Chapter 1
The porch light flickered as Jason Ryan carried the last feed bucket toward the barn, his boots crunching on the gravel driveway. At twenty-one, six years of farm work had built muscle onto his already athletic frame. Behind him, eighteen-year-old Billy was securing the chicken coop, his movements quick and efficient despite the growing darkness.
"You get that latch fixed?" Jason called over his shoulder.
"Yeah, finally got it—"
The words died in Billy's throat as three figures emerged from the shadows near the equipment shed. Black masks, dark clothing, and the unmistakable glint of metal in their hands.
"Don't move!" The voice was harsh, commanding. "Hands where we can see them!"
Jason spun around, the feed bucket dropping from his hands and scattering grain across the dirt. His body tensed, muscles coiling as he positioned himself between the armed men and his younger brother.
"What do you want?" Jason demanded, his voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding his system.
"You," the leader said simply. "Both of you."
Billy took a step backward, but another masked figure had already circled behind him. "Jason—"
"Easy, kid," Jason said, his Marine father's training echoing in his voice. Stay calm. Assess the situation. Protect your people.
The leader gestured with his pistol. "Shirts off. Both of you. Now."
"What?" Billy's voice cracked.
"You heard me. Strip to the waist. Hands stay visible."
Jason's jaw tightened. Something's wrong here. This isn't random.
"Do it, Billy," Jason said quietly, pulling his work shirt over his head. His brother followed suit, both of them standing bare-chested in the cool evening air.
The leader nodded to his companions. "Tie them."
Coarse rope bit into Jason's wrists as they were yanked behind his back, the fibers rough against his skin. Billy winced as the same treatment was applied to him, the rope wound tight enough to immediately restrict blood flow.
"Jesus, that's tight—" Billy started.
A strip of duct tape slapped across his mouth, then another across Jason's. The leader stepped back, examining their work with professional satisfaction.
"Load them up."
A dark van had been backed up to the edge of the property, hidden behind the old grain silo. Jason's eyes swept the area desperately—no neighbors for miles, their father in town at the hardware store, no one to witness this.
Dad won't be back for hours. No one will even know we're gone until morning.
They were shoved into the back of the van, landing hard on the metal floor. More rope secured their ankles, and thick canvas bags were pulled over their heads, blocking out the last of the evening light.
The van doors slammed shut.
"Twelve hours to paradise, boys," the leader's voice was muffled but clear.
The engine turned over and they began to move.
The road stretched endlessly through the night. Jason lost track of time in the suffocating darkness of the hood, his shoulder pressed against Billy's as they lay on their sides in the cargo area. Every pothole sent waves of pain through his bound arms. The rope had cut off circulation hours ago—his hands were completely numb.
Billy's breathing was labored beside him, panic setting in as the reality of their situation sank in. Jason tried to shift closer to his brother, offering what little comfort he could through physical presence.
Stay calm. Dad taught us both how to handle pressure. We'll get through this.
The van made several stops—gas stations, Jason guessed from the sounds and brief pauses. But the doors never opened. No one spoke to them. No demands, no explanations.
Just the steady hum of tires on asphalt, carrying them farther from home with each passing mile.
When the route changed to winding back roads, Jason knew they were approaching something significant. No border checkpoint, no official crossing—these men knew exactly which forgotten logging roads would take them into Canada undetected.
"Clean crossing," one of the kidnappers confirmed from the front seat. "Another hour to the site."
Canada. We're in a foreign country now. Even if someone finds us missing, they'll be looking in the wrong place.
The final stretch was pure wilderness—logging roads that hadn't seen maintenance in years, the van bouncing and lurching through dense forest. When they finally stopped for good, Jason could hear nothing but wind through pine trees and the distant sound of water.
Complete isolation.
The van doors opened and cold mountain air rushed in, carrying the scent of pine and decay. Strong hands dragged them out, their legs too numb to support their weight. Jason hit the ground hard, rocks digging into his bare chest.
"Get them inside."
Through the canvas hood, Jason caught glimpses of weathered wood and broken windows. An abandoned cabin, probably unused for decades. The perfect place for something like this.
They were hauled through a doorway that scraped against the door frame, then dropped onto a dirt floor that smelled of rot and animal droppings. The hoods were yanked off.
Jason blinked in the dim light filtering through grimy windows. The cabin was a single room, maybe twenty feet square, with exposed rafters overhead. Billy lay beside him, eyes wide with terror above the duct tape.
Billy's scared. I have to keep him calm. I have to be strong for him.
"Welcome to your new home, boys." The leader had removed his mask, revealing a face Jason didn't recognize—weathered, scarred, with eyes that held twenty years of hatred. "Your daddy's gonna get a real good look at what his testimony cost us."
Dad's testimony? What the hell is he talking about?
Two of the men began setting up equipment—cameras, laptops, some kind of broadcasting setup. The third man was doing something with the rafters, securing ropes that hung down like nooses.
"Time for the real restraints," the leader said, producing coils of rope from a duffel bag.
They cut the ropes binding Jason's wrists and ankles, only to immediately begin the methodical process of more elaborate bondage. His wrists were bound palm-to-palm behind his back, then more rope was wound around his forearms, cinching them together from wrist to elbow. The position forced his shoulders back at an unnatural angle, his chest thrust forward.
More rope circled his biceps, binding them tightly together behind his back, forcing his shoulder blades to nearly touch. Then rope around his torso, just below his chest, then again around his waist. Each loop pulled tighter, forcing his bound arms against his spine. By the time they finished, every breath was an effort.
