LONG LIVE ROCK!

 

Chapter 1: Classic Rock Sinner

The guitar riff from "Sweet Child O' Mine" screamed through the ranch house speakers, Axl Rose's voice cutting through the afternoon stillness like a blade through silk. Benny Benson cranked the volume another notch, knowing full well that in Millerville County, Texas, blasting Guns N' Roses was practically a sin. Country music was king here, and anything else marked you as different—maybe even dangerous.

At eighteen, Benny didn't much care what the neighbors thought. Problem was, there weren't any neighbors close enough to hear anyway. The Five Reasons Ranch sat on twelve hundred acres of rolling Texas hill country, isolated and peaceful. His father Tom had built this place as a sanctuary, naming it for his five sons—a testament to family and hard work.

The music was so loud that Benny never heard the kitchen door creak open. Never heard the boot steps on the hardwood floor. Never heard them moving through the house like they owned it.

He was shirtless, working on his guitar in the afternoon heat, when rough hands grabbed his shoulders and yanked him backward. The guitar clattered to the floor as rope burned across his wrists, binding them tight behind his back.

"What the hell—" Benny's words were cut short as he looked up into the faces of his captors.

Jake Morrison. Pete Valdez.

Two men his father had fired just three months ago for stealing time, faking their hours for over a year. Two men who should have been grateful Tom never pressed charges, never called his brother-in-law the sheriff.

"Surprise, boy," Jake drawled, his weathered face split by a cold grin. "Bet you thought you'd seen the last of us."

Pete worked quickly, binding Benny's ankles tight with practiced efficiency while Jake held him down. "Your daddy owes us, kid. Two years of honest sweat, and he throws us out like garbage."

"You were stealing—" Benny started, but Jake stuffed a bandana hard into his mouth, sealing it with duct tape wrapped around his head.

"We were surviving," Jake snarled. "And now it's time for the Bensons to pay what they owe."

The chloroform-soaked rag came from nowhere, pressed tight over his nose. Benny fought against the ropes, against the chemical smell burning his lungs, against the darkness creeping in from the edges of his vision.

The music still pounded from the speakers, Axl wailing about paradise city, but it was growing distant now, fading like everything else as consciousness slipped away.

He was alone. The family was gone. And these two men who knew every inch of the ranch had him exactly where they wanted him.

Chapter 2: Two Years of Sweat

The abandoned line shack sat fifteen miles from the nearest road, hidden in a grove of mesquite trees that hadn't seen a soul in decades. Jake Morrison kicked open the weathered door, breathing in the stale air and mouse droppings. Perfect.

"Get him tied to that chair," he barked at Pete, who was dragging Benny's unconscious form through the doorway. The kid was heavier than he looked, all muscle from ranch work, but still just a boy who'd never known a day of real hardship.

Pete hauled Benny into the single wooden chair they'd brought, working the ropes with the same skill he'd once used to secure cattle. Wrists behind the chair back first, then biceps pulled tight against the top rung, the rope wrapped and frapped until the kid couldn't move his arms an inch. Ankles drawn back under the seat, tied off to the wrist bonds to keep him from getting any leverage.

"Should've seen this coming," Jake muttered, testing the rope tension. "Tom Benson thinks he's so high and mighty. Fires us for padding a few hours here and there, like we weren't worth every damn penny."

Pete stepped back, admiring his handiwork. "Man's got no gratitude. We put in the work, we deserved that extra pay. Hell, we should've been getting bonuses."

Jake pulled the stolen branding iron from his duffel bag, the "5RR" mark that Tom Benson was so damn proud of. "And then the bastard acts like he's doing us some kind of favor not calling his brother-in-law. Like we should be grateful he didn't have us arrested."

"Should've paid us severance," Pete agreed, lighting the camp stove. "Two years of sweat, and he kicks us out with nothing. Now he's gonna learn what he owes us."

Neither man saw the contradiction. They'd stolen from the ranch for over a year, padding their time sheets, collecting pay for hours they'd never worked. Tom had caught them red-handed and still shown mercy—no charges, no criminal record, just termination. But in their minds, they were the wronged party. The victims.

"Hundred thousand," Jake said, watching the iron begin to glow. "That's what two years of our labor was worth. What he stole from us by letting us go."

Twenty minutes later, the deed was done. Three fresh brands marked the unconscious boy—both pectorals and his stomach—the family's own symbol now seared into their youngest son's flesh. Pete snapped the photo with his phone while Benny remained mercifully unaware.

