Endurance

 

Chapter 1: The Grab

The morning sun hadn't cleared the eastern ridge when Josh's voice crackled over the ranch radio network. Static, then his familiar drawl cutting through the pre-dawn quiet.

"Ray, I need you on the south fence line. Got posts down from last night's wind. Billy, Jake—you two take the north pasture. Check on those new calves and repair that gate by Cottonwood Creek. Should be a half-day job, maybe less if you two quit your damn bickering."

Billy Benson grinned at his brother across the kitchen table, shoveling in another forkful of eggs. "Hear that? He said you need to quit bickering."

"Bullshit," Jake shot back, reaching for the coffee pot. "I'm the reasonable one. You're the one who—"

"Both of you shut up and eat," Sarah Benson said from the stove, not turning around. But there was affection in her voice. Twenty-one years of Billy, twenty-two of Jake—she'd long since learned to tune out their constant back-and-forth.

Thirty minutes later, they were loading fence tools into the bed of the ranch pickup. The air already carried the promise of heat—it was going to be another scorcher by noon. Billy adjusted his ball cap and climbed into the passenger seat while Jake took the wheel.

"Think those calves made it through the night alright?" Billy asked as they bounced down the dirt road heading north.

"Should be fine. That mama cow's a good one." Jake squinted against the rising sun. "Gate's gonna be the pain in the ass. Whole thing needs replacing, not just patching."

"We'll make it work. Always do."

The north pasture stretched out before them—fifteen hundred acres of grassland dotted with mesquite and live oak. They'd worked this land since they were kids, knew every fence post, every dry creek bed, every place the ground went soft after rain. It was home in a way that went deeper than the ranch house itself.

Jake parked near Cottonwood Creek and they climbed out, the truck doors slamming in stereo. The calves were fine—six of them bunched near their mothers, already grazing in the cool morning air. The gate was worse than expected, one hinge completely torn free.

"Told you," Jake said.

"Yeah, yeah. Go grab the toolbox."

They worked in comfortable rhythm, the kind of coordination that came from a lifetime together. Billy held the gate steady while Jake wrestled with the rusted bolts. The radio on Billy's hip stayed quiet—everyone else spread across the ranch, doing their jobs.

Neither of them heard the truck approaching from the north until it was close.

Too close.

Billy looked up first, shading his eyes. "That's not one of ours."

Jake turned. A dark blue Chevy pickup, maybe ten years old, coming fast across open ground where no road existed. Dust plume behind it.

"The hell?" Jake straightened, wrench still in hand.

The truck didn't slow down. It came straight at them, engine roaring, and Jake's gut twisted with sudden understanding a split second before Billy's did.

"Run!"

But there was nowhere to go. The truck skidded sideways, blocking their path back to their own vehicle. Doors flew open. Three men, faces covered with bandanas, moving fast and organized.

"Don't fucking move!"

Billy's hand went for his radio but a man was already on him, grabbing his wrist, twisting hard. The radio clattered to the dirt. Jake swung the wrench but another man caught his arm, and suddenly there was a gun—a pistol jammed against Jake's ribs.

"Drop it or I drop you, cowboy."

The wrench fell.

It happened so fast. Hands patting them down, rough and efficient. Phones yanked from pockets. Wallets tossed to the ground. Jake tried to jerk away and got slammed face-first against the side of their truck for his trouble.

"Easy, easy!" Billy shouted. "What do you want? We don't—"

"Shut up." The biggest one—had to be six-three, two-twenty—grabbed both brothers by their shirt collars and shoved them toward the Chevy. "Get in the back. Now."

"Like hell—" Jake started, but the gun pressed harder into his spine.

"In. The. Truck."

The bigger man ripped their work shirts off in two quick yanks, buttons popping and fabric tearing, leaving both brothers in just their ribbed white tank undershirts—wife beaters, sweat-dampened and clinging to their backs. Their muscled arms were bare now, exposed.

Billy and Jake exchanged one quick look—fear mixed with fury—before they were shoved into the extended cab's back seat. The big one climbed in behind them, gun still out, while the other two got in front. The driver gunned the engine and the truck lurched forward, heading north across open range.

"Where are you taking us?" Billy demanded.

"Told you to shut up." The big man didn't even look at him.

Jake stared out the window, trying to track landmarks, directions. They were heading away from the ranch, away from everything familiar. His hands clenched into fists on his thighs. Billy sat rigid beside him, jaw working.

The road—if you could call it that—was barely more than tire ruts through scrub brush. They bounced and jostled for what felt like forever but was probably only twenty minutes before hitting actual pavement. County road, heading northwest.

"Billy," Jake said low, barely a whisper.

"I know."

Nobody spoke after that. The driver kept checking his mirrors. The man in the passenger seat fiddled with a phone. The big man in back just watched them both, gun resting casually on his knee.

Forty minutes. Maybe more. Billy lost track of time as the adrenaline started to fade and the reality sank in. They passed through empty country—no other vehicles, no houses, nothing. This was the deep back country of Kings County where population density dropped to near zero.

Finally, the truck slowed and turned onto a dirt track that led to a cluster of old buildings. An abandoned homestead, by the look of it. Barn with half the roof gone, house with boarded windows, rusted equipment scattered in the weeds.

The truck stopped in front of the barn.

"Out," the big man said.

They climbed out into the heat. The barn's big sliding door stood open, darkness inside. Billy's heart hammered. Jake's breath came short and fast.

"Inside. Move."

They were pushed through the doorway into dim, dusty air that smelled of old hay and rot. The barn was mostly empty—some broken stalls along one wall, an old tractor rusting in the corner, and in the middle of the dirt floor, nothing but space.

The three men formed a loose semicircle around them. The driver pulled out a coil of hemp rope. The passenger had duct tape. And the big one reached into the truck bed and pulled out a thick tree branch, about four feet long, stripped smooth.

Billy's stomach dropped.

Jake took a half-step back. "Wait. Wait, you don't need to—"

"Sit down. Both of you."

"We're not going anywhere," Billy said, trying to keep his voice steady. "You got us. You don't need to tie us up."

The big man's eyes were cold above the bandana. "Sit. Down."

They sat.

The rope, the branch, the tape—it was all right there. The men weren't rushing. They were taking their time, getting ready.

And Billy and Jake could only wait to see what was coming next.

Chapter 2: The Frat House Notices

Billy Junior checked his phone for the third time in ten minutes. 2:47 PM.

"They should've been back by now," he said, looking up from where he sat cross-legged on his bottom bunk.

Celeb glanced over from the top bunk across from him, where he was scrolling through something on his iPad. "Gate job, right? Your dad said half a day."