I can barely move. Every muscle is either bound or straining.
Billy received the same treatment, his muffled cries growing more desperate as the ropes tightened around his smaller frame. The bicep binding was particularly cruel on his slighter build, his shoulders pulled back to an agonizing degree.
"Now for the legs."
Even through his jeans, the rope bit deep. They bound his thighs together just above the knees, then again at his ankles over his work boots. Jason could barely move—every muscle group was either bound or straining against the restraints.
They hauled both brothers to their feet in the center of the room, forcing them to stand at attention facing each other, maybe six feet apart. The nooses came down from the rafters, thick hemp rope that scratched against Jason's neck as they positioned it carefully.
"Not tight enough to strangle," the leader explained conversationally, "but tight enough that you'll feel it every time you move. Try to slump, try to relax those shoulder muscles, and you'll choke. Stay at attention, and those arms will go completely dead in a few hours."
The rope was adjusted so that both brothers had to maintain perfect military posture—shoulders back, chests out, chins up. Any deviation would tighten the noose around their throats.
They know about Dad's military background. This is personal.
"Your daddy's going to watch every second of the next forty-eight hours. Every struggle to stay upright, every moment your legs shake from exhaustion, every time that rope cuts off your air. And then..." He gestured to something Jason couldn't see behind them. "Well, let's just say there's a very final end to this story."
Forty-eight hours. We have to survive forty-eight hours like this.
The cameras began recording, red lights blinking in the growing darkness.
The cabin door slammed shut, leaving them alone in the wilderness, forced to stand like soldiers awaiting execution.
Dad, wherever you are, I hope you're ready for war.
Chapter 2
Lieutenant Colonel James Ryan, USMC (Retired), pulled his pickup truck into the driveway at 9:47 PM, three bags of hardware store supplies rattling in the bed. The porch light was off—unusual, since the boys always left it on when they were working late.
Probably just burned out. I'll grab a bulb from the barn.
But as he climbed out of the truck, something felt wrong. The chickens were agitated, clucking nervously in their coop. Feed grain was scattered across the driveway like someone had dropped a bucket.
"Jason? Billy?"
Silence.
Ryan's military instincts kicked in immediately. He approached the house with measured steps, eyes scanning for signs of disturbance. The front door was unlocked—never a good sign in his book, even out here.
"Boys?"
The house was empty. Their work shirts were gone from the hooks by the door, but their evening clothes were still laid out on their beds. Whatever had happened, it had happened while they were doing chores.
Ryan's phone buzzed. Unknown number. He almost ignored it, then something made him answer.
"Ryan."
"Hello, James." The voice was calm, controlled, with an edge of satisfaction that made Ryan's blood run cold. "Been a long time."
I know that voice. Twenty years fell away in an instant, and Ryan was back in that courtroom, pointing at three defendants in orange jumpsuits.
"Marcus Webb," Ryan said quietly.
"Very good. I wasn't sure you'd remember after all these years. After all, you had so many of us to testify against."
Ryan's mind raced. Webb had been the ringleader of a drug operation that had been using Marine supply routes to smuggle heroin from Afghanistan. Ryan had been the logistics officer who'd uncovered the scheme, the key witness who'd put Webb and his crew away for twenty years.
"What do you want, Webb?"
"I want you to check your email, James. Right now."
Ryan moved to his computer, phone still pressed to his ear. His hands were steady, but his heart was hammering. The email was already there, waiting.
Live feed - Your boys
He clicked the link.
The image that filled his screen drove the air from his lungs like a physical blow. Jason and Billy, shirtless and bound with elaborate rope work, standing at rigid attention in what looked like an abandoned cabin. Nooses around their necks, their faces pale with exhaustion and terror above strips of duct tape.
My boys. Jesus Christ, my boys.
"Beautiful work, don't you think?" Webb's voice was conversational, almost pleasant. "Twenty years to plan this, James. Twenty years to watch your little family from a distance. We know everything about you. About them."
Ryan's training kicked in, compartmentalizing the horror and fear. Get information. Assess the situation. Find weaknesses.
"Where are they?"
"Somewhere you'll never find them in time. But don't worry—you'll get to watch every second. Every struggle, every moment they fight to stay conscious, every time those ropes cut off their circulation a little more."
On screen, Jason was swaying slightly, his legs trembling from the strain of maintaining military posture. The noose tightened fractionally, and he straightened immediately, the rope slackening.
They can't relax. They can't rest. If they slump even slightly...
"You're insane," Ryan said quietly.
"No, James. I'm patient. Twenty years patient. Your testimony cost us everything—our freedom, our families, our lives. Now you get to watch your family pay the price."
"Let them go, Webb. Your fight is with me."
Webb laughed. "Oh, you still don't get it, do you? This isn't about making a deal. This isn't about negotiation. This is about justice. Pure and simple."
Ryan watched Billy's shoulders shaking with exhaustion, saw the way his younger son was fighting to stay upright. The kid was smaller, wouldn't last as long as Jason in that position.
How long have they been like this? How long can they hold out?
"How long?" Ryan asked.
"Forty-eight hours total. They've been standing for about six hours now. Thirty-six hours to go. But don't worry—we're not completely heartless. When they finally collapse, the nooses will give them a quick death."
Ryan's vision went red around the edges. Twenty years of peaceful farm life, twenty years of believing the past was buried, and now this.
