The Texas-Mexican Militia

 

Chapter 1

Billy Benson was about 15 miles into the deep woods on his mule quad. The 18-year-old was scouting this land for sale for his father, Pops and his brothers. It bordered on the Nelson ranch, and Pops and Tom, his father, wanted to purchase it to avoid new neighbors. Billy was enjoying it. He loved the woods.

Suddenly he was surrounded by 3 men, black tactical gear, armed.

"Lose your fucking shirt boy. You're going to be tied up!"

"Who the fuck are you?" Billy demanded, his hand instinctively moving toward his sidearm.

"We are the Youth Militia and you are on our land!"

"Your land? This land is for sale on the open market!" Billy protested.

The Glock pistol was aimed directly at his chest. "I said lose your fucking shirt!"

Billy stripped to the waist, his mind racing for an escape plan. But with three armed men surrounding him, his options were limited.

"What the hell do you want with me?" Billy shouted as rough hands grabbed his arms.

"Shut up!" one barked, yanking Billy's arms behind his back with brutal force, twisting them upward until Billy cried out in pain. The coarse hemp rope bit into his wrists as they were bound tight.

"This is bullshit! You can't just—" Billy's protests were cut short as more rope was wound around his arms above the elbows, pulling them together until his shoulders screamed in agony. His chest was thrust forward by the unnatural position.

"Stop fighting it, boy," the leader growled, wrapping rope around Billy's bare torso, each loop pulled tight, the rough hemp scraping against his skin like sandpaper.

"You're making a mistake!" Billy gasped, the ropes constricting his breathing. "I'm not whoever you think—"

"We'll see about that." They yanked his wallet from his back pocket. "Well, lookie here. We got a Benson!"

Billy's eyes widened in confusion. "Yeah, I'm Billy Benson! So what?"

Before he could say another word, a knotted bandanna was forced between his teeth and tied brutally tight behind his head, cutting into the corners of his mouth. His muffled protests meant nothing now.

A rough blindfold was pulled over his eyes, plunging him into darkness. Strong hands grabbed his bound arms and dragged him to their mule quad, throwing him into the back like a sack of grain. The hemp ropes cut deeper into his flesh with every bump and turn as they drove him away into the depths of the forest.

Chapter 2

Back at the Benson ranch, Sarah was setting the dinner table when she glanced at the old clock above the kitchen sink. 6:30 PM. Billy should have been back by now.

"Tom, have you heard from Billy?" she called to her husband, who was washing up at the back porch sink.

"Not since this morning. He was supposed to scout that eastern section and be back by supper." Tom dried his hands and walked into the kitchen. "Jake, you try raising him on the radio?"

Jake looked up from where he was helping his nephew Billy Jr. with homework at the kitchen table. "Been trying for the last hour, Dad. Nothing but static."

"Shit," Pops muttered, limping in from the living room with his cane. At 72, the old Vietnam vet still moved with purpose despite his war injuries. "That boy knows better than to be out there after dark without checking in."

"Great-grandpa said a bad word!" Billy Jr. announced with barely contained glee.

"Billy Junior!" his mother Rebecca scolded from the stove. "And Pops, watch your language around the children."

"Hell, Rebecca, the boy's gonna hear worse than that if we don't find his uncle soon," Pops grumbled, earning another sharp look from both women.

Tom pulled out his cell phone. "Let me try calling him directly." The phone rang and rang before going to voicemail. "Billy, it's Dad. Call us back as soon as you get this."

"Maybe his phone died," Sarah suggested, but her voice carried worry.

Jake was already moving toward the door. "I'm going to fire up my quad and go look for him. He was checking out that land bordering the Nelson place."

"I'm coming with you," Billy Jr. declared, pushing back from the table.

"Oh no you're not, young man," Rebecca said firmly. "It's a school night."

"But Mom, Uncle Billy might need help! I know those woods better than—"

"Your mother said no, son," Josh interrupted, walking in from the barn. "But Jake, take the big spotlight and extra batteries. And keep your radio on."

Within minutes, Jake was roaring out of the yard on his mule quad, the powerful LED spotlight cutting through the growing darkness. Tom followed in the ranch truck, taking the main logging road while Jake took the trails.

It was nearly 10 PM when Jake's voice crackled over the radio: "Dad, I found his quad! About three miles northeast of the Nelson property line."

