Ryan Benson Escape Artist

 

Chapter 1: The Perfect Target

The three men sat around the cracked formica table in the abandoned line shack, studying the photographs spread between empty beer bottles. Pictures of the Benson ranch, the big house with its wraparound porch, the new trucks lined up like expensive toys in the circular drive.

"Look at this kid," Jake said, tapping a photo of Ryan loading hay bales. "Seventeen years old, driving a brand new Chevy his brother bought him. Probably never had a hard day in his life."

"Half a million," muttered Carlos, the eldest of the three. "That's what rich ranchers pay to get their golden boy back."

The third man, Tommy, nodded toward another photo - Ryan with his arm around a pretty blonde girl at some family barbecue, both of them laughing. "Soft target. Pampered ranch prince who thinks the world revolves around him."

They had it all figured out. Quick snatch, easy money, softer than stealing candy.

But they didn't know Ryan Benson.

---

At seventeen going on eighteen, Ryan Benson's world was perfect. He had turned down two scholarship offers, deciding to stay and work on the family ranch. His father put him on the payroll. His brothers chipped in and brought him a new truck when he got his Texas driver's license. The whole family loved his girlfriend Janice from the neighboring Campbell ranch. One of his brothers had married the oldest Campbell girl and already they had twin boys at age five who loved playing with Ryan.

He proudly wore his Chevy cap in honor of his truck. His arms were developing strength from ranch work - he could feel it in his biceps as he hauled hay with his gloves gripping the baling wire, his white tank top making him feel manly in the Texas heat.

The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly as Ryan worked the south pasture alone, sweat matting the hair on his forearms as he wrestled another bale into position. This was the life he'd chosen over college, and he'd never felt more certain about anything.

He felt a sharp pinch in his neck.

"Fuckin' wasp," he thought, reaching up to swat it away. But suddenly the world tilted sideways. His legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed to the ground, his vision blurring. He tried to reach for his phone in his back pocket, but his arms wouldn't obey.

The last thing he saw before darkness took him was his Chevy cap falling into the dirt beside his face.

Hours later, he would wake bound and gagged, and three men would learn they had made the biggest mistake of their lives.

Chapter 2: The Awakening

Ryan's eyes opened slowly, his vision swimming as consciousness returned in waves. His head pounded, and his mouth felt like cotton. Where was he?

The first thing he noticed was that he couldn't move his arms. The second was the burning sensation across his wrists and shoulders.

He was tied to something wooden - a fence post. No, multiple posts. His arms were stretched wide, bound with rough coarse hemp rope that already chafed his skin. The rope circled his wrists at the top rail, then his forearms, elbows, and biceps, each binding point making escape that much harder. More rope around his neck kept his head positioned just right. His ankles were lashed to the bottom rail, legs spread wide. His shirt had been torn open, exposing his chest to the late afternoon sun.

Every small movement sent the coarse hemp deeper into his skin. This wasn't the smooth rope his brothers used for their games.

"Look who's awake," came a voice from his left.

Ryan turned his head as much as the neck rope allowed to see three men watching him from the shade of an old pickup truck. The one who'd spoken - a thin guy with a scraggly beard - stepped forward with a camera.

"Time to send mommy and daddy a picture, ranch boy."

Ryan tested the ropes carefully. They were tight - professionally done. The hemp bit into his forearms as he flexed, already drawing thin lines of blood where the fibers caught his skin. But not impossible. He'd gotten out of worse when his brothers had tied him up, though they'd never used rope this coarse, never bound him this thoroughly.

"Half a million dollars," the bearded man continued, snapping photos. "That's what your family's gonna pay to get their golden boy back."

Ryan looked directly into the camera and smiled.

Chapter 3: The Long Day

The sun climbed higher, turning the fence line into an oven. Ryan's chest burned, sweat streaming down his face and matting the hair on his forearms. The hemp rope had worked deeper into his skin with each struggle, leaving raw red welts where it bit into his wrists and biceps.

But he kept testing it. Flexing. Twisting. Searching for any give in the bindings.

"Kid's been at it for three hours," Tommy muttered from the shade, taking a long pull from a beer bottle. "Doesn't he know when to quit?"

Jake stepped closer, studying Ryan with growing irritation. The ranch boy should be crying by now, begging, broken by the heat and the pain. Instead, he was methodically working each binding point, his jaw set in concentration.

"Maybe we need to get his attention," Jake said, pulling out his pistol.

The first shot cracked through the air, kicking up dirt six inches in front of Ryan's boots. The second bullet whizzed past his left shoulder, so close he could feel the heat. Any normal person would be screaming, begging, pissing themselves in terror.