"You son of a bitch—"
"Ah ah ah," Webb interrupted. "Language, Lieutenant Colonel. Your boys are watching, remember? Set a good example."
On screen, Jason had lifted his head slightly, as if he could somehow sense his father was watching. The movement made the noose pull tighter, and he quickly resumed position.
He knows. Somehow he knows I'm here.
"I'm going to find you, Webb. And when I do—"
"No, James. You're going to watch. Every second. Every minute. You're going to see exactly what your righteous testimony cost." The line went dead.
Ryan stared at the screen, watching his sons struggle against bonds designed to slowly torture them to death. His hands were shaking now, rage and helplessness warring in his chest.
Think. Think like a Marine. What are your assets? What are your options?
He reached for his phone and scrolled through his contacts, stopping at a name he hadn't called in five years.
Gunnery Sergeant Mike Torres. Force Recon. If anyone can help...
The phone rang twice.
"Torres."
"Mike, it's James Ryan. I need help. I need it now."
"Jim? Jesus, what's wrong? You sound—"
"They took my boys, Mike. And I need to call in every favor we've got."
Chapter 3
The darkness in the cabin was complete now, broken only by the steady red blink of the cameras recording their agony. Jason's legs trembled with exhaustion, muscles screaming from maintaining the rigid military posture for what felt like hours.
How long has it been? Six hours? Eight?
Across from him, Billy was struggling worse. His smaller frame wasn't built for this kind of endurance, and sweat gleamed on his bare chest despite the cold mountain air seeping through the cabin's broken windows.
He's not going to make it. Not like this.
Jason tried to catch his brother's eye, tried to communicate something—anything—that might help. But Billy's head was tilted back at an uncomfortable angle, the noose forcing him to keep his chin up or risk choking.
The rope binding Jason's arms had long since cut off all circulation. His hands were completely numb, useless appendages hanging behind his back. The bicep binding was the worst—every breath forced his chest out, which pulled his shoulder blades together even tighter. The pain was constant, radiating from his shoulders down his spine.
Dad used to make us do push-ups when we complained about farm work. Said Marines had to be ready for anything. I don't think he meant this.
Billy made a small sound behind his tape—not quite a moan, more like a whimper. His knees were starting to buckle, and each time they did, the noose pulled tighter around his throat.
Stay strong, Billy. Just stay strong.
Jason tested his bonds for the hundredth time, trying to find any give in the rope. But these men knew their business. Every knot was professional, every loop calculated to maximize restriction and pain. The rope around his torso was so tight he could barely expand his lungs fully.
As he struggled, his foot bumped against something on the floor between them. In the dim light from the cameras, he could make out a dark shape—some kind of device with wires and what looked like a small antenna or receiver.
What the hell is that?
Jason squinted at the object, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. It was roughly the size of a shoebox, with several wires leading to what looked like blocks of something wrapped in plastic. A small red light blinked steadily on top of the device.
A bomb. Jesus Christ, it's a bomb.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. No countdown, no timer—just a device waiting for a signal. They could detonate it at any moment, from anywhere.
They're not going to wait for us to collapse. They can kill us whenever they want.
Jason looked up at Billy, who had also noticed the device. His brother's eyes were wide with fresh terror above the duct tape. The small red light continued its steady blinking, like a mechanical heartbeat counting down to their deaths.
Dad won't know about this. He'll think he has time. But they can end this anytime they want.
The cameras continued their silent vigil, red lights blinking in harmony with the bomb's receiver. Jason wondered if his father was watching right now, wondered if he could see the device in the frame.
Can Dad see it? Does he know what it is?
Billy's legs were shaking violently now, the new knowledge of their precarious situation combining with physical exhaustion to push him toward collapse. The muscles in his thighs were spasming from the strain.
No. Not yet. We have to stay strong. Every second we stay alive is another second for Dad to find us.
Jason made eye contact with his brother and slowly, deliberately, straightened his own posture even more. Shoulders back, chest out, head high. It sent fresh waves of agony through his bound arms, but he held the position.
Follow my lead, Billy. As long as we're standing, as long as we're alive, there's hope.
Billy saw what Jason was doing and managed to pull himself back to attention. The noose loosened fractionally around his throat, and Jason saw grim determination replace some of the panic in his younger brother's eyes.
That's it. We're in this together.
The wind outside had picked up, howling through the pine trees and rattling the cabin's broken windows. The bomb's red light continued its patient blinking, waiting for the signal that would end everything.
Dad's smart. He'll figure out what that device is. He'll find a way to trace the signal, to find us.
But as another hour crawled by, as the pain in his shoulders became a constant fire and Billy's struggles grew more desperate, Jason stared at that blinking red light and wondered how much time they really had.
Come on, Dad. Please. Figure it out. Find us.
The cameras blinked on, recording everything. Recording their pain, their fear, their desperate fight to stay alive while death waited patiently between them.
Billy's legs buckled again, and this time the noose pulled tight enough to cut off his air completely. But somehow, he found the strength to straighten up again.
Stay alive, Billy. Just stay alive. Dad's coming.
But even as Jason thought it, the bomb's receiver continued its steady blinking, ready to receive the signal that would destroy them both in an instant.
Within thirty minutes of Ryan's call, his kitchen had become a war room. Mike Torres sat across from him at the farmhouse table, laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard as he traced internet protocols and signal paths. The live feed played on Ryan's desktop monitor—Jason and Billy still standing at attention, their faces pale with exhaustion.