Tom's truck bounced and lurched over the rough terrain until he reached Jake's location. Both vehicles' headlights illuminated Billy's abandoned mule quad, sitting in a small clearing.

"Billy!" Jake shouted into the darkness. "BILLY!"

Only silence answered back.

Tom approached the quad, his flashlight beam sweeping the ground. "Keys are still in it. Battery's good." He checked the GPS unit mounted on the handlebars. "Shows he was here around 2:30 this afternoon."

"Dad, over here!" Jake's voice was tight with alarm.

Tom hurried over to where Jake was kneeling beside a large oak tree. His son's flashlight illuminated several pieces of cut rope scattered on the ground, along with Billy's torn plaid shirt hanging from a low branch.

"Jesus Christ," Tom whispered, picking up one of the rope pieces. It was coarse hemp, the kind used for ranch work, but the cuts were clean—made with a sharp knife.

Jake was already keying his radio. "This is Jake Benson calling Sheriff Nelson. We need you out here now. We found Billy's quad and there's been trouble."

Sheriff Wade Nelson's voice came back immediately: "On my way. Don't touch anything else. I'm calling in the Texas Rangers."

Tom stared at his youngest son's shirt, a cold fear settling in his gut. In Kings County, people didn't just disappear. And they sure as hell didn't leave behind cut ropes and torn clothing unless something had gone very, very wrong.

Chapter 3

Sheriff Wade Nelson arrived at the scene within twenty minutes, his patrol car's headlights joining the constellation of light in the dark clearing. Behind him came his sons Wilson and Ryan in their deputy vehicles, along with Tom's other sons Ray and Josh.

"Christ almighty," Wade muttered, examining the cut ropes with his flashlight. At 55, he'd been Kings County Sheriff for over two decades and had never seen anything like this. "These cuts are clean. Professional."

"Professional what?" Jake demanded, his voice tight with barely controlled anger.

"Professional kidnappers don't usually leave evidence behind," Wade said grimly. "This feels... different."

Ray, ever the business-minded brother, was already thinking logistics. "Dad, we need to get word out. Social media, local news—"

"Already on it," Ryan Nelson said, his phone in hand. "I'm calling in a missing person report to the Texas Rangers and DPS."

It took forty-five minutes for Ryan to get through to the right department. When he finally hung up, his face was grim.

"What'd they say?" Tom asked.

"Missing adult, no immediate signs of foul play, low priority. They'll send someone out... maybe tomorrow afternoon."

"Low priority?" Jake exploded. "There's cut rope and torn clothing! How the hell is that low priority?"

"Easy, son," Wade said, though his own jaw was clenched. "Billy's eighteen. Technically an adult. They see this as maybe a domestic dispute or him running off with some girl."

"Billy wouldn't run off," Josh said firmly. "And sure as hell not from Edna."

Wade nodded. "I know that. You know that. But to some desk jockey in Austin, this is just another missing person report in rural Texas."

Pops had been silent through all of this, leaning heavily on his cane and studying the ground around the oak tree. "Vietnam taught me something," he said quietly, his gravelly voice cutting through the tension. "Sometimes the cavalry ain't coming."

"What are you saying, Pops?" Tom asked.

The old man's eyes were hard as flint. "I'm saying we better start thinking like Billy's all we got. Because if those Rangers treat this like low priority, that boy could be dead before they get their asses out of their air-conditioned offices."

"Damn right," Billy Jr. piped up from where he'd been hiding in the back of Josh's truck. "Uncle Billy would come looking for us!"

"Billy Junior!" Rebecca scolded. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be home!"

"I snuck into Dad's truck," the boy said defiantly. "And Great-grandpa's right. We can't wait for some Rangers who don't even know Uncle Billy."

Wade looked around at the assembled faces—three generations of Bensons, his own sons, all of them grim and determined. "Alright. We do this right. Wilson, Ryan, you keep working the official channels. But..." He paused, looking at Tom. "We also start our own search. Quietly. Just family and close friends."

"How quietly?" Ray asked.

"Civilian clothes. Personal vehicles. We're not vigilantes, we're just neighbors looking for a missing friend."

Jake was nodding eagerly. "I can get Carlos and Miguel from school. They know the northern sections better than anyone."

"And I'll call the Hendersons and the Washingtons," Josh added. "Their spreads border the national forest."

Tom clapped his hand on Wade's shoulder. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Wade said grimly. "Thank me when we bring Billy home."