Back at the ranch house, Tom Benson's truck pulled into the driveway just as the sun began to set. The music was still blasting from inside—that rock music Benny loved so much, loud enough to wake the dead.

"Benny!" Tom called out as he stepped through the front door. "Turn that down!"

No answer. Just Axl Rose screaming about sweet children.

Sarah appeared at his shoulder, concern creasing her face. "His guitar's on the floor," she said quietly.

Tom's blood went cold. In eighteen years, Benny had never left his guitar on the floor. Never.

Jake's text message arrived thirty seconds later, along with the photo that would shatter their world.Chapter 3: Waking to Scars

The first thing Benny felt was the fire.

Three points of searing agony across his chest and stomach, like someone had pressed red-hot coals against his skin. His eyes snapped open to rough wooden walls and the acrid smell of burnt flesh—his own flesh.

The rope bit deep into his wrists as he instinctively tried to move, the bonds so tight his fingers had gone numb. His biceps screamed against the top rung of the chair, every muscle fiber pulled taut. When he tried to shift his weight, his ankles reminded him they were bound too, drawn back under the seat and tied to his wrist bonds.

"Well, well. Sleeping Beauty's awake."

Jake Morrison stepped into his field of vision, that same cold grin splitting his weathered face. Behind him, Pete leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed like he was enjoying a show.

Benny tried to speak, but the bandana was still stuffed in his mouth, sealed tight with duct tape. All that came out was a muffled groan of pain and rage.

"Hurts, don't it?" Jake knelt down, his face level with Benny's. "That's your daddy's brand, boy. The same 5RR he's so proud of. Now it's part of you forever."

The words hit Benny like a physical blow. He looked down at his chest and the world tilted sideways. Three angry, blistered brands marked his skin—both pectorals bearing the Five Reasons Ranch symbol, and another seared into his stomach just above his belt line.

Pure rage flooded through him, so intense it made the rope burns feel like paper cuts. He threw himself against the bonds, every muscle straining, the chair creaking under the force of his fury. The ropes held fast, cutting deeper into his skin with each desperate struggle.

"That's it, boy," Pete laughed. "Fight all you want. Those ropes ain't going nowhere, and neither are you. Not until your daddy pays what he owes us."

Benny's vision blurred with tears of pain and helplessness. The brands throbbed with his heartbeat, a constant reminder of what they'd done to him while he slept. What they might do next.

Sweat poured down his face and chest, mixing with the thin trickles of blood seeping from beneath the fresh brands. His eyes were wide with terror and shock, the reality of his situation finally sinking in.

"Perfect," Jake said, raising his phone again. "Now daddy gets to see his baby boy awake. Gets to see what happens when Tom Benson don't pay his debts."

The camera clicked, capturing Benny's conscious horror—the sweat, the blood, the wild desperation in his eyes. This photo would break their hearts and fuel their rage.

Jake smiled as he hit send. "Round two, Tom. Let's see how much your boy's really worth to you."

Chapter 4: Blood Money

Tom Benson stared at his phone screen, his face drained of all color. The image burned into his retinas—his youngest son tied to a chair, unconscious, three angry brands seared into his chest and stomach. Their brand. The Five Reasons Ranch symbol that represented everything Tom had built for his boys.

"Jesus Christ," whispered Jake Jr., Tom's eldest at twenty-four, peering over his father's shoulder. "Is that—?"

"It's our brand," Tom's voice cracked. "They used our own goddamn brand on him."

Sarah gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as she saw the photo. "Oh my God, Benny..."

The kitchen fell silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and Sarah's quiet sobs. Tom's other sons—Marcus, twenty-two, and twins Cole and Clay, twenty—crowded around, their faces hardening as they took in the image.

"Dad," Marcus said quietly, his jaw clenched tight. "We know who did this, don't we?"

Tom nodded grimly. "Morrison and Valdez. Has to be."

"Those sons of bitches," Cole spat. "You should've had them arrested when you caught them stealing."

"I was trying to be decent—" Tom started, but Clay cut him off.

"Decent? Look what decent got us, Dad. Look what it got Benny."

The second photo arrived with a chime that made everyone jump. This time Benny was awake, his eyes wide with terror and pain, sweat and blood streaking his chest. The message that followed was simple: "$100,000 or the boy gets worse. You know what we're owed."

"A hundred thousand?" Jake Jr.'s voice was deadly quiet. "For what they stole from us?"

Marcus was already reaching for his truck keys. "We find them. We find them and we make this right."