"Talk to me, Mike," Ryan said, his voice tight with controlled desperation.
"The stream is coming through multiple proxy servers, but there's something else here." Torres paused, pointing at the screen. "Jim, what's that device on the floor between them?"
Ryan leaned forward, studying the dark shape with its blinking red light. Twenty years of military experience kicked in immediately.
"Remote detonator," he said quietly. "Receiving unit for an internet-triggered bomb."
Those bastards. They're not planning to wait forty-eight hours. They can kill my boys with the click of a button.
Torres nodded grimly. "That's what I was afraid of. But here's the thing—that receiver needs a constant internet connection to function. And that gives us a trail to follow."
The front door opened without a knock, and six more figures entered. Ryan recognized them immediately, even though it had been years since he'd seen any of them.
From Canada: Sergeant Major Bill Kane, now with the RCMP's Emergency Response Team in Calgary. Staff Sergeant Danny Liu, Force Recon turned Canadian JTF-2. And Captain Sarah Mitchell, intelligence specialist who'd transferred to the Canadian Armed Forces five years ago.
From the States: Master Sergeant Rick Santos, who'd driven eight hours from Minneapolis the moment he got Torres's call. Gunnery Sergeant Pete Williams, still active duty, technically AWOL but not giving a damn. And Staff Sergeant Maria Rodriguez, now DEA but Marine to the core.
"Jesus, Jim," Kane said, looking at the monitor. "Is that really them?"
"My boys," Ryan confirmed. "They've been standing like that for over six hours."
Santos stepped forward, still wearing his civilian clothes but carrying a military duffel bag. "We're with you, Colonel. All the way."
"Rick, you didn't have to—" Ryan started.
"Like hell," Williams interrupted. "Those are Marine family. That makes this a Marine operation."
Rodriguez was already studying the video feed. "The bastards who did this—they're the ones from your testimony, aren't they?"
"Marcus Webb and his crew," Ryan confirmed. "Twenty years they've been planning this."
Mitchell pulled up a chair next to Torres, her own laptop already out. "Mike filled us in on the drive up. We've got assets positioned along the border, and I've got satellite time allocated for a grid search of the suspected area."
Kane looked at the American Marines, then at Ryan. "You know we can't officially sanction this. International incident waiting to happen."
"Unofficially?" Santos asked.
Kane smiled grimly. "Unofficially, these are Marines in distress. We never saw you cross the border."
Liu was studying the video feed intently. "The rope work is professional. Military precision. These guys learned this somewhere specific."
"Prison," Ryan said. "Twenty years to plan, twenty years to learn new skills."
Torres looked up from his laptop. "I've got something. The signal is routing through a cell tower about forty miles north of here, just across the border. That narrows our search area significantly."
Mitchell's fingers were already moving across her keyboard. "Pulling up satellite imagery for that grid now. Looking for any structures, any signs of recent activity."
On the monitor, Billy swayed dangerously, the noose tightening around his throat before he managed to straighten up again.
They're weakening. How much longer can they hold out?
"How long do we have?" Ryan asked.
"Unknown," Kane said bluntly. "With that remote trigger, they could detonate anytime. Could be when they see us coming, could be in ten minutes just for the hell of it."
"Then we move fast," Ryan said. "What do we need?"
Williams spoke up. "We brought gear. Full combat loadouts, night vision, demo equipment."
Mitchell looked up from her laptop. "I've got three possible locations from the satellite sweep. Old logging camps, all within the signal range. We can hit all three simultaneously."
"Transport?" Ryan asked.
"Two helicopters standing by at the RCMP base," Kane said. "Plus a civilian chopper Rodriguez arranged. Fast insertion teams, full tactical gear."
"I'm going with you," Ryan said.
"We all are," Santos said firmly. "These men took Marine family. That makes it personal for all of us."
Kane nodded. "Understood. But once we're on Canadian soil, you follow our lead. This is still a tactical operation with international implications."
"Roger that," Williams said. "We're guests in your house. But those boys in there? They're family."
Ryan watched his sons on the screen, saw Jason trying to communicate something to Billy through eye contact alone. The bomb's receiver blinked patiently between them, waiting for the signal that would end everything.
Hang on, boys. The Marines are coming.
"How long to gear up and move out?" Ryan asked.
"Twenty minutes," Mitchell said. "But Jim, you need to understand—even if we find them, getting to them might trigger the detonation. If they're watching the feed and see us coming..."
Ryan's jaw tightened. "Then we make sure they don't see us coming."
Torres continued typing rapidly. "I might be able to do something about that. If I can trace the connection back to its source, maybe jam their internet access right before you hit the cabin."
"Do it," Ryan said. "Whatever it takes."
Rodriguez checked her watch. "My DEA contact says the FBI is officially staying out of this for now. Plausible deniability. But they're not actively stopping us either."
"Good enough," Ryan said. "Whatever happens, it stays between us."
On screen, Jason's legs were trembling with exhaustion, but he maintained his military posture. Billy was struggling more visibly, sweat gleaming on his bare chest as he fought to stay upright.
Twenty years of peace on this farm, and now this. But we're not civilians anymore. We're Marines, and Marines don't leave anyone behind.
"Gear up," Ryan said, standing from the table. "Let's bring my boys home."
The team scattered to their preparations, laptops still running, the live feed continuing its silent documentation of his sons' ordeal. In twenty minutes, they would either save Jason and Billy—or watch them die in real time.