"Yeah, but it's been like seven hours." Jr. stood up, pacing the narrow space between the two sets of bunks. The "frat house," as they called it, was cramped with all five of them living in here—Billy and Jake shared one bunk set, Celeb and Jr. the other, and Louisiana's mattress wedged on the floor between them. With Billy and Jake out working, the room felt oddly empty. "Billy and Jake are never late. Not without calling in."

Louisiana—Colt, as everyone called him now—looked up from where he was tinkering with one of the drone controllers. The seventeen-year-old had only been here full-time for a few months, but he'd already learned the rhythms of ranch life. "You try their radios?"

"Three times. Nothing."

Celeb swung down from his bunk, landing with a thud. "Could be their radios died."

"Both of them?" Jr. shook his head. "And their phones? Billy always answers his phone."

The three of them exchanged looks. It was probably nothing. Probably. But something felt wrong, and when you grew up on a ranch where anything could happen—equipment failures, injuries, animals going sideways—you learned to trust that feeling.

"Let's ride out there," Celeb said. "North pasture, Cottonwood Creek, right?"

"Yeah."

They grabbed their hats and headed out, boots thudding down the stairs. Sarah was in the kitchen, elbow-deep in bread dough.

"Where you boys off to?"

"Billy and Jake haven't checked in," Jr. called over his shoulder. "We're gonna go make sure they're not stuck with a busted truck or something."

"Take the Gator. And Jr.—"

"I know, Mom. Be careful."

The Polaris Ranger ate up the distance to the north pasture faster than horses would have. Jr. drove, Celeb rode shotgun, and Colt stood in the back, one hand on the roll bar, scanning the horizon.

The gate came into view first. Then the ranch truck—their truck, the old Ford they'd taken out this morning.

Sitting there. Empty. Doors hanging open.

Jr. killed the engine. The silence felt heavy, wrong. No sound of tools, no voices, nothing but wind through the grass.

"Billy?" Celeb called out. "Jake?"

Nothing.

They climbed out slowly. The gate was half-repaired, tools scattered on the ground. A wrench lay in the dirt near the Ford's front tire. The tailgate was down, toolbox still sitting in the bed.

"They wouldn't just leave their tools," Colt said quietly. "Or the truck."

Jr. walked around to the driver's side, peering into the empty cab. Keys still in the ignition. Billy's ball cap on the dash. That's when he saw it in the dirt.

"Oh shit."

Billy's radio. Lying in the dirt ten feet from the truck.

Celeb was already moving, scanning the ground. "Here. Jake's phone." He picked it up, screen cracked. "And Billy's. And... wallets. Both wallets."

Jr.'s heart was pounding now. He turned in a slow circle, looking at the scene—the abandoned ranch truck with its doors open, the scattered personal items, the half-finished work. And then he saw them: tire tracks. Not from their Ford. Something bigger, heavier, cutting deep ruts across the grass from the north. They came right up to where Billy and Jake would have been working, then turned and headed back out.

"They were taken," Colt said. Not a question.

Jr.'s hand went to his belt, fingers finding the emergency beacon on his own radio. The 911 system they'd built. Billy had helped him design it. Now Jr. was about to use it for real.

He pressed the button and held it down for three seconds.

The mechanical voice echoed across the radio network, broadcast on every frequency the consortium used: "911 Jr. 911 Jr. 911 Jr."

Jr. released the button and brought the radio to his mouth. His voice was steadier than he felt.

"This is Jr. at the north pasture, Cottonwood Creek. Billy and Jake are missing. Their truck is here, empty. Their radios, phones, and wallets are on the ground. Signs of a struggle. Tire tracks heading north. Unknown vehicle. I repeat—Billy and Jake have been taken."

Static. Then the radio exploded with voices.

Josh: "Say again—taken?"

Pops: "What the fuck do you mean taken?"

Sheriff Wade: "Jr., this is Wade. Do not touch anything else. Stay put. I'm ten minutes out."

Tom Benson: "We're coming—"

Wade's voice cut through: "Everyone else head to the Benson ranch house. Now. We'll process the scene and meet you there."

Jr. looked at Celeb and Colt. Both of them had gone pale. All they could do now was wait.

---

Sheriff Wade Nelson arrived with his sons Wilson and Ryan—both deputies—in under eight minutes, lights flashing. Wade was out of his truck before it fully stopped, his weathered face tight with controlled urgency.

"Show me."

Jr. walked him through it—the empty truck, the scattered belongings, the tire tracks cutting north. Wade crouched by the tracks, studying them while Wilson photographed everything and Ryan bagged the phones, radios, and wallets as evidence.

"Chevy. Maybe ten years old, heavy load." Wade stood, hands on his hips. "These tracks are fresh. Few hours old at most."

"What do we do?" Jr. asked.

Wade's jaw clenched. "You three get back to the ranch house. Wilson, Ryan—finish processing this scene. I want photos of everything, measurements on those tracks, and I want to know which direction they were heading." He looked at Jr. "Let's go talk to your family."

The ride back to the ranch house felt endless. Jr. drove the Gator with Wade following in his cruiser. By the time they pulled up, the yard was chaos.

Trucks everywhere. The Bensons, the Nelsons, the Beaumonts, the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes—all six consortium families converging like they'd been summoned to war. Men stood in tight clusters, voices raised. Women gathered on the porch, Rebecca's face streaked with tears as Sarah held her.

Pops stood in the center of it all, glass of brandy already in hand, his face red.

"Where the fuck is Wade?" he barked. Then he saw the cruiser. "There! Sheriff, what the hell is going on? Who took my grandsons?"

Wade climbed out, and every voice stopped. The silence was immediate, heavy.

"Inside," Wade said. "Everyone who needs to hear this, inside now."

They packed into the Benson living room—too many people for the space. Tom and Sarah, Josh and Rebecca, Ray, Pops with his brandy. Robert and Caroline Beaumont. Wade's wife Mary. The other consortium heads. Jr., Celeb, and Colt squeezed into a corner.

Wade stood in the center, and Jr. could see the weight on him—this wasn't just a sheriff investigating a crime. This was family.

"All right," Wade said. "Jr., tell everyone exactly what you found."

Jr. swallowed hard and told the story. The empty truck. The scattered belongings. The tire tracks heading north. The silence in the room was suffocating.

"Sons of bitches grabbed them right off our land," Tom Benson said, his voice shaking. "In broad daylight."

"This is about money," Wade said. "Has to be. They'll make contact. Ransom demand."

"How much?" Robert Beaumont asked.

"Don't know yet. But they clearly targeted your family, Tom. They were watching. They knew Josh's work assignments this morning—"

"The radio," Pops interrupted, his voice sharp despite the brandy. "Josh gave assignments over the goddamn ranch radio. Unencrypted."

