood drained from his face. The screen showed his son, hanging by his arms in what looked like an abandoned ranch house, his body swaying slightly from invisible currents of air.
"Billy," he whispered, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped the phone.
The camera zoomed in slowly on Billy's face – eyes defiant despite the gag, sweat trickling down his forehead. Then it panned downward, showing the intricate rope work binding his arms, the unnatural angle of his shoulders, the way his entire body weight pulled against the bindings.
James Renzo had spent twenty-five years as a Texas Ranger. He'd seen the aftermath of cartel executions and backwoods vendettas. Nothing had prepared him for the sight of his own son strung up like an animal.
His first instinct was to call the sheriff, but a text message flashed across the screen: "CALL ANYONE AND HE DIES IMMEDIATELY. WATCH AND SUFFER, JUST LIKE WE DID FOR THREE YEARS."
James stared at his son's eyes, searching for any sign of breaking. Instead, he noticed something familiar – a pattern to the way Billy was tilting his head. Subtle, almost imperceptible motions. His Boy Scout training flooded back... Morse code.
James grabbed a pen and paper, his hands steadying as he focused on his son's movements, ready to decode the message that might save Billy's life.
"Heard you like your smokes, Billy-boy," Hank said, tapping out a cigarette from the pack they'd taken from Billy's pocket. He rolled it between his fingers, examining it with exaggerated interest. "Good brand. Expensive."
Cole struck a match, holding the flame steady as his brother lit the cigarette. Hank took a long, deliberate drag, blowing the smoke directly into Billy's face. Billy's nostrils flared, but his eyes remained fixed in defiance.
"Remember when we were kids and Daddy caught me smoking behind the barn?" Hank asked his brother, never taking his eyes off Billy. "Took my cigarettes and burned me with every last one of 'em. Said it was to teach me about consequences."
The camera panned closer, ensuring Billy's father would miss nothing of what came next.
Hank took another deep drag, then pressed the glowing ember against the bare skin of Billy's forearm. Billy's body tensed violently, the ropes creaking as they took his full weight. A muffled groan escaped despite the gag, but he quickly regained control, his jaw clenching so tight the tendons stood out in his neck.
"One," Hank counted, his voice almost gentle.
When he lifted the cigarette, a perfect circle of burned flesh remained, angry red with charred black edges. Hank took another drag, reheating the ember to bright orange, then selected a spot two inches higher on Billy's arm.
The second burn elicited only a sharp intake of breath through Billy's nose. His eyes watered involuntarily, but he blinked away the moisture before it could form tears.
"Two," Hank whispered.
Cole adjusted the camera angle, zooming in on the burns. "Make sure Daddy can count along," he snickered.
By the fourth burn, Billy had begun using the pain to his advantage. Each time the cigarette touched his skin, he'd jerk his head in what appeared to be an instinctive reaction to pain. But the movements weren't random. Each twitch, each tilt of his head was deliberate—dashes and dots forming letters only his father would understand.
L-A-B-A-R-G-E...
The old LaBargeRanch, five miles from his father's property. The place where Billy and his dad used to fish at the stock pond when he was a kid. The location he was desperately trying to communicate while enduring the methodical torture.
"You're taking this well," Hank observed, lighting a fresh cigarette from the dying ember of the last. "But we're just getting started. Got a whole pack to go through."
"Think it's getting a little warm in here for you, Billy," Hank said, flicking ashes onto the dirt floor. He nodded to Cole, who produced a hunting knife from his belt.
Cole approached slowly, the blade catching the light from the single bulb hanging overhead. He slid the tip under the collar of Billy's partially shredded shirt, the cold steel brushing against his collarbone.
"Don't move now," Cole warned with mock concern. "Wouldn't want to slip."
The knife sliced downward, parting the fabric with a soft ripping sound. Cole worked methodically, cutting away the shirt in strips rather than all at once, prolonging the process. Each time the blade came close to Billy's skin, he would pause, letting the cold metal linger just long enough to raise goosebumps before continuing.
When the last scrap of fabric fell away, Billy's torso was fully exposed—tanned and muscled from years of ranch work, now vulnerable under the harsh light.
Hank walked a slow circle around Billy's suspended form, eyeing his chest like a canvas. "You know what I learned inside?" he asked, taking another cigarette from the pack. "Learned how to make patterns. Learned how art can tell a story."
The ember glowed bright orange as Hank inhaled deeply. This time, he placed the burning tip just below Billy's right collarbone, holding it there longer than before. Billy's body jerked violently, the pain more intense against the thinner skin over the bone. When Hank removed the cigarette, he examined the burn with critical satisfaction.
"That's the first point," he said. "By the time we're done, your daddy will see a constellation on you."
Two more burns followed in quick succession, forming a triangle on Billy's chest. Each burn brought another coded head movement, barely perceptible among the natural reactions to pain.