As they loaded up to head back to the ranch and plan their search, none of them noticed the faint tire tracks leading deeper into the forest. Tracks that would have told them Billy hadn't just vanished—he'd been taken somewhere specific, by people who knew these woods well enough to disappear without a trace.

Chapter 4

Billy had no idea how long he'd been unconscious when the splash of ice-cold water hit his face. He jerked awake, immediately feeling the bite of the hemp ropes cutting deeper into his raw flesh. Every muscle in his shoulders and arms screamed in agony from being bound in the unnatural position.

"Wakey, wakey, Agent Benson," the leader sneered, emphasizing the name with obvious disbelief. "Time for some questions."

Billy tried to speak through the gag, but only muffled sounds came out. The blindfold had been removed, and he could see he was in some kind of crude shelter—plywood walls, a tin roof, and a single bare bulb hanging overhead. His three captors stood around him, still in their black tactical gear.

"Let me make this real simple for you, fed boy," the leader continued, pulling out a knife and testing its edge with his thumb. "We know you're not really Billy Benson. That's a cover identity, and a pretty fucking good one too. But we also know the government's been sending agents to infiltrate patriot groups all across Texas."

The man to his left, younger than the leader but with the same hard eyes, stepped forward. "Your fake ID says you're eighteen, but we ain't buying it. You move like someone with training."

Billy shook his head frantically, trying to tell them they were wrong, but the gag made everything incomprehensible.

"Oh, you want to talk now?" The leader reached behind Billy's head and loosened the knotted bandanna just enough to pull it from his mouth. "Start talking, Agent Benson. Who sent you? FBI? ATF? Some new task force we haven't heard of?"

"I'm not—" Billy gasped, his voice hoarse. "I'm not an agent! I'm really Billy Benson! My family owns a ranch about fifteen miles south of here!"

The third man, built like a linebacker, laughed harshly. "Right. And I'm the fucking Easter Bunny. You expect us to believe some rich rancher's kid just happened to be scouting land right where we set up camp?"

"The land's for sale!" Billy insisted, desperation creeping into his voice. "My dad and granddad wanted to buy it to expand our operation!"

"Bullshit." The leader backhanded Billy across the face, snapping his head to the side. "You were doing reconnaissance. Mapping our position, counting our weapons, looking for ways to bring in a strike team."

"Bring the board," the leader said quietly.

Billy's blood turned to ice as the younger man dragged over a wooden plank and set it down beside him. "No, please—I'm telling you the truth!"

"Cut him loose from the chair," the leader ordered. "But keep his hands tied."

Strong arms grabbed Billy and forced him down onto the makeshift board, his bound arms trapped beneath him. The hemp ropes dug savagely into his spine as they strapped him down, tilting the board so his head was lower than his feet.

"Last chance, Agent Benson. Who sent you?"

"I'm not an agent!" Billy screamed. "My name is Billy Benson! I live with my family on—"

The wet cloth slammed down over his face, cutting off his words. Then came the water.

Billy's world exploded into pure terror. Water flooded over the cloth, filling his nose and mouth, triggering every survival instinct he had. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only thrash helplessly against the restraints as his body screamed for air. Just when his lungs felt ready to burst, the water stopped.

The cloth was yanked away and Billy gasped and coughed, water streaming from his nose and mouth.

"Who sent you?" the leader demanded.

"Please—" Billy choked out. "I don't know what you want me to say!"

The cloth came down again. More water. Billy's vision went gray around the edges as he fought against drowning, his bound body convulsing on the board. This time they let it go on longer.

When they finally stopped, Billy was sobbing, snot and water streaming down his face. "Please, God, please stop. I'm not lying to you!"

"You will be," the leader said with chilling certainty. "Everyone breaks eventually."

As they prepared the cloth for a third round, Billy realized with crystal clarity that these men would torture him to death before they'd believe the truth. They were so convinced he was a federal agent that no amount of pain, no desperate plea, would change their minds.

They were going to kill him. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Chapter 5

By dawn, word had spread quietly through Kings County. Not through official channels—the Texas Rangers still hadn't bothered to send anyone—but through the network of relationships that had been built over generations of shared land, shared struggles, and shared respect.

Jake had been up all night, his phone buzzing constantly as he reached out to every friend, every classmate, every hunting buddy who knew Billy. His eyes were red-rimmed and his voice hoarse, but his determination never wavered.