Ryan didn't even flinch.

"Hey!" Jake shouted, firing another round into the dirt. "I'm talking to you, rich boy!"

Ryan turned his head as much as the neck rope allowed and looked directly at Jake. His eyes were clear, focused. Unafraid.

"You having fun yet?" Ryan asked, his voice hoarse but steady.

Jake fired again, the bullet striking the fence post inches from Ryan's right arm. Wood splinters peppered his skin. Ryan absorbed it all and went back to testing his bonds, working his wrists in small circles against the coarse hemp.

"Jesus," Carlos whispered, his face pale. "What's wrong with this kid?"

The afternoon stretched on. Bullets whined past Ryan's head, kicked dirt at his feet, splintered the wood around him. His skin burned and blistered from the sun, his arms bled from the constant friction of the rope, but he never stopped moving. Never stopped fighting.

By evening, when the temperature finally began to drop, all three men were watching him with something that wasn't quite admiration yet, but wasn't contempt anymore either.

He was supposed to be broken by now.

Chapter 4: Mobilizing the Clan

"Jesus, it's hot out there," Mike said, stepping into the kitchen and grabbing a cold beer from the fridge. "Hundred and three in the shade."

The weather radio crackled from the counter: "...excessive heat warning continues through tonight. Avoid prolonged outdoor activity. Heat exhaustion and heat stroke are likely with extended sun exposure..."

Sarah Benson looked up from preparing dinner, her graying hair pulled back in the practical bun she'd worn for thirty years of ranch life. "Where's Ryan? He was working the south pasture."

Mike, the eldest at twenty-eight, shook his head. He ran the cattle operation now, built like his father but with their mother's gentle eyes. "Haven't seen him since noon. His truck's still out there, but—"

"Uncle Ryan! Uncle Ryan!" Five-year-old twin boys came barreling through the kitchen, chased by David's wife, Emma. The twins were Mike's boys, identical down to their missing front teeth and Ryan's stubborn cowlick.

"Boys, inside voices," Emma laughed, her blonde hair escaping from her ponytail as she tried to coral them. At twenty-five, she'd married into the Benson chaos and loved every minute of it.

David, twenty-six and the family's tech guy, looked up from his laptop at the kitchen table. "Mom, Ryan's GPS tracker on his phone went dark around 2 PM. Last ping was near Miller's Creek."

"That's not like him," said Tom, the middle brother at twenty-four. Where Mike was steady and David was smart, Tom was the wildcard - quick to laugh, quicker to fight, and Ryan's closest confidant in their childhood games.

The phone rang. Sarah answered on the second ring.

"We have your boy," the voice said. "Half a million dollars. We'll call back with instructions."

The line went dead.

Bill Benson went perfectly still. Sarah's face went white. "They have Ryan. Outside. In this heat."

The kitchen erupted. Mike started for the gun cabinet. Tom was already dialing the sheriff. David's fingers flew over his keyboard.

Then Bill's voice cut through it all: "Stop."

Everyone froze.

Thirty minutes passed. David worked his computers. Mike paced like a caged animal. Tom sat motionless, staring at his phone.

Then Mike's phone buzzed. A text. Then a photo.

"They sent a picture," Mike said, his voice deadly quiet.

On his phone screen: Ryan, arms stretched wide, tied to a fence in the blazing sun. His shirt torn open, sweat covering his chest, coarse hemp rope cutting into his wrists, forearms, and biceps. Raw red welts already visible where the fibers bit into his skin.

For five seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Tom exploded. "Those motherfucking pieces of shit!"

Emma grabbed her phone and dialed, her voice shaking: "Daddy! Get over here right now! Bring all the boys! They've got Ryan tied up and—" Her voice broke as she looked at the photo again.

At the same time, Janice Campbell's panicked voice came through on the house phone: "Bill? We got the same photo. Daddy's already loading the trucks!"

Sarah looked at her sons. "You think I didn't know about your stupid games all these years? Boys will be boys."

Emma stared at her mother-in-law. "You knew about the rope games?"

"I'm a mother, not blind," Sarah said simply. "But that's not our soft climbing rope they used on him."

The brothers exchanged grim looks. Mike spoke first: "Hemp rope. That's going to tear him up every time he moves."

"And he's going to keep fighting it," David said, studying the photo. "Look at his position. He's already testing the bindings."

"Because that's what we taught him to do," Tom said quietly. "Never quit."