The room went cold.

Josh's face drained of color. "Oh Christ. They were listening."

"They knew exactly where Billy and Jake would be," Wade said. "Isolated. No backup. Perfect target."

"Fuck!" Pops slammed his glass down, brandy sloshing. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK! Those boys are out there because some piece of shit was listening to us talk about fence work?"

Sarah's hand went to her mouth. Rebecca was openly crying now.

"We're going to get them back," Wade said firmly. "But we need to be smart. When they make contact—"

"When?" Ray demanded. "How long?"

"Hours. Maybe less."

Tom stood abruptly, pacing. "We pay whatever they want. I don't care if it's a million dollars. We pay it."

"Agreed," Robert Beaumont said, and heads nodded around the room.

Jr. felt Celeb's hand on his shoulder. The chaos swirled around them—Pops cursing, Rebecca sobbing, men shouting plans and theories. But all Jr. could think about was Billy and Jake, out there somewhere, not knowing that everyone they loved was gathered here, ready to move heaven and earth to bring them home.

Wade's radio crackled. "Dad, we're done here. Heading back."

"Copy that." Wade looked around the room. "My boys will be here in twenty minutes with everything we found. Until then, everyone stays calm. When these bastards call, we play it smart."

But calm was the last thing anyone felt. The Benson ranch house had become a war room, and the battle for Billy and Jake had just begun.

Chapter 2: The Frat House Notices

Billy Junior checked his phone for the third time in ten minutes. 2:47 PM.

"They should've been back by now," he said, looking up from where he sat cross-legged on his bottom bunk.

Celeb glanced over from the top bunk across from him, where he was scrolling through something on his iPad. "Gate job, right? Your dad said half a day."

"Yeah, but it's been like seven hours." Jr. stood up, pacing the narrow space between the two sets of bunks. The "frat house," as they called it, was cramped with all five of them living in here—Billy and Jake shared one bunk set, Celeb and Jr. the other, and Louisiana's mattress wedged on the floor between them. With Billy and Jake out working, the room felt oddly empty. "Billy and Jake are never late. Not without calling in."

Louisiana—Colt, as everyone called him now—looked up from where he was tinkering with one of the drone controllers. The seventeen-year-old had only been here full-time for a few months, but he'd already learned the rhythms of ranch life. "You try their radios?"

"Three times. Nothing."

Celeb swung down from his bunk, landing with a thud. "Could be their radios died."

"Both of them?" Jr. shook his head. "And their phones? Billy always answers his phone."

The three of them exchanged looks. It was probably nothing. Probably. But something felt wrong, and when you grew up on a ranch where anything could happen—equipment failures, injuries, animals going sideways—you learned to trust that feeling.

"Let's ride out there," Celeb said. "North pasture, Cottonwood Creek, right?"

"Yeah."

They grabbed their hats and headed out, boots thudding down the stairs. Sarah was in the kitchen, elbow-deep in bread dough.

"Where you boys off to?"

"Billy and Jake haven't checked in," Jr. called over his shoulder. "We're gonna go make sure they're not stuck with a busted truck or something."

"Take the Gator. And Jr.—"

"I know, Mom. Be careful."

The Polaris Ranger ate up the distance to the north pasture faster than horses would have. Jr. drove, Celeb rode shotgun, and Colt stood in the back, one hand on the roll bar, scanning the horizon.

The gate came into view first. Then the ranch truck—their truck, the old Ford they'd taken out this morning.

Sitting there. Empty. Doors hanging open.

Jr. killed the engine. The silence felt heavy, wrong. No sound of tools, no voices, nothing but wind through the grass.

"Billy?" Celeb called out. "Jake?"

Nothing.

They climbed out slowly. The gate was half-repaired, tools scattered on the ground. A wrench lay in the dirt near the Ford's front tire. The tailgate was down, toolbox still sitting in the bed.

"They wouldn't just leave their tools," Colt said quietly. "Or the truck."

Jr. walked around to the driver's side, peering into the empty cab. Keys still in the ignition. Billy's ball cap on the dash. That's when he saw it in the dirt.

"Oh shit."

Billy's radio. Lying in the dirt ten feet from the truck.

Celeb was already moving, scanning the ground. "Here. Jake's phone." He picked it up, screen cracked. "And Billy's. And... wallets. Both wallets."

Jr.'s heart was pounding now. He turned in a slow circle, looking at the scene—the abandoned ranch truck with its doors open, the scattered personal items, the half-finished work. And then he saw them: tire tracks. Not from their Ford. Something bigger, heavier, cutting deep ruts across the grass from the north. They came right up to where Billy and Jake would have been working, then turned and headed back out.

"They were taken," Colt said. Not a question.

Jr.'s hand went to his belt, fingers finding the emergency beacon on his own radio. The 911 system they'd built. Billy had helped him design it. Now Jr. was about to use it for real.

He pressed the button and held it down for three seconds.

The mechanical voice echoed across the radio network, broadcast on every frequency the consortium used: "911 Jr. 911 Jr. 911 Jr."

Jr. released the button and brought the radio to his mouth. His voice was steadier than he felt.

"This is Jr. at the north pasture, Cottonwood Creek. Billy and Jake are missing. Their truck is here, empty. Their radios, phones, and wallets are on the ground. Signs of a struggle. Tire tracks heading north. Unknown vehicle. I repeat—Billy and Jake have been taken."

Static. Then the radio exploded with voices.

Josh: "Say again—taken?"

Pops: "What the fuck do you mean taken?"

Sheriff Wade: "Jr., this is Wade. Do not touch anything else. Stay put. I'm ten minutes out."

Tom Benson: "We're coming—"

Wade's voice cut through: "Everyone else head to the Benson ranch house. Now. We'll process the scene and meet you there."

Jr. looked at Celeb and Colt. Both of them had gone pale. All they could do now was wait.

---

Sheriff Wade Nelson arrived with his sons Wilson and Ryan—both deputies—in under eight minutes, lights flashing. Wade was out of his truck before it fully stopped, his weathered face tight with controlled urgency.

"Show me."

Jr. walked him through it—the empty truck, the scattered belongings, the tire tracks cutting north. Wade crouched by the tracks, studying them while Wilson photographed everything and Ryan bagged the phones, radios, and wallets as evidence.

"Chevy. Maybe ten years old, heavy load." Wade stood, hands on his hips. "These tracks are fresh. Few hours old at most."

"What do we do?" Jr. asked.

Wade's jaw clenched. "You three get back to the ranch house. Wilson, Ryan—finish processing this scene. I want photos of everything, measurements on those tracks, and I want to know which direction they were heading." He looked at Jr. "Let's go talk to your family."