"Carlos, it's Jake. I need your help, man. Billy's missing and... yeah, I know it's early. Can you and Miguel meet us at the ranch?"

At the kitchen table, Pops was studying a topographical map of the area, his gnarled finger tracing possible routes through the forest. Despite his age and injuries, his military mind was still sharp.

"Thirty square miles," he muttered to Tom. "That's a lot of ground to cover. We're gonna need more than just family."

"We've got more than family," Tom replied, looking around at the assembled group. Ray was on his laptop, printing out maps and organizing supplies. Josh was checking weapons and ammunition. Rebecca had given up trying to keep Billy Jr. away and was now helping pack first aid supplies.

The sound of vehicles pulling into the yard drew everyone's attention. Jake's classmates were arriving—Carlos and Miguel Rodriguez, whose family had bought the old Henderson place five years ago. Behind them came Tommy Washington, whose grandfather had been friends with Pops since Vietnam. Then came the Hendricks boys, the young Schneider twins, and others.

"Shit," Billy Jr. said, watching through the window as more trucks pulled up. "That's a lot of people."

"Billy Junior!" Sarah scolded automatically, but her heart wasn't in it. Even she was beginning to adopt the family's more colorful vocabulary as stress took its toll.

Wade Nelson pulled up with his sons Wilson and Ryan, followed by more neighbors. The Washingtons, the Hendersons, even old Mrs. Garcia from town who insisted on bringing coffee and breakfast tacos for everyone.

"How many we got now?" Jake asked, doing a quick headcount as people gathered in the front yard.

"Twenty-two," Ray announced, checking his list. "All armed, all know the territory, all know Billy."

Carlos Rodriguez stepped forward, his hat in his hands. "Mr. Benson, sir, Billy helped my family when we first moved here. Showed my little sister how to ride, taught Miguel and me the best fishing spots. We're not leaving these woods until we find him."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group. These weren't just neighbors anymore—they were becoming something else. Something more unified and dangerous.

Pops struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. The assembled men and boys fell silent as the old veteran looked each of them in the eye.

"Boys," he began, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd seen real combat, "we're not vigilantes here. We're not looking for trouble. But if trouble finds us..." He paused, his weathered face hard as granite. "Well, we're prepared for that too."

Wade Nelson stepped up beside him. "I want to be clear about something. Officially, this is a search and rescue operation. Civilian volunteers helping look for a missing person. But..." He looked around at the faces watching him. "If we find whoever took Billy, and they resist... we defend ourselves."

Jake was practically vibrating with barely controlled energy. "So what's the plan, Pops?"

The old man smiled grimly and spread the map on the hood of Tom's truck. "Same thing we did in the jungle, son. We divide into teams, we sweep methodically, and we don't leave any stone unturned."

He pointed to different sections of the map. "Jake, you take Carlos, Miguel, and the Hendricks boys. Start here and work north. Tom, you and Wade take the southern section with Wilson and Ryan. Ray, you coordinate from here with the radios."

"What about me?" Billy Jr. demanded.

Pops looked down at his great-grandson and saw something that reminded him of himself at that age. "You're with me, boy. Someone's got to help this old man read the signs."

As the teams prepared to move out, armed and determined, none of them knew they were already too late to prevent Billy's torture. But they weren't too late to save his life—if they could find him before the Youth Militia's paranoia turned deadly.

The largest armed group Kings County had seen since the Civil War was about to enter those woods, and they weren't coming home without Billy Benson.

Chapter 6

Billy had lost count of how many times they'd waterboarded him. His throat was raw, his lungs burned, and every breath felt like drowning all over again. The hemp ropes had worn through his skin in several places, leaving bloody tracks across his chest and arms.

"You're a stubborn son of a bitch, I'll give you that," the leader said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "But we got all day, Agent Benson."

Billy's head lolled to the side, water and blood dripping from his face onto the concrete floor. While the three brothers were distracted, arguing among themselves, he carefully tested the ropes around his wrists. He pulled gently, trying not to show any movement, feeling for any give in the bindings.

Nothing. The hemp ropes were expertly tied, tight as steel cables. His arms were completely immobilized behind him, and the ropes around his torso made it impossible to get any leverage. Even if he could somehow get free of the chair, his shoulders were so wrenched from the unnatural position that he doubted he could even move his arms.