"Boys—" Tom began, but Cole was shaking his head.

"No, Dad. No more being the good guy. Look at our brother. Look what your mercy bought him."

Clay nodded, his twin's anger reflecting his own. "They want to play games with the Benson family? Time they learned what that costs."

Sheriff Mike Henderson—Sarah's father—had been silent until now. Finally, he spoke, his voice thick with barely controlled rage. "That's my nephew they've got trussed up like a calf."

"Uncle Mike," Marcus turned to him. "You going to stop us?"

The sheriff looked at the photos again, at his nephew's branded flesh and terrified eyes. When he looked up, there was something cold and final in his expression.

"Stop you?" he said quietly. "Hell, boy, I'm going to help you find them."

Chapter 5: Sarah's Stand

The kitchen table was covered with county maps, property records, and hunting charts. Jake Jr. traced his finger along the back roads while Marcus marked abandoned buildings with red X's. The twins studied satellite images on Clay's laptop, identifying every structure within a fifty-mile radius.

"Morrison knows this country," Jake Jr. said. "He's not gonna hole up somewhere obvious."

"Line shacks," Marcus suggested. "Old hunting cabins. Places that haven't seen traffic in years."

Sheriff Henderson leaned over the table, his badge glinting in the kitchen light. "I can pull the county records, see what properties have been abandoned or foreclosed."

Sarah watched her family plan their hunt with a heavy heart, but no surprise. She'd known what she was marrying into when she'd fallen for Tom Benson twenty-six years ago. Known the kind of men the Benson boys would become when she'd raised them with stories of frontier justice and family honor.

"Sarah?" Tom's voice was gentle but firm. "You with us on this?"

She looked around the table at the faces of her husband, her sons, her father. Good men, all of them. Men who'd kill to protect their own without losing a moment's sleep.

"I've been with you for twenty-six years, Tom Benson," she said quietly. "I'm not stopping now."

Clay looked up from his laptop. "Found something. Three abandoned line shacks in the Perdido Creek area. Haven't been used since the drought of '08."

"That's Morrison territory," the sheriff nodded. "He worked those ranges before he came to us."

Jake Jr. stood, checking his rifle. "Then that's where we start."

---

Fifteen miles away, Benny Benson was learning what helplessness truly meant.

The hunting knife's point drew a thin line of blood across his collarbone as Pete dragged it slowly down his chest, careful not to damage the fresh brands.

"Pretty boy's never been cut before, has he Jake?" Pete grinned, watching Benny's eyes follow the blade.

Jake's backhand caught Benny across the jaw, snapping his head sideways. "Soft. Just like his daddy. Always taking the easy way."

Another slap, harder this time, splitting Benny's lip. The taste of blood filled his mouth behind the gag as Pete pricked the knife point just below his ribs.

"We're just getting started, boy," Jake said, wiping his knuckles. "Your family's got until midnight to wire that money. After that..." He nodded toward the knife in Pete's hand. "Well, after that, things get creative."

Chapter 6: The Hunt

The third line shack sat in a grove of twisted mesquite, twenty miles from nowhere. Jake Jr. held up his hand, stopping the convoy of pickup trucks behind a ridge. Through his binoculars, he could see the rusted tin roof and weathered walls—and Morrison's beat-up Ford parked behind it.

"That's them," he whispered into his radio. "Found 'em."

Tom's voice crackled back from the second truck. "Anyone see Benny?"

"Negative. But their truck's here."

Sheriff Henderson's voice cut through the static: "We go quiet. No shooting unless they start it first. These boys might panic and hurt the kid worse."

The four brothers moved like shadows through the mesquite, flanking the shack from both sides while Tom and the sheriff approached the front. Years of hunting together had made them a team—they knew each other's movements without words.

Jake Morrison never saw Marcus coming until he was tackled from behind, his face grinding into the dirt floor. Pete Valdez managed one shout before Cole and Clay hit him simultaneously, driving him down hard.

"Don't move!" Jake Jr. barked, his rifle trained on both men. "Don't even breathe wrong."

Tom burst through the doorway and stopped cold. Benny was still tied to the chair, his chest a mess of branded flesh and dried blood, duct tape across his mouth. But his eyes were alert, tracking his father's movement.

"Easy now, son," Tom whispered, his hands shaking as he worked at the rope around Benny's wrists. "We're gonna get you loose."

Sheriff Henderson carefully peeled the duct tape from Benny's mouth while Tom freed his arms. The four brothers stood watching, their faces masks of barely controlled rage as they saw the extent of their baby brother's injuries.