The sound of trucks roared up the driveway. Within minutes, the Campbell clan was pouring through the front door - six sons, all armed, Jack Campbell himself, and Janice, Ryan's girlfriend, her face streaked with tears.

"What's the situation?" Jack asked without preamble.

Bill held up the phone. Jack looked at the photo and his face went stone cold. "Jesus. They're using his own stubbornness against him."

Tom was staring at the photo. "Look at his face. Even with that rope cutting into him, he's still smiling at them."

"Because he knows we're coming," Janice said quietly, wiping her eyes. "And he's going to hold on until we get there."

Bill looked around the room full of armed, determined ranchers. "Then we better move fast, before his own determination kills him."

Chapter 5: The Breaking Point

Night brought no relief. Even in darkness, the temperature held steady at ninety-two degrees, the air thick and humid. Ryan's entire body was slick with sweat that had nowhere to go, soaking what remained of his torn shirt and dripping steadily onto the ground beneath the fence. The hemp rope, now saturated with his perspiration, had swollen and tightened, cutting deeper into his raw flesh.

His lips were cracked and bleeding. His tongue felt like leather. Still he worked the ropes, though his movements were slower now, more labored. The hemp had carved deep grooves into his forearms, dark with dried blood mixed with fresh sweat.

Carlos approached with a water bottle as the first pale light of dawn crept across the horizon, bringing with it the promise of another scorching day.

"Look, kid," he said, his voice softer than before. "We're gonna give you some water. Don't try anything stupid."

He reached behind Ryan's head and loosened the gag - part of Ryan's torn shirt that had been stuffed in his mouth and tied in place with more of that coarse rope. The fabric was soaked with saliva and sweat. Ryan worked his jaw, his mouth so dry he could barely swallow.

Carlos held the water bottle to his cracked lips. Ryan drank desperately, water running down his chin onto his chest, his body screaming for more fluid than the small amount Carlos allowed. When Carlos pulled the bottle away, Ryan looked up at him through sweat-stung eyes and smiled - not a grimace or a pained expression, but a genuine, almost amused smile.

Then he laughed. A hoarse, quiet chuckle that sent chills down Carlos's spine despite the oppressive heat.

"Thanks," Ryan croaked, his voice barely a whisper. "I was getting thirsty."

Carlos stared at him for a long moment, then quickly stuffed the gag back in place and retied the rope, his hands shaking.

"What'd he say?" Jake called from the truck.

"He... he thanked me." Carlos walked back on unsteady legs.

Tommy spat into the dirt. "Thanked you? After sixteen hours tied to that fence in this heat, getting shot at, and he thanked you?"

They watched as Ryan resumed his methodical struggle against the bonds, his movements more deliberate now despite his obvious dehydration. His biceps flexed against the hemp as he tested each binding point systematically, sweat streaming down his arms and mixing with the blood from his rope burns.

"Look at his arms," Jake whispered, horrified. "Look what he's done to himself."

The rough hemp had torn Ryan's skin raw. Deep red welts circled his wrists, forearms, and biceps where he'd worked against the rope all through the sweltering night. Blood and sweat had created a dark crust on his arms, but still he pulled and twisted, searching for weakness in the knots.

"We should cut him loose," Carlos said quietly. "This ain't right. Kid's gonna die of heat stroke."

"Are you crazy?" Jake snapped, but his voice lacked conviction.

"Look at him!" Carlos pointed at Ryan, who was methodically flexing each arm in turn, testing every binding point despite the obvious agony and dehydration. "Sixteen hours in this heat, Jake. Sixteen hours getting shot at, and he's still fighting those ropes like it's some kind of game. What kind of person does that?"

"The wrong kind," Tommy said, his face pale. "We picked the wrong fucking kid."

In the growing daylight and rising heat, they could see the full extent of what Ryan had endured - his chest burned red from sun exposure, his hair matted with sweat, his arms bloody from fighting the hemp all night in the suffocating heat.

And still he fought, as if sixteen hours of heat-induced agony had only made him more determined to escape.

"Jesus Christ," Jake whispered. "He's not human."

Carlos was already moving toward Ryan with a knife. "We're cutting him loose. Right now. Kid's gonna be dead in another hour in this heat."

"What about the money?" Tommy asked weakly.

"Fuck the money," Carlos said, sawing through the ropes at Ryan's ankles. "I'm not going to prison for killing some kid who's tougher than all three of us put together."

Within minutes, they had Ryan free from the fence posts. His legs buckled immediately - dehydration and sixteen hours stretched in that position had left him unable to stand. They hogtied him quickly, binding his wrists behind his back and connecting them to his ankles with a short length of rope.