Ryan stared at the screen one more time, then headed for his gun safe. After twenty years, Lieutenant Colonel James Ryan was going back to war.
Chapter 5
Hours had blurred together in the cabin. Jason's world had narrowed to the constant burn in his shoulders, the trembling in his legs, and the careful rhythm of breathing that kept the noose from tightening around his throat. Every muscle in his body screamed for relief, but relief meant death.
How long now? Ten hours? Twelve?
Billy was in worse shape. His smaller frame shook constantly now, micro-tremors running through his bound arms and legs as his body fought to maintain the rigid posture. Sweat had long since dried on his chest, leaving streaks of salt and grime. His eyes had taken on a glassy, distant look—the look of someone pushing far beyond their physical limits.
He's going into shock. Or maybe just shutting down. I have to keep him focused.
Jason caught his brother's attention and mouthed words behind his own tape, exaggerating the lip movements: "Stay strong."
Billy's eyes focused slightly, and he managed a barely perceptible nod. But Jason could see the desperation there, the growing realization that they might not survive this.
The bomb's receiver continued its patient blinking between them. Red light on, red light off. A metronome counting down to their destruction. Jason had stopped trying to guess when it might come—whether their captors were watching the feed right now, finger hovering over the trigger, or if they were asleep somewhere, letting the torture run its course.
At least Dad knows we're alive. The cameras are still recording. As long as we're standing, he knows we're fighting.
Jason tested his bonds again, a ritual he'd performed hundreds of times. The rope around his biceps had actually grown tighter as the hours passed, his swollen muscles pressing against the fibers. His hands had been numb for so long he'd forgotten what feeling in his fingers was like.
A sound from outside made both brothers freeze—the distant rumble of an engine, maybe a truck or ATV, getting closer.
Are they coming back? Or is someone else out there?
The sound faded, probably just passing on one of the logging roads. But for a moment, Jason had felt a surge of hope that maybe, somehow, rescue was coming.
Dad would never give up on us. Never. If anyone can find us out here, it's him.
Billy's knees buckled suddenly, and the noose pulled tight around his throat. His eyes went wide with panic as his air was cut off, but somehow he found the strength to straighten his legs again. The rope slackened, and he gasped behind the tape.
Jesus, Billy. How many more times can you do that?
Jason tried to communicate strength through his eyes, tried to project the Marine discipline their father had instilled in both of them. But he could feel his own reserves failing. The constant pain was wearing him down, making him lightheaded. His vision had started to blur around the edges.
We're both running on empty. But we have to hold on. Dad's coming. I know he's coming.
The cameras continued their silent vigil, red lights blinking in perfect synchronization with the bomb's receiver. Jason wondered if Webb and his crew were watching, if they were enjoying the show, if they were getting the satisfaction they'd planned for twenty years.
Let them watch. Let them see what Ryan boys are made of.
Another hour passed. Then another. The pain had become so constant that Jason almost stopped noticing it—his body's desperate attempt to protect his sanity. But Billy was getting worse. His brother's struggles were becoming more frequent, more desperate. Each time he swayed, the noose tightened. Each time he straightened, it took longer.
He can't last much longer. Neither of us can.
But as Jason fought to stay conscious, fought to keep his legs from giving out, he held onto one thought: somewhere out there, his father was moving heaven and earth to find them.
Come on, Dad. We're running out of time.
The bomb's red light blinked on and off, patient as death itself, waiting for the signal that would end everything in an instant.
But until that signal came, Jason Ryan would stand at attention like the Marine his father had raised him to be.
Semper Fi, Dad. We won't let you down.
Chapter 6
The RCMP helicopter base outside Calgary was alive with controlled chaos, but Torres had barely looked up from his laptop in the past hour. His fingers flew across the keyboard, following digital breadcrumbs through proxy servers and encrypted connections.
"Talk to me, Mike," Ryan said, standing over him in full tactical gear.
"I've got them," Torres said suddenly, his voice tight with excitement. "The bastards got sloppy. They're not just streaming the feed—they're actively monitoring it, sending commands to the camera system. That two-way communication gave me a direct line back to their location."
Kane leaned in. "Where?"
"Motel 6 in Lethbridge. Room 127. They're watching your boys right now from a fucking roadside motel."
Ryan's jaw clenched. Webb was sitting in comfort, probably drinking beer and laughing while Jason and Billy suffered. "How far?"
"Twenty minutes by helicopter," Mitchell said, already plotting coordinates. "But Jim, if we hit them and they have a dead-man switch—"
"They don't," Torres interrupted. "I've been monitoring their internet traffic. The bomb trigger requires an active command—it's not automated. If we take them down fast enough, they can't send the signal."
Santos was already moving toward the helicopters. "Then we take them down fast."
"Wait," Kane said. "This changes everything. We're not doing a wilderness rescue anymore—this is an urban assault on foreign soil."
"They took American citizens," Rodriguez said firmly. "That gives us jurisdiction."
Williams was checking his sidearm. "Fuck jurisdiction. Those boys are dying while we debate legalities."
Ryan made the command decision. "Two teams. Alpha team hits the motel, captures Webb and his crew. Bravo team stands by to assault the cabin location once we force them to talk."
"What if they won't talk?" Liu asked.
Ryan's eyes went cold. "Then we make them talk."
Kane nodded grimly. "Alpha team: me, Ryan, Santos, Williams. Fast and silent. We need them alive and talking."