"Can you stand?" Tom asked gently as the last rope fell away.

Benny tried, but his legs wouldn't hold him. Tom caught him under one arm, the sheriff taking the other, supporting his weight between them.

"Watch these boys," Tom said quietly to his sons, his eyes never leaving Morrison and Valdez. The fury in his voice was ice-cold.

Jake Jr. nodded, his jaw tight. "We got 'em, Dad."

As they carried Benny toward the cruiser, Henderson grabbed his radio. "County General, this is Sheriff Henderson. I'm bringing in a trauma victim, ETA twenty minutes. Torture victim with burns and lacerations. Have the trauma team ready."

Then he switched channels. "Sarah, this is Mike. We found him. Benny's safe. We're bringing him to County General now."

The door of the line shack closed behind them with a soft click, leaving the four Benson brothers alone with the men who had tortured their youngest brother.

Marcus cracked his knuckles. "Now then, boys. Let's discuss what you owe the Benson family."

Chapter 7: Texas Justice

The line shack fell silent except for the sound of heavy breathing and the creak of old wood settling. Morrison and Valdez lay bound on the dirt floor, their eyes darting between the four Benson brothers who stood over them like judges at a hanging.

"Here's how this is gonna work," Jake Jr. said quietly, rolling up his sleeves. "You boys fought back when we tried to rescue our brother. Got real violent about it."

Marcus pulled his hunting knife, testing the edge with his thumb. "Cut us up pretty good in the struggle."

"That's our story," Cole added, flexing his knuckles. "And we're sticking to it."

Clay nodded toward the bound men. "Course, you two won't remember it that way. Head injuries can scramble a man's memory something fierce."

What followed was methodical and brutal. The brothers took turns, careful to make their own cuts look defensive—slashes across forearms, a nick on Marcus's shoulder. But Morrison and Valdez took the brunt of it. Systematic kicks to ribs and kidneys. Punches that split lips and closed eyes. The flat of Clay's knife across cheekbones until blood ran freely.

"This is for our brother," Jake Jr. said with each blow.

When both men were unconscious and thoroughly bloodied, the brothers cut their own ropes and scattered them around the shack. They roughed up their clothes, smeared dirt and blood across their faces.

"Looks good," Marcus said, surveying the scene. "Real good knife fight."

Jake Jr. keyed his radio with shaking hands—adrenaline, not fear. "Sheriff's department, this is Jake Benson Jr. We found the kidnappers at the old Perdido Creek line shack. They fought back hard—we need medical and backup units out here. Grid reference 247-889."

The dispatcher's voice crackled back: "Copy that. Units en route, ETA fifteen minutes."

Clay wiped his knife clean and sheathed it. "Reckon that's square now."

"Not even close," Marcus said, looking down at the unconscious forms. "But it's a start."

They waited outside for the units to arrive, four brothers who'd just delivered their own brand of justice. When the questioning came later, their story would be simple and consistent: they'd found the kidnappers torturing their brother, tried to make an arrest, and the suspects had fought back with knives.

Just four good men doing their civic duty in the Texas hill country.

Justice served, Benson style.

Chapter 8: Coming Home

The truck rolled slowly up the gravel drive to the Five Reasons Ranch, Tom's hands steady on the wheel despite the storm of emotions churning inside him. In the passenger seat, Benny sat quietly, his chest wrapped in clean white bandages, the brands hidden but not forgotten.

"How you feeling, son?" Tom asked for the tenth time in the hour-long drive from County General.

"Better," Benny said, and for the first time since the rescue, he almost meant it. The morphine helped with the physical pain, but being here—seeing the familiar pastures, the old oak tree where he'd built a tire swing as a kid—that helped with everything else.

The whole family was waiting on the front porch when they pulled up. Sarah rushed down the steps, tears streaming down her face as she carefully hugged her youngest son. The four brothers hung back, their faces a mix of relief and lingering fury at what had been done to their baby brother.

"Got your room all ready," Sarah whispered, stroking Benny's hair. "Fresh sheets, extra pillows. Whatever you need to be comfortable."

As the sun began to set, the family gathered on the back patio. The smell of mesquite smoke drifted from the grill where Tom was flipping burgers, the sizzle punctuating the evening quiet. Sheriff Henderson sat nursing a beer while his wife helped Sarah set out condiments and sides.

"Dad, flip mine again," Marcus called out, lounging in a lawn chair. "You know I like 'em cremated."