"This is temporary," Carlos said, not meeting Ryan's eyes. "Just until we get clear."

They threw him in the back of the pickup and drove away, leaving him on a dirt road fifteen miles from where they'd taken him, his body still streaming with sweat in the relentless heat.

Ryan didn't even watch them go. Despite his dehydration and exhaustion, he was already working on the hogtie.

---

Back at the Benson ranch, Bill's phone rang at 8 AM.

"Bill? This is Jim Patterson at First National. I heard about your situation through the grapevine. We've got that ranch equity line approved - five hundred thousand, available immediately. Cash is ready if you need it."

"Thanks, Jim," Bill said, looking around the kitchen full of armed men studying David's laptop screens. "But I don't think we're going to need it."

"Good," the banker said. "I hope you find that boy soon. This heat's a killer."

"Oh, we will," Bill said, his voice deadly calm. "Count on it."

Chapter 6: The Hunt

By sunrise, thirty-seven armed men had spread across the county in coordinated search teams. The Benson kitchen had become mission control, with David's laptops tracking cell phone signals, satellite imagery, and radio communications.

"They'll stay within a twenty-mile radius," Bill said, studying the digital map on the main screen. "Close enough to monitor us, far enough to feel safe."

Jack Campbell spat tobacco juice into his cup. "Every abandoned barn, line shack, and hunting cabin. They'd need somewhere isolated but accessible."

"Miller's Creek area," Mike said, pointing to the red dot showing Ryan's last GPS ping. "That's got to be ground zero."

Tom was cleaning his rifle for the third time, his hands needing something to do. "Seventeen hours, Dad. Ryan's been fighting those ropes for seventeen hours in this heat."

"Then he's still fighting them now," Emma said quietly from her position monitoring the radio channels. "You know Ryan. He doesn't quit."

The search teams had divided the county into grids. Each team took a sector, methodically checking every structure that could hide three men and a captive.

"Team Three to base," crackled the radio. "Checked the Hutchins place. Nothing. Moving to the old grain elevator."

"Team Seven to base. Found tire tracks at the abandoned Sinclair station, but they're old. No fresh signs."

"Team Two to base. Thompson's hunting cabin is empty. Dust on everything."

David pulled up thermal imaging from the county sheriff's helicopter. "Looking for three heat signatures close together, maybe a fourth separate one."

"The fourth one won't be moving much," Sarah said quietly, then caught herself. "I mean..."

"No, you're right, Mom," Mike said grimly. "Ryan's probably still tied up. That's what we're looking for - three mobile heat signatures and one stationary."

Bill's phone rang. "This is Bill."

"Mr. Benson, this is Sheriff Martinez. We've got roadblocks on all major highways, but if they're smart, they're using back roads."

"They're not going anywhere yet," Bill said. "They want their money. They're holed up somewhere, waiting to see if we'll pay."

"Team Five to base," the radio crackled. "Found something at the old Johnson line shack. Fresh beer bottles, cigarette butts. Could be our guys, but no sign of the boy."

Tom was on his feet instantly. "How fresh?"

"Recent. Maybe yesterday. Truck tracks leading away, heading southeast toward Miller's Creek."

"That's five miles from Ryan's last GPS ping," David said, fingers flying over his keyboard. "Cross-referencing with county records for abandoned structures in that area."

Emma leaned over his shoulder. "What about water sources? They'd need water in this heat."

"Good thinking," David said. "Overlaying creek beds and stock tanks... here. Three possibilities within two miles of the Johnson shack."

Jack Campbell stood up, checking his sidearm. "My boys and I will take the creek bed area. Bill, your boys take the stock tank locations."

"Dad," Janice Campbell spoke up. She'd been quiet all morning, but her eyes were red from crying. "Ryan told me once about his rope games with his brothers. He said the key was never to panic, never to waste energy on useless struggling. He'd study the ropes first, then work systematically."

"What's your point?" Bill asked gently.

"My point is, wherever he is, he's not panicking. He's working the problem. And if those men expected him to be broken by now, they're probably getting desperate."

"Desperate kidnappers make mistakes," Jack said grimly.

The radio crackled again. "Team Eight to base. Checking the old Frederickson ranch. No vehicles, but... wait. There's a three-rail fence line here that's been disturbed. Fresh rope fibers on the wood."

Every person in the kitchen went silent.

"Team Eight, this is Bill Benson. Describe what you see."

"Rope burns on the fence posts, sir. Hemp rope fibers. Looks like someone was tied here for an extended period. And there's... there's blood on the wood, sir."

Tom grabbed his rifle. "That's where they had him."