Torres was still typing rapidly. "I can maintain surveillance on the feed while you're en route. If they try to trigger the bomb, I'll know immediately."
The lead helicopter spun up, and Ryan climbed aboard with a sense of purpose he hadn't felt in twenty years. No more helpless watching. No more being a victim. They had a target, they had a mission, and they had the element of surprise.
"ETA fifteen minutes to Lethbridge," the pilot called back.
Ryan stared out at the lights of the city approaching below. Somewhere in one of those buildings, Webb was watching his sons suffer. In fifteen minutes, that was going to end.
Santos checked his rifle. "Rules of engagement?"
"Minimum force necessary to secure the targets," Kane said officially. Then he looked at Ryan. "But we need them conscious and talking."
Ryan's hands tightened on his weapon. "They'll talk."
The helicopter banked toward the motel district, carrying four Marines on a mission that had just shifted from rescue to direct action. Webb had made one critical mistake—staying connected to watch his revenge play out.
Now that connection was going to destroy him.
"Five minutes out," the pilot announced.
Ryan closed his eyes and thought of Jason and Billy, still standing at attention in that cabin, still fighting to stay alive.
Hold on, boys. Dad found the bastards who took you.
The helicopter descended toward the parking lot of a cheap roadside motel, where twenty years of patient planning was about to come to a very sudden end.
Chapter 7
The helicopter touched down in the motel parking lot at 2:17 AM, rotors still spinning as four Marines fast-roped to the asphalt. The Motel 6 was a tired two-story building, half the rooms dark, the other half flickering with the blue glow of late-night television.
Room 127 was on the ground floor, corner unit, with light seeping around the heavy curtains.
Kane held up his fist, and the team froze behind a row of parked cars. Through the thin walls, they could hear voices—at least three men, maybe four.
"...kid's about to drop. Look at his legs shaking."
"Twenty years for this moment. Twenty fucking years."
Ryan's vision went red. That was Webb's voice, casual and satisfied as he watched Jason and Billy suffer.
Kane pointed to Santos and Williams, then gestured toward the back of the building. They nodded and disappeared into the shadows to cover the rear exit. Kane and Ryan approached the front door, weapons ready.
No more planning. No more waiting. Time to end this.
Kane counted down on his fingers: three, two, one.
Ryan's boot hit the door just below the handle, splintering the frame and sending the door crashing inward. Kane was through first, rifle up, scanning left. Ryan followed, moving right.
"RCMP! Nobody move!"
The room erupted in chaos. Three men scrambled for weapons, but they were too slow, too surprised. Webb dove for a laptop on the bed—probably trying to trigger the bomb.
Santos crashed through the sliding glass door from the patio, tackling one of Webb's men before he could reach a pistol. Williams came through behind him, securing a second man with efficient brutality.
Ryan had eyes only for Webb. The man who'd destroyed his family was older now, grayer, but the hatred in his eyes was the same as twenty years ago. Webb's hand was inches from the laptop keyboard when Ryan's rifle muzzle pressed against his temple.
"Move and die," Ryan said quietly.
Webb's hand froze. On the laptop screen, Jason and Billy stood bound and exhausted, the bomb's receiver blinking patiently between them.
"Well, well," Webb said, his voice steady despite the circumstances. "Lieutenant Colonel James Ryan. Right on schedule."
Kane zip-tied Webb's hands behind his back while Santos and Williams secured the other two men. The room fell silent except for the sound of the live feed and heavy breathing.
Ryan stepped back, studying the man who'd terrorized his sons. "Where are they?"
Webb smiled. "Somewhere you'll never find them in time. Even if you kill me right now, those boys are going to die."
Williams stepped forward, his face murderous. "Want me to make him talk, Colonel?"
"You can torture me all you want," Webb said conversationally. "Beat me, break me, kill me. Won't change the fact that your boys are standing in the middle of nowhere, and you have no idea where."
Ryan looked at the laptop screen. Jason was swaying dangerously, his legs trembling with exhaustion. Billy looked like he was barely conscious, held upright only by the noose around his throat.
They're dying while this bastard plays games.
Santos examined the bomb trigger system on the laptop. "It's all automated through here. GPS coordinates, remote detonation, everything."
Kane leaned over the laptop. "Can you trace the signal back to the cabin location?"
"Maybe, but it'll take time we don't have," Santos said.
Ryan grabbed Webb by the shirt and hauled him to his feet, pressing him against the wall. "My boys are dying. Tell me where they are, and I might let you live."
Webb's smile widened. "Your boys are exactly where they deserve to be. Standing at attention like good little soldiers while they slowly collapse from exhaustion. Just like their daddy trained them."
Ryan's fist connected with Webb's jaw, snapping his head back against the wall. Blood ran from Webb's split lip, but he kept smiling.
"Feel good, James? Does it feel good to finally drop that righteous Marine act and show your true colors?"
"Tell me where they are!" Ryan slammed Webb against the wall again.
"Abandoned logging camp, about sixty miles north of Calgary," one of Webb's men suddenly said. His face was pale, terrified. "Jesus Christ, just tell him! I didn't sign up to watch kids die!"
Webb's smile vanished. "Shut your mouth, Travis!"
Kane was already on his radio. "Base, this is Alpha team. We need immediate helicopter support for grid search, sixty miles north of Calgary, abandoned logging camps."
Travis looked at Ryan with desperate eyes. "GPS coordinates are 51.4272 North, 114.9843 West. Old MacReady logging camp, been abandoned for fifteen years."