"Boy, if you want charcoal, I'll get you some from the barn," Tom shot back, but he was smiling.

Jake Jr. caught Clay's eye and nodded. Sheriff Henderson and Sarah exchanged knowing looks—they'd been in on the planning from the beginning. It was time.

"Benny," Jake Jr. said, pulling an envelope from his shirt pocket. "The boys and I... well, we got you something."

Benny looked up from his barely-touched plate. "You guys don't need to—"

"Shut up and let us spoil you," Cole interrupted. "It's not every day our baby brother survives being tortured by a couple of no-good cowboys."

"Cole!" Sarah scolded, but there was no real heat in it. She was fighting back tears, knowing what was coming.

Marcus stepped forward with a wrapped package. "We figured after what you've been through, you deserved something special. Something that would make you smile."

Sheriff Henderson leaned forward in his chair, a slight smile creasing his weathered face. "Go on, boy. Open it."

The smell of grilling onions filled the air as Tom flipped them with his spatula, clearly listening but pretending to focus on the food.

Benny opened the envelope with shaking fingers, his eyes scanning the contents. Concert tickets. A hotel reservation. And a lineup that made his heart skip a beat.

"Texas 70's Rock Revival Weekend," he read aloud, his voice starting to crack. "Led Zeppelin tribute... Pink Floyd laser show... Deep Purple..." His voice broke completely as tears spilled down his cheeks. "Black Sabbath, The Who tribute, Aerosmith..."

He looked at the hotel reservation, his hands trembling. "The Driskill Hotel... Presidential Suite..." His voice was barely a whisper now. "Five beds."

The tears came harder now, great heaving sobs as the reality hit him. "You're all... all of you are coming with me?"

"All five Benson boys," Jake Jr. said firmly, his own voice thick with emotion. "Together. Like it should be."

"Three weeks from now," Clay added gently. "Gives you time to heal up proper."

Sheriff Henderson's wife wiped her eyes with her napkin. "Oh, that's beautiful."

"Course, that means we gotta listen to two solid days of your devil music," Marcus added with a grin, trying to lighten the moment as Benny continued to sob.

"Which brings us to part two," Clay said, nudging the wrapped package toward Benny with gentle hands.

Benny tore away the wrapping to reveal a massive CD collection: "The Ultimate 70's Rock Experience - 10 Disc Set." Ten discs of pure classic rock heaven.

"Holy shit," Benny breathed through his tears, then quickly looked at his mother. "Sorry, Mama."

Sarah just smiled through her own tears. "Language, baby."

"That's for your recovery time," Marcus explained. "All the Zeppelin, Floyd, and Sabbath you can handle while those brands heal up."

Tom approached from the grill, wiping his hands on his apron, a small wrapped box in his palm. "And this," he said, setting it down in front of Benny, "is from your old man."

Benny unwrapped it to find a pair of top-of-the-line headphones.

The patio fell silent for a moment before Tom's weathered face cracked into a grin. "Figure if you're gonna be blasting that noise for the next three weeks, the rest of us deserve some peace and quiet."

Marcus chimed in with perfect timing: "Those bastards tortured you, but you don't have to torture us for three weeks until the concert."

The brothers erupted in laughter. Even Sheriff Henderson was chuckling into his beer while Benny laughed through his tears.

"Gee, thanks Dad," Benny said, but he was smiling wider than he had in days.

"Don't mention it, son. Just... try to keep the volume under 'aircraft engine,' would you?"

Jake Jr. raised his beer. "To Benny. The toughest son of a bitch in Texas."

"Language!" Sarah and the sheriff's wife protested in unison, but they were both laughing.

"To family," Tom corrected, raising his own bottle. Sheriff Henderson stood and joined the toast. "To the Five Reasons Ranch, and the five reasons it exists."

As they clinked bottles and glasses, Benny felt something he hadn't felt since before the kidnapping—complete. His family understood him now in a way they never had before. They'd walked through hell to get him back, and now they were willing to walk through a weekend of classic rock to show him he belonged.

"So," Marcus said, settling back in his chair, "anybody know what the hell a 'Stairway to Heaven' actually is?"

Sheriff Henderson snorted. "Eight minutes of guitar and nonsense, far as I can tell."

The laughter that followed carried across the Texas hill country, mixing with the evening sounds of cattle and crickets and the distant sizzle of Tom's grill.

Some bonds, Tom thought as he watched his boys, couldn't be broken by rope or fire or fear. Some bonds only grew stronger under pressure.

The Five Reasons Ranch had lived up to its name.