"But he's not there now," David said, tracking the radio signal. "Team Eight, any tire tracks leading away?"

"Yes sir. Fresh tracks heading southeast. Looks like they left in a hurry."

Bill keyed his radio. "All teams, converge on the Frederickson ranch. But stay alert - if they moved him, they're still mobile."

As trucks roared to life across the county, Sarah Benson stood at the kitchen window watching her neighbors mobilize to find her son.

"Hang on, baby," she whispered. "We're coming."

But twenty miles away, Ryan was already walking toward them.

Chapter 7: The Walk Home

Mike and Tom were driving the back roads between the Frederickson ranch and Miller's Creek when they saw him.

A figure walking along the shoulder of Highway 7, moving with a steady, determined gait despite the blazing morning sun. Shirtless, his skin burned red, but walking like he had somewhere important to be.

"Jesus Christ," Mike whispered, hitting the brakes. "Is that...?"

Tom was already out of the truck before it fully stopped, David jumping out of the passenger side behind him.

"Ryan!" Tom shouted.

Their little brother looked up at the sound of his name and smiled. The same easy smile he'd always had, though his lips were cracked and his face was burned from the sun. Rope burns covered his arms like angry red bracelets, and dried blood streaked his forearms where the hemp had cut deepest.

"Hey," Ryan said simply, not breaking stride. "Y'all looking for me?"

For a moment, his brothers just stared. After eighteen hours of imagining the worst, here was Ryan walking down a country road like he was heading home from a fishing trip.

"What the hell, man?" Tom managed, his voice cracking. "We've got half the county looking for you."

"Sorry," Ryan said, accepting the bottle of water David thrust at him. He drank deeply, water running down his chin. "Had to walk a ways. Those assholes dumped me about ten miles back."

"They let you go?" Mike asked, studying Ryan's condition. The rope burns were worse than anything they'd inflicted during their childhood games, but Ryan seemed almost casual about them.

"More like they quit," Ryan said with a tired grin. "Turns out they didn't like their kidnapping victim very much."

David was already on his phone. "Dad? We got him. Highway 7, about twenty miles from the ranch." He paused, listening to Bill's relieved voice. "No, he's walking. Walking toward us. Yeah, I said walking."

"How long were you tied up?" Tom asked, unable to stop staring at his brother's arms.

"About eighteen hours, I think. Lost track after the first day." Ryan finished the water bottle and looked around. "They used hemp rope. Rough stuff. Way harder than your smooth rope."

Mike made a decision. "We're taking you to the ER first."

"What? No way," Ryan protested. "I'm fine. Just want to go home."

"Look at your arms, Ryan," David said. "Those rope burns need proper treatment. And you've been dehydrated for eighteen hours."

"I said I'm fine," Ryan insisted as they helped him into the air-conditioned truck despite his protests.

"Yeah, well, you don't get a vote," Mike said, turning toward town instead of home. "Mom would kill us if we brought you home without getting you checked out first."

As they drove toward the hospital, the radio crackled with search teams calling in their locations. Bill's voice came through clearly: "All teams, this is base. We have Ryan. Repeat, we have Ryan safe. Stand down and return to base."

Cheers could be heard over multiple radio channels.

"Tell Dad we're taking him to get checked out first," Mike said to David.

Ryan settled back in the seat, realizing he wasn't going to win this argument. "Fine. But this is stupid. I've had worse rope burns from y'all."

"No, you haven't," Tom said, looking at the deep welts on Ryan's wrists.

Ryan examined his arms with detached interest. "Okay, maybe not. Hemp's a real bitch." He looked up at his brothers with a mischievous grin. "Hey, tell the guys that next month, I want to be tied to a fence."

Mike nearly swerved off the road. "What?"

"For our next challenge," Ryan said, as if it was obvious. "That fence setup was actually pretty good. Much harder to escape than a tree. Just use the smooth rope next time."

Tom stared at his little brother in disbelief. "Ryan, you were kidnapped. Tortured. Shot at. And you want us to recreate it?"

"Well, not the shooting part," Ryan said reasonably. "And definitely not the hemp rope. But the fence idea? That was clever. Really tested my limits."

David shook his head. "You're insane."

"Nah," Ryan said, closing his eyes. "Just competitive. Besides, now I know I can handle eighteen hours. Next time, let's see if I can beat that record."

His brothers exchanged looks over his head as they pulled into the hospital parking lot.

"We're definitely not telling Mom about this conversation," Mike said.

"Agreed," Tom and David said in unison.

Ryan just smiled, already planning his next escape challenge.