Santos was already typing coordinates into his GPS unit. "Got it. Forty-seven minutes flight time."
Webb snarled at Travis. "You fucking coward!"
Ryan turned back to Webb, his voice deadly calm. "You're coming with us. If my boys are hurt worse than they already are, if that bomb goes off, if anything happens to them because of this delay—you're going to wish you'd died in that prison."
Kane nodded to Williams. "Bring him. If this is a trap, he dies first."
They hauled Webb toward the helicopter, leaving his crew zip-tied for local police. As they lifted off into the night sky, Ryan stared at the laptop screen showing his sons still fighting to stay alive.
Forty-seven minutes, boys. Just hold on for forty-seven more minutes.
The helicopter banked north toward the wilderness, carrying a father's fury and a captured enemy toward a final confrontation in the Canadian forest.
Chapter 8
The first pale light of dawn crept through the cabin's grimy windows, revealing the full horror of Jason and Billy's ordeal. They had been standing at attention for nearly fourteen hours, their bodies pushed far beyond the limits of human endurance.
Jason's legs were trembling so violently he could barely maintain his stance. Every muscle fiber screamed in agony, and his vision kept blurring in and out of focus. The rope binding his biceps had cut off all feeling in his arms hours ago—they hung behind his back like dead weight, useless appendages that belonged to someone else.
How much longer? How much more can we take?
Billy was in worse condition. His smaller frame had reached its breaking point hours ago, and now he was operating on pure willpower alone. Sweat and tears had left streaks down his dirt-stained face, and his breathing had become shallow and irregular. Each time his knees buckled, the noose pulled tighter, and each time he straightened, it took longer and more effort.
He's not going to make it much longer. Neither am I.
The bomb's receiver continued its patient vigil between them, red light blinking steadily. Jason had long since stopped trying to calculate how long they'd been captives. Time had become meaningless—there was only the next breath, the next moment of staying upright, the next second of survival.
A sound from outside made both brothers freeze. Not the wind this time—something mechanical. Distant but getting closer.
Helicopters?
Jason's heart hammered against his ribs. The sound was definitely rotors, multiple aircraft approaching from the south. He tried to catch Billy's eye, tried to communicate hope through his gaze.
Dad. It has to be Dad.
Billy had heard it too. For the first time in hours, there was something other than despair in his younger brother's eyes. A flicker of hope, of belief that maybe their ordeal was finally coming to an end.
The helicopter sounds grew louder, then seemed to pass overhead. Jason's heart sank—maybe it was just routine patrol, forest service, anything but rescue.
But then he heard something else: voices in the distance, calling out tactical commands. Men moving through the forest with purpose and discipline.
Military. It's military.
Jason tried to straighten his posture even more, tried to show anyone who might be watching that he and Billy were still alive, still fighting. The effort sent fresh waves of agony through his bound shoulders, but he held the position.
We're here! We're alive! Come find us!
Billy saw what Jason was doing and managed to pull himself back to full attention as well. Both brothers stood as straight as their tortured bodies would allow, presenting the military bearing their father had instilled in them.
The voices were getting closer now, and Jason could make out individual words: "Grid search... cabin... armed and dangerous..."
They know we're here. They're looking for us.
But even as hope surged through him, Jason's body was giving out. His legs felt like rubber, barely able to support his weight. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision, and he could feel consciousness slipping away.
No. Not now. Not when help is this close.
He fought to stay upright, fought to stay awake, fought to give the rescue team every possible second to find them. Beside him, Billy was swaying dangerously, the noose pulling tight around his throat as his strength finally failed.
Hold on, Billy. Just hold on. They're coming.
The sounds outside were getting louder—boots on gravel, radios crackling, the systematic search of a professional military unit. Jason tried to make noise behind his tape, tried to signal their location, but he could barely manage more than a muffled groan.
Here. We're here. Please find us.
The bomb's receiver continued its steady blinking, waiting for a signal that would never come. In the growing daylight, Jason could see dust motes dancing in the air, could hear the sounds of their rescue drawing closer with each passing moment.
Dad's out there. I know it. He never gave up on us.
Jason's legs finally gave out, and he felt the noose tighten around his throat as he began to collapse. But in that moment, he heard the most beautiful sound in the world:
His father's voice, shouting orders just outside the cabin.
We made it. We fucking made it.
Darkness closed in around Jason's vision, but he was smiling behind the tape. They had survived. Against all odds, against every expectation, they had held on long enough.
The Ryan boys had done their father proud.
Chapter 9
The Calgary General Hospital's VIP wing was unusually quiet that afternoon. Jason Ryan lay propped up in his bed, IV lines snaking from his arms, the circulation slowly returning to his hands after fourteen hours of rope bondage. Across the room, Billy was sleeping fitfully, his smaller frame still recovering from the ordeal that had pushed both brothers beyond human endurance.
Their father sat between the beds, looking older than his years but with relief etched in every line of his face. The rescue had been successful—the cabin breached, the bomb disarmed, his sons alive. Webb and his crew were in custody, their twenty-year revenge plot ended in failure.
Kane, Santos, Williams, Torres, and the other Marines who had participated in the rescue were gathered around the room, still processing their successful mission. Mitchell and Liu sat near the window, while Rodriguez stood by Billy's bedside. The atmosphere was relaxed, these warriors finally able to breathe after bringing the boys home.