The ride back to the ranch house felt endless. Jr. drove the Gator with Wade following in his cruiser. By the time they pulled up, the yard was chaos.

Trucks everywhere. The Bensons, the Nelsons, the Beaumonts, the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes—all six consortium families converging like they'd been summoned to war. Men stood in tight clusters, voices raised. Women gathered on the porch, Rebecca's face streaked with tears as Sarah held her.

Pops stood in the center of it all, glass of brandy already in hand, his face red.

"Where the fuck is Wade?" he barked. Then he saw the cruiser. "There! Sheriff, what the hell is going on? Who took my grandsons?"

Wade climbed out, and every voice stopped. The silence was immediate, heavy.

"Inside," Wade said. "Everyone who needs to hear this, inside now."

They packed into the Benson living room—too many people for the space. Tom and Sarah, Josh and Rebecca, Ray, Pops with his brandy. Robert and Caroline Beaumont. Wade's wife Mary. The other consortium heads. Jr., Celeb, and Colt squeezed into a corner.

Wade stood in the center, and Jr. could see the weight on him—this wasn't just a sheriff investigating a crime. This was family.

"All right," Wade said. "Jr., tell everyone exactly what you found."

Jr. swallowed hard and told the story. The empty truck. The scattered belongings. The tire tracks heading north. The silence in the room was suffocating.

"Sons of bitches grabbed them right off our land," Tom Benson said, his voice shaking. "In broad daylight."

"This is about money," Wade said. "Has to be. They'll make contact. Ransom demand."

"How much?" Robert Beaumont asked.

"Don't know yet. But they clearly targeted your family, Tom. They were watching. They knew Josh's work assignments this morning—"

"The radio," Pops interrupted, his voice sharp despite the brandy. "Josh gave assignments over the goddamn ranch radio. Unencrypted."

The room went cold.

Josh's face drained of color. "Oh Christ. They were listening."

"They knew exactly where Billy and Jake would be," Wade said. "Isolated. No backup. Perfect target."

"Fuck!" Pops slammed his glass down, brandy sloshing. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK! Those boys are out there because some piece of shit was listening to us talk about fence work?"

Sarah's hand went to her mouth. Rebecca was openly crying now.

"We're going to get them back," Wade said firmly. "But we need to be smart. When they make contact—"

"When?" Ray demanded. "How long?"

"Hours. Maybe less."

Tom stood abruptly, pacing. "We pay whatever they want. I don't care if it's a million dollars. We pay it."

"Agreed," Robert Beaumont said, and heads nodded around the room.

Jr. felt Celeb's hand on his shoulder. The chaos swirled around them—Pops cursing, Rebecca sobbing, men shouting plans and theories. But all Jr. could think about was Billy and Jake, out there somewhere, not knowing that everyone they loved was gathered here, ready to move heaven and earth to bring them home.

Wade's radio crackled. "Dad, we're done here. Heading back."

"Copy that." Wade looked around the room. "My boys will be here in twenty minutes with everything we found. Until then, everyone stays calm. When these bastards call, we play it smart."

But calm was the last thing anyone felt. The Benson ranch house had become a war room, and the battle for Billy and Jake had just begun.

Chapter 3: Roped and Helpless

The barn was darker than Billy expected. Hot, too—the kind of oppressive heat that built up in old structures with half their roof missing. Shafts of late afternoon sunlight cut through gaps in the rotted boards, illuminating dancing dust motes.

"On your knees. Both of you."

Billy and Jake dropped to their knees on the dirt floor. Billy's hands trembled. He clenched them into fists to hide it.

The big one—the one who'd held the gun on them the whole ride—circled behind them. Billy heard the scrape of boots, the rustle of rope being uncoiled. His breathing quickened.

"Arms behind you."

"Listen," Jake said, his voice tight. "You don't need to—"

"Arms. Behind. You."

Billy pulled his arms back slowly. Jake did the same, jaw clenched. The big man grabbed Billy's wrists first, crossing them behind his back, and began wrapping rope around them. Rough hemp, scratching against skin. Loop after loop, pulled tight.

"Ow—that's too—"

"Shut up."

The rope bit in. Billy could feel the circulation slowing in his hands already. Beside him, Jake grunted as the second man did the same to his wrists, yanking them together hard enough that Jake's shoulders jerked back.

"Jesus Christ," Jake hissed.

"Stand up."

They struggled to their feet, awkward without their hands for balance. Billy's wrists throbbed. The ropes were cinched so tight he could barely move his fingers.

The big man stepped in front of them, holding that thick tree branch—four feet long, stripped smooth, about three inches in diameter. He looked at it like he was measuring something, then back at the brothers.

"Turn around."

They turned. Billy's heart hammered so hard he thought it might crack a rib.

"This goes behind your backs. Between your arms and your body. Don't fucking move."

Billy felt the branch slide behind him, cold and hard against his spine. The man shoved it higher, up between Billy's shoulder blades and his bound wrists, forcing his arms up at an unnatural angle. Billy's shoulders screamed in protest.

"Wait—wait, that hurts—"

"Good."

More rope. The man started wrapping it around Billy's upper arm, just above the elbow, lashing his arm to the branch. Around and around, tight enough that Billy could feel his bicep bulging against the restraint. Then he moved to the other arm, doing the same thing—rope digging into the muscle, cinching his arm immobile against the wooden branch.

Billy tried to pull forward. Couldn't. His arms were completely locked in place, elbows bent, wrists bound in the middle, the branch keeping everything rigid. His shoulders were already burning.

Beside him, Jake was getting the same treatment. Billy could hear his brother's breathing—short, sharp gasps as the second man roped his arms to the branch.

"You sons of bitches," Jake growled. "When my family finds you—"

"Your family doesn't know shit." The big man stepped back, admiring his work. "And by the time they figure it out, we'll be long gone with our money."

Billy tested the ropes again. Nothing. His arms were completely useless, bound tight to the branch. The hemp cut into his biceps and triceps with every small movement. He couldn't even twist his wrists anymore.

"Sit down."

"How the hell are we supposed to—"

The man shoved Billy backward. Without his arms to catch himself, Billy toppled hard onto his side, the impact knocking the wind out of him. The branch jabbed into his back. Jake went down next, landing with a grunt.

"Roll onto your stomachs."

Billy struggled, wiggling like a fish. With his arms locked behind him and the branch jutting out on either side, it took three tries to get onto his stomach. The dirt smelled like rot and motor oil. Jake was beside him, breathing hard, face pressed into the ground.

Boot steps. Then hands on Billy's ankles.