The crushing realization hit him: he was completely helpless. These men knew exactly what they were doing.

He had to think. Had to buy time. If his family was looking—and he knew they were—he just had to survive long enough for them to find him.

"Okay," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Okay... I'll tell you."

The three brothers exchanged glances. The leader leaned in closer. "Now we're getting somewhere. Who sent you?"

Billy's mind raced. What could he say that would sound believable but wouldn't hurt anyone real? "Task Force... Task Force Patriot," he gasped. "New unit. Based out of... out of Waco."

The younger brother grabbed a notepad. "Task Force Patriot? Never heard of it."

"That's the point," Billy said, trying to sound defeated. "Black ops. Infiltration of... of militia groups. They think you're planning something big."

"What kind of something big?" the linebacker demanded.

Billy closed his eyes, trying to remember action movies he'd seen. "They said... they said you had contacts. Arms dealers. Maybe planning to hit government buildings."

The leader backhanded him again. "Bullshit. We're not terrorists. We're patriots defending our land from government overreach."

"I know that now," Billy said quickly. "I know you're not... not what they said you were. That's why I was supposed to... to report back. Tell them you weren't a threat."

The three brothers looked at each other uncertainly. This was the first thing their prisoner had said that didn't sound completely rehearsed.

"Who's your handler?" the younger one asked.

Billy made up a name. "Agent... Agent Martinez. She's based in Austin. Runs the whole operation."

"Martinez," the leader repeated. "Hispanic?"

"Yeah," Billy nodded. "About forty. Black hair. Scar on her left hand from... from some operation that went bad."

He was making it all up as he went, but he could see they were listening. Maybe believing.

"How were you supposed to report back?" the linebacker asked.

"Radio check-in. Every six hours. I'm..." Billy looked around at the crude shelter. "I'm already overdue. They'll be looking for me."

That got their attention. The leader's eyes narrowed. "How many agents are in this task force?"

"I don't know the full operation," Billy lied. "They keep us compartmentalized. But... but at least a dozen in this sector. Maybe more."

"Sector?" the younger brother pressed. "What sector?"

Billy's heart was pounding, but he forced himself to stay calm. "East Texas. Everything from here to the Louisiana border. You're not the only group they're watching."

The three brothers stepped back and huddled together, speaking in low voices. Billy couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could see they were agitated. Good. If they thought a whole task force was looking for him, maybe they'd be more careful about killing him.

When they turned back, the leader's face was grim. "If you're telling the truth, Agent Benson, then we got a problem. Because we can't let you go, and we can't stay here if your people are coming."

Billy's momentary hope crashed. "What... what are you going to do?"

The leader pulled out his knife again. "We're gonna verify your story. And if you're lying to us..." He tested the blade's edge. "Well, let's just say the next few hours are gonna make what we just did seem like a church social."

As they prepared to continue their interrogation, Billy realized his desperate gambit had bought him some time, but it might have also sealed his fate. If they decided to move him to a new location, his family would never find him in time.

He closed his eyes and prayed that Jake was already in those woods, following the trail that would lead to this nightmare.

Chapter 7

Back at the Benson ranch house, the women had gathered in the kitchen, the heart of the home where they'd always come together during times of crisis. Sarah moved mechanically between the coffee pot and the stove, her hands needing something to do while her mind raced with terrible possibilities.

"I should never have let Josh take Billy Junior out there," Rebecca said for the tenth time, pacing by the window that faced the woods. Her voice was tight with worry and guilt. "He's just a baby. Ten years old! What was I thinking?"

"You were thinking that boy would've snuck out anyway," Mary Nelson said gently, reaching over to squeeze Rebecca's hand. "At least this way he's with his dad and great-grandfather."

"That doesn't make me feel any better," Rebecca snapped, then immediately looked ashamed. "I'm sorry, Mary. I'm just... God, what if something happens to both of them? What if—"

"Don't," Sarah interrupted firmly. "Don't go down that road, honey. We have to believe they'll all come home safe."

In the living room, Mrs. Elena Rodriguez and Mrs. Carmen Garcia were on their knees before the small wooden cross that had hung on the Benson's wall for three generations. Their fingers moved steadily over their rosary beads, their voices joining in quiet Spanish prayers that had comforted mothers for centuries.

"Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo..."