After the seventh burn—a crude star pattern now visible on Billy's heaving chest—Hank stepped back. "Let's give him a change of position. Getting boring this way."
Cole moved to the pulley system that kept Billy suspended. With a cruel smile, he released the rope suddenly, sending Billy crashing to the floor. The impact drove the air from his lungs, leaving him momentarily stunned.
Before he could recover, the brothers were on him. They untied his ankles only long enough to wrench his legs backward, bending his knees. With practiced efficiency, Hank bound Billy's ankles together, then created a connecting rope between his ankle bindings and the complex knots at his wrists.
With a final brutal pull, they drew his feet up toward his bound hands, arching his back unnaturally. The hogtie position stretched his burned chest tight, intensifying the pain from each wound while putting new pressure on his shoulders and spine.
"There," Hank said, standing to admire their work. "That's how my granddaddy taught me to handle the meanest broncs. They all submit eventually."
Cole repositioned the camera to capture Billy's new posture. "How's the view, Ranger Renzo?" he called out, as if the man could hear. "This is just intermission."As Cole adjusted the camera angle, he failed to notice Billy working his jaw against the rope. The constant movement during the hogtie had loosened the gag just enough. With a final desperate push of his tongue, Billy forced the soggy bandana forward, creating enough space to speak.
"Is this the best you got?" Billy's voice came out ragged but clear, startling both brothers. "My old man's gonna feed you your own intestines when he finds you. And he will find you."
Hank's face darkened as he spun around. "Shut him up!" he snarled at Cole.
Billy managed one more defiant "Go to hell!" before Cole's boot slammed into his ribs, driving the air from his lungs. While Billy gasped for breath, Hank grabbed a fresh bandana from his back pocket.
"Think you're tough?" Hank growled, twisting Billy's head painfully to the side. "Let's see how tough you are after another few hours."
This time, he forced the cloth deeper than before, stuffing it so far back that Billy gagged reflexively. Cole wrapped the binding rope around his head multiple times, knotting it at the back of his skull with a vicious tug.
"Get him back up," Hank ordered, still seething.
They untied the hogtie restraint but left his wrists and arms bound in the original configuration. Working together, they reconnected the hoist rope to the bindings between Billy's biceps. With cruel efficiency, they hauled him upward, higher than before, until his toes barely brushed the dirt floor.
Cole gave the rope a final yank, sending a fresh wave of agony through Billy's shoulders as his full weight pulled against the complex web of bindings. Sweat poured down his bare chest, running over the constellation of cigarette burns and dripping onto the ground below.
"Let him hang there awhile," Hank said, lighting another cigarette and blowing the smoke toward Billy's face. "Let Daddy see what his testimony cost."
Billy's muscles trembled with exhaustion, but his eyes remained defiant. As the brothers stepped away to plan their next torment, he resumed the subtle head movements, continuing to tap out his message one painful letter at a time.
James Renzo's hands had stopped shaking. The initial shock of seeing his son strung up like an animal had given way to a cold, focused rage. He'd spent the last hour watching the torture unfold while carefully documenting Billy's head movements.
L-A-B-A-R-G-E R-A-N-C-H N-O-R-T-H P-O-N-D
The old LaBargeRanch. Five miles away. Abandoned for years after the drought drove the LaBarges to sell their cattle and move to Oklahoma. James knew the place well—he and Billy used to fish at the stock pond on summer evenings when Billy was a boy.
James glanced at his phone. Another text message had come through: "ENJOYING THE SHOW, RANGER? PLENTY MORE TO COME."
He reached for his service weapon in its holster, then hesitated. The Bensons had warned they'd kill Billy if he involved the authorities. But James knew he couldn't go in alone against two armed men.
He picked up his cell phone and dialed a number.
"Roy? It's James. I need your help. No badges, no uniforms. Just you and whatever hardware you've got in your gun safe." He paused, listening. "Yeah, it's about Billy. The Benson brothers have him at the old LaBargeRanch."
Ten minutes later, James's kitchen had become a command center. Roy Hargrove, a retired Texas Ranger who'd served with James for fifteen years, stood studying a hand-drawn map of the LaBargeRanch. Beside him, Mike Cochran, James's neighbor and a former Marine sniper, cleaned a scoped rifle with practiced efficiency.
Two more men—ranchers whose properties bordered James's land—checked the magazines of their hunting rifles. These weren't lawmen or soldiers, just hard men who understood the code of the land: you stand by your neighbors when trouble comes.
"The live feed shows they're in the main barn," James said, pointing to the map. "Billy's managed to signal that there are just the two Bensons, both armed. They've got him strung up from the center beam."
"Those old barns have side doors for bringing in equipment," Roy noted. "And that broken window in the hayloft would give a clear shot of most of the interior."