"No—"

They yanked his boots together, rope wrapping around them fast and efficient. Billy tried to kick but it was useless. Within seconds his ankles were bound tight, the rope cutting into the leather of his work boots.

Then they pulled.

Billy's legs jerked backward, bending at the knees. His bound ankles were pulled up toward his bound wrists, and more rope connected them. The classic hogtie, but worse—with the branch keeping his arms rigid and elevated, the arch in his back was extreme. His spine bent like a bow.

"Fuck!" Billy shouted. "That's too tight!"

They pulled harder. The rope connecting his ankles to his wrists shortened, forcing his legs up higher, his back to arch more. His shoulders screamed. His wrists burned. Every muscle in his back and legs strained against the position.

"Stop! Jesus Christ, stop!"

They didn't stop. They tied off the rope, securing the hogtie, then moved to Jake. Billy turned his head and watched helplessly as they did the same to his brother—ankles bound, then pulled back and connected to his wrists, forcing that same brutal arch.

Jake's face went red with strain. "You motherfuckers—"

"One more thing."

The big man knelt beside Billy. Before Billy could react, rough hands grabbed the neck of his white tank top and ripped. The fabric tore easily, pulled over his head, leaving Billy bare-chested on the filthy barn floor. They did the same to Jake.

"The hell are you—"

The man twisted Billy's torn undershirt into a rope, then shoved it between Billy's teeth. Billy tried to spit it out but the man wrapped the fabric around his head, knotting it tight at the back. The gag filled Billy's mouth, pressing his tongue down, the taste of his own sweat and dirt overwhelming.

Billy's shout became a muffled grunt.

Jake got the same treatment—his undershirt torn off, twisted, shoved into his mouth as a gag. Jake's eyes went wide with fury, muffled curses barely audible through the fabric.

"Now for the blindfolds."

They used the second half of each torn shirt, tying them around the brothers' eyes. Darkness. Complete darkness. Billy couldn't see anything, couldn't speak, couldn't move. Just the sound of his own breathing through his nose, fast and panicked, and Jake's muffled struggling beside him.

Boot steps moving away. Voices, low and distant.

"How long we keeping them like this?"

"Until we get paid. Could be hours. Could be overnight."

"They gonna be alright?"

"Don't matter. We get our money, we cut 'em loose and disappear. If they can't handle a few hours tied up, that's their problem."

The barn door slid shut with a metallic screech. Footsteps fading. Then silence.

Billy lay there in the darkness, hogtied and helpless, every part of his body screaming. The ropes cut into his wrists, his biceps, his ankles. The branch dug into his spine. His back arched so severely he could barely breathe. The gag filled his mouth. The blindfold pressed against his eyes.

He tried to speak. "Mmmphhh."

From beside him, Jake's muffled voice. "Mmmph! Mmmphhh!"

They couldn't talk. Couldn't see. Couldn't move.

All they could do was lie there in the hot, dark barn and wait.

And hope to God that someone was coming for them.

Chapter 4: Consortium Assembles

The ransom photo came through on Tom Benson's cell phone at 4:37 PM.

He was standing in the middle of the living room, surrounded by consortium families, when his phone buzzed. The room went silent as he pulled it from his pocket.

"Unknown number," he said, his voice tight.

Wade was beside him instantly. "Put it on speaker. Don't respond yet."

Tom opened the text message. His face went white.

The photo showed Billy and Jake—both shirtless, faces down on a dirt floor, their bodies arched backward in severe hogties. Thick rope wrapped around their arms, binding them to what looked like a tree branch. Their ankles pulled up behind them, connected to their wrists. White fabric—their torn undershirts—tied around their heads as blindfolds and gags.

Sarah's hand flew to her mouth. Rebecca made a sound like she'd been punched.

"Those fucking animals," Pops growled, his knuckles white around his brandy glass.

Below the photo, a message in all caps:

$500,000 CASH. INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW. NO COPS OR THEY DIE.

"Half a million," Robert Beaumont said quietly. "That's what they think we're worth."

"We can get it," Tom said immediately. "How fast can we get it?"

Wade held up his hand. "Hold on. Let me see that phone." He took it from Tom, studying the image closely. "Wilson, Ryan—get over here."

The two deputies crossed the room, and Wade handed Wilson the phone. "I need you to pull every piece of metadata from this image. Time stamp, location data if there is any, device information—everything."

"On it." Wilson headed for the door. "I'll run it from the cruiser."

Ryan leaned in, studying the photo over Wilson's shoulder before he left. "That's a barn. Old one. Look at the boards—rotted, gaps in the walls. And that dirt floor—it's been packed down for years."

"Narrows it down to about five hundred abandoned homesteads in Kings County," Wade muttered.

"We can narrow it further," Jr. said from the corner. Everyone turned to look at him. He stood up straighter, Celeb and Colt flanking him. "We have drone footage. From this morning. If they took Billy and Jake north like those tire tracks showed, our cameras might have caught something."

Pops's eyes lit up. "The security network. Goddammit, why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're too busy cursing," Mary Nelson said dryly, but there was no humor in her voice.

Jr. was already moving toward the door. "Command center. We need to review every frame from every camera on the north side of the property."

"I'm coming with you," Wade said.

"Me too," said Billy Renzo, one of Jr.'s friends from the other consortium families. He'd been sitting quietly with Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez, the four sixteen-year-olds who made up the tech crew.

"All of you go," Pops said. "Find that goddamn truck."

They filed out—Jr., Celeb, Colt, and the three other wiz kids, followed by Wade and several of the consortium men. The command center was in the room next to the frat house, walls lined with monitors and equipment that looked like it belonged in a military operation.

Jr. dropped into the main chair, fingers already flying across the keyboard. "Okay. Billy and Jake were taken sometime between 8 AM when they left and 2:47 PM when we noticed they were missing. That's almost seven hours of footage across six cameras covering the north property."

"Can you speed it up?" Wade asked.

"Already on it. Motion-detection software will flag any vehicles that aren't ours." Jr. pulled up multiple windows, each showing a different camera feed. "Celeb, you take cameras one and two. Colt, three and four. Billy, Ryan, Daniel—you three split five and six."

The room filled with the sound of clicking keys and the occasional muttered curse as they scrubbed through hours of footage.

Three minutes in, Colt said, "Got something."

Everyone crowded around his monitor. The timestamp read 9:47 AM. A dark blue Chevy pickup, traveling fast across open ground from the north, heading toward the area where Cottonwood Creek bordered the Benson property.

"That's it," Wade said. "That has to be it."

"Can you get a plate?" Jr. asked.

Colt zoomed in, enhancing the image as much as the software would allow. "Partial. Texas plate. Looks like... RTJ, maybe? Last three digits are blurry."