Edna Nelson sat curled in Tom's favorite armchair, Billy's high school class ring clutched in her small fist. At eighteen, she looked far younger, her face streaked with tears she'd been crying since the search began at dawn.

"He was supposed to come over for dinner tonight," she whispered to no one in particular. "We were going to watch a movie. He promised he'd be back by six."

The radio on the kitchen counter crackled occasionally with brief transmissions from the search teams, but the men were keeping radio chatter to a minimum. Every burst of static made all the women freeze, hoping for news, fearing what they might hear.

"Jake's team found tire tracks," Ray's voice came through the speaker. "Moving to investigate."

Rebecca's pacing intensified. "Josh should have stayed home. Billy Junior should be here, safe, doing homework, not out there in those woods with God knows what kind of dangerous people."

"Mija," Mrs. Rodriguez said softly, rising from her prayers and switching to English, "your husband is a good man. He will protect your son. And your Billy Junior, he is strong like his uncle. They will all come home."

"You don't know that," Rebecca said, her voice breaking. "You can't promise me that."

"No," the older woman agreed, "but I can promise we will pray until they do."

Sarah looked around at the gathered women—friends and neighbors who'd dropped everything to be here, to wait, to worry together. "We've always taken care of each other in Kings County," she said quietly. "Through droughts and floods, through good times and bad. We'll get through this too."

The radio crackled again: "Smoke spotted. All teams hold position."

The kitchen fell silent except for the continued whisper of Spanish prayers from the living room. Each woman understood what that transmission meant—they'd found something. Someone. Maybe Billy.

Maybe the people who had taken him.

Rebecca sank into a chair, her hands shaking. "I should never have let them go," she repeated, but this time it was barely a whisper.

Outside, the sun was beginning to set over the forest where twenty-two armed men were closing in on whatever lay beneath that column of rising smoke.

Chapter 8

The sun was setting through the small window of the crude shelter when the leader of the Youth Militia made his decision. Billy could see it in his eyes—the cold calculation that said time was running out.

"Pack it up," he told the other two brothers. "If there really is a task force coming, we can't stay here."

Billy's heart sank as he watched them begin gathering their weapons and equipment. If they moved him now, his family would never find him. The false story he'd told to buy time was about to become his death sentence.

"What about him?" the younger brother asked, jerking his head toward Billy.

The leader looked at Billy with the same expression he might give a wounded animal. "Can't take him with us. Can't leave him alive to talk."

"Wait," Billy said desperately, his voice hoarse from the torture. "Wait, please. You said you'd verify my story."

"We did," the leader replied, pulling a cell phone from his pocket. "Called every contact we have. Nobody's heard of any Task Force Patriot. Nobody's seen federal activity in this sector." He smiled grimly. "You're a lying piece of shit, Agent Benson. Or whoever you really are."

The crushing weight of despair settled over Billy. His desperate gambit had failed. These men were going to kill him, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

"But here's what really pisses me off," the leader continued, checking his pistol. "You made us waste a whole day on your bullshit story. A day we could've been moving to a safer location."

The linebacker was already rolling up sleeping bags and stuffing them into backpacks. "How we gonna do this, Marcus? Quick and clean?"

Marcus—Billy finally had a name for his primary tormentor—looked around the shelter they'd been using. "Burn it all. Make it look like he was never here."

"Marcus, please," Billy begged, hating the desperation in his own voice but unable to stop it. "I'm telling you the truth. I really am Billy Benson. My family owns a ranch south of here. They're probably looking for me right now."

"Save it," Marcus said. "Nobody's looking for Agent Nobody with his fake ID and his made-up stories."

The sound of a rope being thrown over one of the wooden roof beams made Billy's blood turn to ice. The younger brother was fashioning a noose, his movements quick and practiced.

"Jesus Christ," Billy whispered. "You're really going to do this."

"Nothing personal," Marcus said, but his eyes were cold as winter. "You picked the wrong people to fuck with."

As they dragged Billy from the chair and forced him to stand beneath the beam, his legs barely supporting him after hours of torture, he found himself thinking about Jake. About his family gathered around the dinner table, probably wondering where he was. About Edna, waiting for him to call.

They were so close. If his family was really searching, they had to be close by now. All he needed was a few more minutes, maybe an hour.

But as the rough hemp rope settled around his neck and Marcus began testing the knot, Billy realized that his time had finally run out.

In the distance, unheard by anyone in the shelter, came the faint sound of men moving carefully through the forest, converging on the thin column of smoke that marked Billy's location.