Mike looked up from his rifle. "I can set up on that ridge to the east. It's about 400 yards, but I've made tougher shots. If I can get a clear line through that hayloft window..."
James nodded. "I'll approach from the front, keep their attention. Roy, you and Jeff take the side entrances. Tom, I need you to cut the power to the barn when I give the signal—that'll kill their internet connection and give us the darkness advantage."
"What about Billy?" Jeff asked, adjusting his cowboy hat. "He's right in the middle of this. One wrong move..."
James's jaw tightened as he glanced at the phone screen, where his son hung suspended, body glistening with sweat, chest marked with burns.
"Billy's a Renzo. He'll know what to do when the time comes." James checked his watch. "Sun sets in forty minutes. We move then. These boys want Old West justice? Well, they're about to get it."
The men nodded grimly. As they made final preparations, James looked once more at the live feed. Billy's eyes burned with the same defiance they'd shown an hour earlier. In those eyes, James saw his boy's message as clearly as if he'd spoken it aloud: Come get me, Dad. I'm still fighting.
The explosion at the electrical panel plunged the barn into darkness. Inside, the Benson brothers scrambled, Cole fumbling for a flashlight, Hank grabbing for his pistol.
"What the hell—" Hank's words cut short as the side door splintered inward, Roy's massive frame filling the entrance, shotgun raised.
James burst through the front, his service weapon trained on Cole. "DROP IT! NOW!"
Mike's voice called from the hayloft, the red dot of his rifle's laser sight dancing on Hank's chest. "One twitch and you're dead."
The brothers, caught in the crossfire, slowly raised their hands. Tom and Jeff moved in quickly, kicking away their weapons before forcing them face-down onto the dirt floor.
"Billy," James breathed, holstering his weapon and rushing to his son. Even in the dim emergency lights, the damage was shocking—angry red cigarette burns dotting his arms and chest, sweat-soaked skin, muscles trembling from hours suspended by his bound arms.
Roy kept his shotgun trained on the Bensons while James carefully cut through the ropes. As the bindings fell away, Billy collapsed forward into his father's arms, unable to support himself after hours of torture.
"Got you, son," James whispered, easing the gag from Billy's mouth. "I got you."
Billy's voice came hoarse, barely audible. "Took you long enough."
James laughed despite himself, relief washing over him. "Guess I'm getting slow in my old age."
Behind them, Tom and Jeff had the Benson brothers trussed up in the same ropes they'd used on Billy, only tighter. The poetic justice wasn't lost on anyone in the barn.
"Like how it feels?" Roy asked, yanking the ropes binding Hank's arms. "Not so fun on the receiving end, is it?"
The sheriff arrived twenty minutes later with three deputies and an ambulance. The official report would state that retired Ranger James Renzo had received an anonymous tip about a disturbance at the LaBargeRanch and had called the sheriff's office before investigating. The presence of his neighbors would be explained as a coincidence—they'd been helping with fence repairs when the call came in.
Some truths remained unwritten. Justice in ranch country sometimes worked that way.
Three weeks later, Billy sat on the edge of his hospital bed as the doctor removed the last of his bandages. The burns had healed better than expected, though dozens of circular scars remained—permanent reminders etched into his skin.
"The scarring will fade somewhat over time," the doctor explained, "but they'll always be visible. You might want to consider—"
"They're fine," Billy interrupted. "I don't want any plastic surgery."
James arrived as the doctor was leaving, a shopping bag in hand. "Thought you might need this for discharge," he said, pulling out a brand-new burgundy Wrangler shirt, identical to the one that had been cut away during Billy's captivity.
Billy nodded his thanks, slipping his arms through the sleeves. James noticed he didn't immediately roll them up as he always had before, the shirt cuffs now covering the worst of the scars on his forearms.
"The Bensons are looking at fifteen to twenty," James said, watching his son button the shirt. "Kidnapping, torture, attempted murder—DA's throwing the book at them."
Billy nodded again, his expression unreadable. Then, deliberately, he began rolling up the right sleeve of his new shirt, exposing the circular burn scars one by one. When he reached his bicep, he did the same with the left sleeve.
James raised an eyebrow. "Thought you might want to keep those covered."
Billy squared his shoulders, the tattoo on one arm and the constellation of scars on both now prominently displayed. "These are medals, Dad. They didn't break me." He met his father's eyes. "Not everyone gets to prove what they're made of."
James studied his son for a long moment, seeing something there he hadn't before—not just the defiance that had always been Billy's hallmark, but a hard-earned wisdom beyond his years.
"No," James agreed quietly, "not everyone does."
As they walked out of the hospital together, Billy's rolled sleeves caught the Texas sun. The scars that marked him were no longer wounds to hide, but badges of endurance—testament to a pain endured and a spirit unbroken.
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