"RTJ." Wade pulled out his radio. "Wilson, you copy?"

"Go ahead."

"Run a search on dark blue Chevy pickups, approximately ten years old, Texas plates starting with RTJ. Cross-reference with known criminals, anyone with a history of kidnapping, ransom, or violent crime."

"Copy that. Give me ten minutes."

Jr. was already moving to another screen. "If they came from the north and grabbed the boys around ten AM, they had to drive back out. Let me check the timestamps after the grab."

More clicking. More footage. Then Celeb said, "There. 10:14 AM. Same truck, heading back north. You can see... Jesus, you can see people in the back seat."

Wade leaned in. The image was grainy, but he could make out shapes—two figures in the extended cab's rear seat, and someone else sitting behind them. Guard with a gun, most likely.

"Which direction did they go after they left our property?" Tom asked. He'd followed them into the command center, along with Pops and Josh.

Jr. pulled up a map overlay. "North-northwest. If they stayed on that trajectory..." He drew a line across the digital map. "They'd hit County Road 12 within twenty minutes. From there, they could go anywhere."

"Not anywhere," Daniel Rodriguez said. He was the youngest of the wiz kids, but his mind worked like a computer. "They need somewhere isolated. Abandoned. A place where two guys screaming won't be heard. And based on that photo, they need a barn."

"Pull up property records," Wade ordered. "Abandoned homesteads within a fifty-mile radius of where they intersected County Road 12."

Ryan Mattern was already on it. "Forty-seven properties fit that description. Narrowing by those with barns... twenty-two."

"Twenty-two," Pops said. "Still too many."

Wade's radio crackled. "Dad, I've got something."

"Go ahead, Wilson."

"Three vehicles in the system matching that description with RTJ plates. Two are registered to clean owners with no records. The third..." A pause. "2015 Chevy Silverado, blue, registered to a Marcus Boyle. He's got priors—armed robbery, assault. Did eighteen months, released six months ago."

"Address?"

"Last known is in Fresno, but he hasn't checked in with his parole officer in two months. There's a warrant out."

Wade's jaw tightened. "These boys knew what they were doing. Or thought they did."

"We've got a name and a vehicle," Jr. said. "Now we just need to find which of those twenty-two properties they're using."

"Launch the drones," Pops said. "All of them. Every single one."

Jr. looked at Wade, who nodded. "Do it. Thermal imaging, night vision if we need it. We find that truck, we find Billy and Jake."

"On it." Jr. turned to his crew. "Celeb, Colt—prep drones one through six. Full battery, thermal cameras active. Billy, Ryan, Daniel—pull up satellite overlay of all twenty-two properties. We're gonna fly a grid pattern and search every single one."

The room exploded with activity. Keyboards clicking, monitors lighting up, the hum of drone batteries charging. Wade stepped back, watching these kids—none of them older than twenty-one—transform into a tactical unit.

"How long until the drones are ready?" Tom asked.

"Ten minutes," Jr. said. "Maybe less."

Pops drained his brandy and slammed the glass down on a nearby table. "Then let's find my grandsons and bring those sons of bitches to justice."

Nobody argued.

The hunt had begun.

Chapter 5: Bound and Blind

Time lost all meaning in the darkness.

Billy didn't know if it had been ten minutes or an hour since the kidnappers left. All he knew was pain—constant, unrelenting, building with every breath.

The rope around his wrists had gone from uncomfortable to agonizing. His hands were numb now, fingers tingling with that pins-and-needles sensation that meant circulation was compromised. He tried wiggling his fingers. Barely any movement. The hemp had been pulled so tight that any attempt to twist his wrists only made the binding cut deeper.

His biceps and triceps screamed where the rope lashed his arms to the branch. The constant pressure made his muscles bulge against the restraints, and every time he tried to shift position—even slightly—the hemp dug in harder. He could feel his shirt-turned-gag getting wetter with saliva and sweat, the fabric expanding in his mouth, making it even harder to breathe.

Breathe through your nose. Just breathe.

But breathing was its own torture. The hogtie forced his back into such a severe arch that his lungs couldn't fully expand. Every inhale was shallow, insufficient. His chest heaved with the effort, and panic clawed at the edges of his mind.

Don't panic. Panicking makes it worse.

Beside him, Jake made a sound—a muffled grunt that might have been a word if not for the gag. Billy tried to respond, but all that came out was "Mmmph."

Another grunt from Jake. More insistent this time. Billy thought he heard frustration in it, maybe a curse word mangled beyond recognition.

"Mmm-mmph," Billy managed back. I'm here. I'm okay.

Except he wasn't okay. None of this was okay.

The branch across his back felt like it was cutting him in half. With his arms bound to it and his body weight pressing down, the wooden pole dug into his spine right between his shoulder blades. He tried to shift his weight to one side, but the hogtie kept him locked in position. Any movement just made everything worse—the ropes tighter, the arch more severe, the pain sharper.

His legs were cramping. The muscles in his calves and thighs burned from being bent backward for so long, his boots pulled up behind him and tied to his wrists. He tried to straighten his legs—just a little, just enough to ease the cramp—but the rope connecting his ankles to his wrists wouldn't give. He was locked in this position, and fighting it only made his muscles scream louder.

How long can we stay like this?

The thought terrified him. What if the ransom took days? What if something went wrong and nobody found them? How long before the ropes caused permanent damage? How long before—

No. He couldn't think like that.

Jr. found the scene. He hit the 911 button. Everyone knows we're missing.

But did they know where? Did they have any leads? The kidnappers had been careful—grabbed them in the middle of nowhere, drove them across empty country, brought them to this abandoned barn in the middle of God knows where.

They'll find us. They have to.

Jake made another sound, more urgent. Then Billy heard it too—footsteps outside the barn. Voices, muffled but getting closer.

Billy's heart rate spiked. Were they coming back? To do what?

The barn door scraped open. Footsteps on dirt. Billy tried to turn his head toward the sound, but the blindfold made everything disorienting. He could sense someone standing over them—the shadow blocking the dim light that filtered through the fabric over his eyes.

"Still alive, I see." The big one's voice, casual and cold. "Good. Wouldn't want you dying before we get our money."

Billy tried to speak through the gag. It came out as desperate, muffled pleading.

"Save your breath, cowboy. Nobody's coming for you. Not yet, anyway." A boot nudged Billy's shoulder, making him rock forward. The shift in position sent fresh waves of pain through his arms and back. "Your family's probably just now figuring out we want cash. Could be hours before they get it together. Could be tomorrow."

Tomorrow?

Panic surged through Billy's chest. They couldn't stay like this until tomorrow. They couldn't.