Chapter 9

Jake couldn't wait any longer. Through his binoculars, he could see movement in the crude shelter, and the desperation in his gut told him Billy was running out of time.

"Fuck this," he whispered to Carlos, who was lying beside him in the underbrush. "They're gonna kill him."

"Jake, no—" Carlos started, but Jake was already keying his radio.

"All teams, this is Jake. I can see Billy through the window. They got a rope around his neck. We go now or we lose him."

Pops' voice crackled back immediately: "Jake, goddammit, wait for—"

The sound of gunfire cut off the transmission. Jake had opened up with his rifle, his first shot shattering the window of the shelter. "GO! GO! GO!"

Twenty-two men erupted from the forest like avenging angels. The Youth Militia brothers, caught completely off guard, scrambled for their weapons. Marcus dove behind an overturned table, the younger brother grabbed an assault rifle, and the linebacker ran for the back door.

"BILLY!" Jake screamed, charging toward the shelter as bullets flew in both directions.

Inside, Billy felt the rope tighten around his neck as Marcus yanked on it in panic. "You lying son of a bitch! You did bring a task force!"

"That's not a task force!" Billy choked out. "That's my family!"

The younger brother opened up with his rifle through the shattered window, forcing Jake and Carlos to dive for cover. Tom Benson and Wade Nelson were advancing from the south, their weapons blazing. Pops, despite his age and injuries, was directing the assault from behind a massive oak tree, Billy Jr. pressed close beside him.

"Granddad, I can see Uncle Billy!" the ten-year-old shouted over the gunfire. "He's got a rope around his neck!"

Inside the shelter, Marcus made his final, desperate decision. If he was going down, he was taking the federal agent with him. He grabbed the rope and prepared to yank Billy off his feet.

Jake saw what was happening through the window. "NO!" He squeezed off three rapid shots, and Marcus spun away from the rope, blood blossoming across his chest.

But Jake's fourth shot, aimed at the younger brother, went wide in the chaos and slammed into Billy's left thigh, shattering bone and dropping him to the floor. The rope, still around his neck, caught his full weight as he fell.

Billy's world went black as the hemp bit into his throat, cutting off his air completely. He thrashed weakly, his bound arms useless, his wounded leg screaming in agony.

The linebacker burst from the back of the shelter and ran straight into Josh Benson's shotgun. The blast lifted him off his feet and dropped him ten yards away.

The younger brother, seeing his two companions down, threw his rifle aside and raised his hands. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I surrender!"

But Jake wasn't looking at the surrender. He was staring in horror at Billy, who was hanging by the neck from the rope, his face turning blue, his body barely moving.

"Jesus Christ, I shot him!" Jake screamed. "I fucking shot him!"

Carlos and Miguel Rodriguez reached Billy first, Carlos lifting him while Miguel sawed through the rope with his hunting knife. Billy collapsed to the floor, gasping and choking, blood pooling beneath his wounded leg.

"He's not breathing right!" Miguel shouted. "The rope's crushed his windpipe!"

Tom Benson crashed through the door, took one look at his youngest son's blue face and the growing pool of blood, and knew they had seconds, not minutes.

"Get that rope off his neck! Now!" he barked, dropping to his knees beside Billy. "And somebody stop that bleeding!"

Jake knelt on Billy's other side, tears streaming down his face. "I'm sorry, Billy. God, I'm so sorry. I was trying to save you and I—"

Billy's eyes fluttered open, his mouth moving soundlessly. His throat was too damaged to speak, but his eyes found Jake's face and his expression clearly said: You did save me.

As Sheriff Nelson called for the medical helicopter and the men worked frantically to keep Billy alive, the last of the Youth Militia brothers sat in the corner of the destroyed shelter, finally understanding that he and his brothers hadn't captured a federal agent.

They'd tortured a kid whose family loved him enough to bring an army into these woods to get him back.

Chapter 10

Three weeks later, the Benson ranch looked like it was hosting the biggest party Kings County had seen in decades. Billy's left leg was still in a cast from Jake's wayward bullet, and his throat bore faint rope marks that were finally starting to fade, but he was alive, he was home, and that was all that mattered.