"How are you feeling?" Ryan asked Jason, who was picking at his hospital lunch with bandaged hands.
"Like I got hit by a truck," Jason said hoarsely. "But alive. That's something."
A commotion in the hallway made them look up. Voices, footsteps, what sounded like a small entourage approaching their room.
"Mr. Ryan?" A woman in a dark suit appeared in the doorway. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's someone here who would like to meet your sons."
Ryan frowned. "We're not really up for visitors right now—"
The woman stepped aside, and Prime Minister Justin Trudeau walked into the hospital room.
The effect was immediate and electric. Kane and the other RCMP officers shot to their feet, snapping to rigid attention, their backs straight as boards. Kane's hand flew to his forehead in a crisp salute.
"Prime Minister!"
The American Marines froze mid-conversation, clearly uncertain of protocol. Santos looked around frantically—should they salute? Stand at attention? Williams started to come to attention, then stopped, confused. Torres half-stood, then sat back down. Rodriguez looked like a deer in headlights.
"Jesus," Jason whispered, his eyes wide with shock.
Trudeau took in the scene with an amused smile—the rigid Canadian officers, the confused Americans, the stunned patients—and raised both hands with the easy confidence that only comes from years of putting people at ease.
"Gentlemen, ladies, please," he said warmly, his voice carrying just the right mix of authority and approachability. "At ease. Relax. Sit down, make yourselves comfortable. We're all friends here."
Kane and the Canadians immediately relaxed their stance, relief visible on their faces. The Americans slowly settled back into their chairs, Santos muttering, "Well, that's a first."
"Mr. Ryan," Trudeau said, extending his hand to their father. "Lieutenant Colonel Ryan. I wanted to personally thank you and your team for the extraordinary professionalism they showed during this operation."
Ryan stood, clearly stunned, still processing that the Prime Minister of Canada was in his sons' hospital room. "Sir, I... we just brought our boys home."
"You did much more than that," Trudeau said, turning to face Jason and Billy. The room was pin-drop quiet, every Marine and RCMP officer watching in amazement. "What these young men endured—standing at attention for fourteen hours under those conditions—represents the finest traditions of courage and determination."
Williams whispered to Santos, "Is this really happening?"
"Your sons," Trudeau continued, "showed the world what it means to never give up. And your rescue team—Americans and Canadians working together—demonstrated the very best of our alliance."
He approached Jason's bed, carrying a small wooden box. The Marines and RCMP officers crowded closer, their faces showing genuine awe at witnessing this moment.
"Jason Ryan, by order of the Government of Canada, I present you with the Medal of Bravery, in recognition of your extraordinary courage under extreme circumstances."
Jason's mouth fell open as Trudeau pinned the medal to his hospital gown. Around the room, hardened military veterans watched with obvious emotion.
"Sir, I... we just did what Dad taught us," Jason managed.
"Exactly," Trudeau said, then moved to Billy's bed with a second box. "Billy Ryan, for the same reasons—your courage, your refusal to surrender, your embodiment of the finest human spirit under unimaginable pressure."
Billy was too overwhelmed to speak as he received his medal. Torres was openly filming with his phone, tears in his eyes.
Liu whispered to Mitchell, "I can't believe we're watching this."
Santos wiped his eyes, not caring who saw. "Those boys earned every bit of this."
Trudeau turned to address the entire room. "To the Marines who crossed international borders to save these young men—your actions represent the very best of the relationship between our nations. The RCMP officers who facilitated this rescue have shown exceptional judgment and courage."
Williams stepped forward, still slightly awed. "Sir, with respect, those boys did all the hard work. We just showed up at the end."
"You showed up when it mattered," Trudeau said firmly. "And you brought them home."
Kane looked at Ryan with deep respect. "Forty years I've known military personnel, and I've never seen anything like what your boys did in that cabin. Fourteen hours at attention under torture conditions? That's not training, that's character."
Rodriguez was shaking her head in amazement. "The Prime Minister. In their hospital room. This is unreal."
Ryan looked at his sons—Jason still pale but alert, Billy fighting tears of exhaustion and relief—then at the men who had helped save them, all of them clearly moved by the moment.
"Twenty years ago, I testified against criminals and thought that was the end of it," Ryan said quietly. "I never imagined it would cost my boys so much. But seeing this—seeing what good men will do for each other—maybe some good came from all the pain."
Trudeau nodded solemnly. "Your testimony twenty years ago helped remove dangerous criminals from society. Your sons' courage today reminded us all what it means to stand firm in the face of evil. And this rescue operation showed the world that borders mean nothing when lives are at stake."
As the official entourage prepared to leave, Kane lingered behind, still processing what had just happened.
"Jim," he said quietly, "any time you need anything—anything at all—you call. Those boys of yours? They're honorary Canadians for life."
Santos clasped Ryan's shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. "And they're Marines, even if they never serve a day. What they did in there? That's Semper Fi in action."
After everyone left, the hospital room fell quiet again. Jason and Billy fingered their medals, still processing everything that had happened.
"Dad?" Billy said softly.
"Yeah, son?"
"Did the Prime Minister of Canada really just give us medals?"
Ryan looked at his boys—scarred but alive, traumatized but unbroken—and smiled for the first time in days.
"Yeah, boys. He really did."
Outside the window, the Canadian flag flew alongside the Stars and Stripes, two nations united in the simple truth that some bonds can never be broken—not by time, not by borders, and certainly not by the evil plans of desperate men.
The Ryan family was whole again.