Jake was making angry sounds through his gag—probably cursing, probably threatening. The kidnapper laughed.

"Feisty one, aren't you? That's good. Shows spirit. But you're not going anywhere, so save your energy." Footsteps moving away. "We'll check on you boys in a few hours. Try not to hurt yourselves struggling."

The barn door slid shut again. Lock clicking into place.

And they were alone again. In the dark. In the heat. In the pain.

Billy's breathing came faster, panic threatening to overwhelm him. His chest heaved against the limited space the hogtie allowed, each breath more desperate than the last.

Calm down. Breathe. Just breathe.

Jake's muffled voice again, softer this time. Almost... comforting? Billy couldn't make out words, but the tone was different. Steadier. His brother was trying to ground him.

"Mmm," Billy managed. I'm okay. I'm here.

They couldn't talk. Couldn't see each other. Couldn't even touch. But they were together. That had to count for something.

Billy focused on his breathing. In through the nose. Out through the nose. Slow and steady. The gag made it harder, made everything harder, but he forced himself into a rhythm.

His wrists still throbbed. His arms still burned. His back still screamed. But he could breathe. He could endure.

We're Bensons. We don't quit.

The sweat-soaked blindfold clung to his face, mixing with the tears he hadn't realized he was crying. His bare chest was covered in dirt from the barn floor, itching and uncomfortable. Every muscle in his body was either cramping or going numb.

But he was alive. Jake was alive.

And somewhere out there, their family was looking for them.

Hold on. Just hold on.

Time crawled forward in the darkness, marked only by the rhythm of his breathing and the occasional muffled sound from Jake beside him.

All they could do was wait.

And pray that help would come before their bodies gave out.

Chapter 6: The Hunt

The command center hummed with barely controlled chaos. Jr. stood at the main console, coordinating the drone fleet while his fingers danced across multiple keyboards. Around him, the other wiz kids worked in synchronized intensity—Celeb monitoring thermal feeds, Colt adjusting flight patterns, Billy Renzo tracking the grid, Ryan Mattern managing the satellite overlay, and Daniel Rodriguez cross-referencing property databases.

"iPads," Jr. said suddenly, looking up at Wade. "We need to distribute the iPads. Everyone should see what we're seeing."

Wade nodded. "Do it."

Jr. grabbed the stack of eighteen networked iPads from the equipment shelf. "Celeb, help me hand these out. Everyone in the house needs one."

They moved quickly through the ranch house, distributing the tablets. Tom and Sarah took theirs with trembling hands. Pops grabbed his and immediately started barking questions. Josh and Rebecca, Ray, Mary Nelson, Robert and Caroline Beaumont, Patricia Renzo, Linda Mattern, Maria Rodriguez—each of the consortium families got devices, the screens automatically syncing to show the live drone feeds and mapping data.

Within minutes, everyone could watch the search unfold in real-time.

"Drone One is up," Colt announced from the command center. On every iPad screen, an aerial view appeared—thermal imaging overlay showing the landscape in blues and reds. "Heading to property number one. ETA three minutes."

"Drone Two launching," Celeb said. "Targeting property four."

"Three and Four ready for launch," Billy Renzo called out.

In the living room, Pops sat in his chair, iPad in one hand, fresh glass of brandy in the other. "Come on, come on," he muttered. "Where are those sons of bitches?"

Sarah sat on the couch, iPad clutched to her chest, watching the thermal feed with desperate intensity. Rebecca was beside her, one hand covering her mouth. Caroline Beaumont had her arm around Sarah's shoulders, her own iPad balanced on her lap. The other women—Mary, Patricia, Linda, and Maria—clustered around them, all eyes locked on their screens.

Tom paced, unable to sit, his iPad tilted so he could see it while moving. "How long to search all twenty-two properties?"

Wade checked his watch. "At this rate? Three hours. Maybe more if we have to do detailed sweeps."

"Three hours," Tom repeated. "They've been tied up for—what—over two hours already?"

"We'll find them," Wade said, but even he sounded uncertain.

The first property appeared on the screens—an old homestead with a collapsed barn. Drone One circled, thermal camera scanning.

"No heat signatures," Colt reported. "No vehicles. Moving to property two."

Everyone watched. Waited. The tension was suffocating.

Property two: another abandoned farm. The barn was still standing, but thermal showed nothing but ambient heat. No truck. No bodies.

"Fuck," Pops said. "Next one."

Property three. Nothing.

Property four. Nothing.

"This is taking too long," Josh said, his voice strained. He stood in the hallway, iPad in hand, watching Rebecca cry on the couch. "They could be anywhere."

"We're being systematic," Jr. called from the command center. "It's the only way."

Thirty minutes in, they'd cleared eight properties. The frustration was building. People started clustering in groups—some in the living room watching Pops curse at his iPad, others in the kitchen where Sarah and the women had made coffee nobody was drinking, still others crowding into the command center doorway trying to see the main screens.

"Drone Three, property nine," Daniel announced. "Scanning now."

Another old barn. Heat signature showed something—

"Wait," Celeb said. "I've got... no, that's just a coyote. Damn it."

"Keep going," Wade ordered.

An hour in. Twelve properties cleared. Nothing.

Pops threw back his brandy and poured another. "Where the fuck are they?"

"Pops," Mary Nelson said gently. "They're doing everything they can."

"It's not fast enough!" Pops slammed his glass down, brandy sloshing. "My boys are tied up like animals somewhere and we're sitting here watching fucking computer screens!"

Tom put a hand on his father's shoulder. "This is how we find them. The drones, the tech—it's working. We just need time."

"Time," Pops spat. "Billy and Jake don't have time."

In the command center, Jr. wiped sweat from his forehead. The pressure was immense—everyone in his family, everyone in the consortium, watching his every move on those iPads. Waiting for him to find his uncles.

Come on. Come on. Where are you?

Hour two. Seventeen properties cleared.

The iPads showed Drone Five approaching property eighteen—a homestead further north than the others, set back from any main roads. The thermal camera swept across the grounds.

"There's a truck," Ryan Mattern said suddenly, his voice sharp. "There's a fucking truck!"

Every iPad screen zoomed in on the thermal feed. A vehicle, still warm, parked behind the barn.

Jr.'s heart raced. "Celeb, get me a visual confirmation. Switch to regular camera."

The feed changed. Clear as day—a dark blue Chevy pickup, partially hidden behind the barn structure.

"That's it," Wade said. "That's the truck from the footage."

"Scanning the barn now," Colt said. "Looking for heat signatures."

The thermal camera panned across the barn. Two bright red shapes on the ground inside. Human-sized. Not moving much, but definitely alive.