The Rodriguez family had arrived early with three ice chests full of homemade tamales and enough cerveza to float a small boat. Mrs. Garcia had brought her famous tres leches cake, while the Washington family contributed two whole pigs they'd been smoking since dawn. The Hendricks twins showed up with their guitars, and soon the sound of both country music and mariachi filled the evening air.

"Damn, this is good," Pops said, biting into his third tamale. He was sitting in a lawn chair next to old Carlos Rodriguez Sr., Miguel and Carlos's grandfather, who'd driven down from San Antonio for the celebration.

"Sí, pero you need to learn the language, viejo," Carlos Sr. grinned, his weathered face creasing with mischief. "Say 'hijo de puta.'"

Pops tried to repeat it, mangling the pronunciation terribly. "He-ho day poo-ta?"

"¡Ay, Dios mío!" Carlos Sr. laughed so hard he nearly choked on his beer. "No, no, no. Listen: HEE-ho day POO-ta."

"What's it mean?" Pops asked suspiciously.

"Son of a bitch," Carlos Sr. said with a perfectly straight face.

"Well, hell, why didn't you just say so? Hijo de puta!" Pops declared, this time with better pronunciation. "That's a damn sight more colorful than plain English."

Billy Jr., who'd been eavesdropping nearby while waiting his turn at the piñata, immediately filed this new information away for future use.

The piñata itself was a masterpiece—a bright rainbow donkey that Mrs. Rodriguez had insisted on bringing. When it was finally Billy Jr.'s turn, he grabbed the bat with both hands and took a mighty swing that would've made his uncle Billy proud.

"¡Dale, mijo! Hit it harder!" shouted Miguel, who was holding the rope.

Billy Jr. wound up and connected with a satisfying crack that sent candy and small toys flying everywhere. As the younger kids scrambled for the prizes, Billy Jr. threw his arms up in victory.

"¡Hijo de puta!" he yelled triumphantly.

The entire gathering went silent for about three seconds before erupting into laughter. Rebecca's face went bright red as she looked around for the culprit who'd taught her son his first Spanish curse word.

"Billy Junior!" she scolded, but she was fighting back a smile.

"Great-grandpa taught it to me!" Billy Jr. protested, pointing directly at Pops.

"That old bastard Carlos taught it to me!" Pops shot back, pointing at his new friend.

Carlos Sr. just grinned and raised his beer bottle. "¡Salud!"

The party continued long into the evening, with Sheriff Wade Nelson trying his hand at the guitar (badly), Ray Benson attempting to dance cumbia with Mrs. Garcia (even worse), and Josh teaching some of the Mexican kids how to rope a fence post.

As the sun finally set and most of the families began loading up their trucks with leftover food and sleepy children, Billy hobbled out onto the back deck on his crutches. Jake was already there, two bottles of Shiner Bock in his hands.

"Figured you might want one of these," Jake said, offering Billy a beer.

Billy accepted it gratefully and eased himself down into one of the deck chairs, propping his cast up on the railing. For a long moment, they just sat there in comfortable silence, listening to the distant sounds of the party winding down and the night sounds of the forest beginning.

"You know," Billy said finally, "for a guy who supposedly saved my life, your aim sure as hell needs work."

Jake nearly choked on his beer. "Jesus, Billy. I thought you were gonna die, and the first thing you do is give me shit about my marksmanship?"

"Well, you did shoot me," Billy pointed out reasonably. "In the leg. While I was tied up. That's got to be some kind of record for friendly fire."

"I was trying to save your ass!"

"And you did. Eventually. After you shot me." Billy took a sip of his beer, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I'm thinking of having a plaque made. 'Saved by Jake Benson, who only shot me a little bit.'"

Jake shook his head, but he was grinning now too. "You're never gonna let me live this down, are you?"

"Hell no," Billy said cheerfully. "I figure I got at least twenty years of mileage out of this story. Maybe thirty if I really stretch it."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while longer, brothers in every way that mattered, alive and together under the Texas stars. In the distance, they could hear Pops trying out more Spanish curse words while Mrs. Garcia taught Rebecca how to make proper salsa.

"Thanks, Jake," Billy said quietly.

"For what? Shooting you?"

"For coming to get me. For bringing an army. For not giving up." Billy's voice was serious now. "I knew you'd come. Even when those bastards had that rope around my neck, I knew you'd come."

Jake nodded, his own voice thick. "Always, brother. Always."

They clinked their beer bottles together under the vast Texas sky, two brothers who'd been through hell and made it back home.