"I've got them," Colt's voice cracked. "Two people inside the barn. Ground level. They're not moving around much—probably restrained."

The command center erupted. Jr. heard shouts from the living room—Pops yelling, Rebecca crying, Sarah sobbing with relief, Tom's voice raised in a mixture of relief and rage.

Wade was already on his radio. "Wilson, Ryan, get back here now. We've got a location. All consortium members, we're mobilizing."

Jr. pulled up the property records on the main screen. "It's the old Hendricks place. Abandoned for six years. Forty-three miles north-northwest of here. I'm uploading GPS coordinates to everyone's phones now."

"How many heat signatures total?" Wade asked.

Colt studied the thermal feed carefully. "Five. Two in the barn—that's Billy and Jake. Three in the house next to it. That'll be the kidnappers."

"Drones stay high," Wade ordered. "I don't want them hearing the motors and getting spooked. Keep eyes on them. If anyone moves, I want to know immediately."

"Copy that," Jr. said.

Pops was already moving, his iPad handed off to Sarah. "Armory. Now."

The consortium members followed him to the gun safe—a walk-in vault that Pops had installed years ago. He spun the combination and pulled the heavy door open, revealing racks of rifles, shotguns, and handguns.

"Everyone gets armed," Pops said. "Wade, you and your boys have your service weapons. The rest of you—" He started pulling rifles off the rack, handing them out. "Tom, Josh, Ray—AR-15s. Robert, same. Mr. Renzo, Mr. Mattern, Mr. Rodriguez—take these."

Jr. stepped forward with Celeb, Colt, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. Each of them already had their sidearms holstered—9mm Glocks that Pops had trained them on months ago.

"You boys ready?" Pops asked, looking at the six teenagers.

"Yes sir," they said in unison, hands resting on their holstered weapons.

"Good. You're coming. No arguments." Pops looked at Wade. "These boys know what they're doing, and we need their tech."

Wade nodded. "Agreed. How many vehicles?"

"Seven," Tom said, counting heads. "Wade, you and your deputies—that's your cruiser and the two deputy vehicles. Then we need four more trucks for everyone else."

"My truck," Tom said.

"Mine," Robert Beaumont added.

"I'll take mine," said Anthony Renzo, Billy's father.

"And I'll drive," said Miguel Rodriguez, Daniel's father.

Wade pulled out a map, spreading it on the table. "Jr., talk to me. Best route?"

Jr. had his tablet up, GPS already plotting. "County Road 12 north, then west on Old Mill Road. It's rough terrain the last ten miles—dirt roads, some barely more than trails. I'll guide everyone by radio. We stay in convoy formation."

"Vehicle assignments," Wade ordered. "Wilson and Ryan, you're in your cruisers solo—you'll flank the convoy. I'll take Jr. with me in my cruiser—he'll navigate and coordinate the drones. Tom's truck—Tom driving, Josh, Ray, and Celeb. Robert's truck—Robert driving, Pops, and Colt. Anthony's truck—Anthony driving, Billy Renzo and Ryan Mattern. Miguel's truck—Miguel driving, Daniel Rodriguez and whoever else we need."

"Mr. Mattern and I can ride with Miguel," said Mr. Rodriguez.

"Done," Wade said. "Let's move. Jr., you keep those drones on target and feed us real-time updates. If those kidnappers so much as twitch, I want to know about it."

"Yes sir."

The ranch house exploded into motion. Men checking weapons, loading magazines, pulling on tactical vests. The women gathered by the door—Sarah holding Tom for a long moment, Rebecca squeezing Josh's hand, Caroline straightening Robert's collar, the other mothers touching their sons' faces.

"You bring them home," Sarah said, her voice breaking.

"We will," Tom promised.

Jr. climbed into Wade's cruiser, his tablet and radio equipment already synced. Through the windshield, he watched the convoy form up—seven vehicles, lights cutting through the darkness, armed men in every seat.

Pops stood by Robert's truck, his iPad showing his grandsons' heat signatures one more time before handing it to Caroline. He raised his glass of brandy—he'd brought it with him.

"We're coming, boys," he said quietly. "Hold on. We're coming."

Engines roared to life. Wade hit his lights and siren. The convoy pulled out of the Benson ranch in formation, seven vehicles strong, heading north into the night.

Jr. keyed his radio. "All vehicles, this is Jr. I have GPS lock on the target. Stay in formation. Follow my directions. We're forty-three miles out. ETA thirty minutes."

On his tablet, the thermal feed showed those two red shapes in the barn, still barely moving.

The hunt was over.

The rescue was beginning.

Chapter 7: The Approach

The convoy moved through the darkness like a mechanical beast, seven sets of headlights cutting through the empty Texas night. Jr. sat in the passenger seat of Wade's cruiser, eyes glued to his tablet, watching the thermal feeds and GPS coordinates.

"All vehicles, take the next right onto County Road 12," Jr. said into the radio. "We're twenty-eight miles out."

Seven vehicles turned in perfect formation. Wilson's cruiser took point, followed by Wade with Jr., then Tom's truck, Robert's truck with Pops, the two other family trucks, and Ryan Nelson's cruiser bringing up the rear.

On Jr.'s tablet, the thermal signatures in the barn hadn't changed. Two bodies, still on the ground, barely moving.

"How are they looking?" Wade asked, eyes on the dark road ahead.

"Still there. Still alive." Jr. zoomed in on the feed. "The three in the house haven't moved either. No indication they know we're coming."

"Good. Let's keep it that way."

"Grandpa," Jr. said quietly, "how long can they stay tied up like that?"

Wade's jaw tightened. "Long enough. Your uncles are tough. They'll make it."

In Tom's truck, Josh stared out the window, his rifle resting across his lap. Ray sat in back with Celeb, both silent, faces set in grim determination.

"When we get there," Tom said, his voice tight, "Wade takes the lead. We follow his orders. Understood?"

"Understood," Josh said.

But his knuckles were white on the rifle stock.

In Robert's truck, Pops took a long pull from his flask—he'd switched from brandy to something stronger. Colt sat in back, monitoring his own tablet, keeping the drone feed active.

"Those boys are tough," Robert said. "They'll hold on."

"They better," Pops growled. "Because when I get my hands on these sons of bitches—"

"Pops," Robert said quietly. "Let Wade handle it. That's what we agreed."

Pops said nothing, but his jaw worked. His hand moved to the AR-15 between his legs.

Jr.'s radio crackled. "Jr., this is Daniel back at command. Drone Six is running low on battery. I'm rotating in a fresh one. You'll have thirty seconds of no eyes on the north side of the property."

"Copy that," Jr. said. "Grandpa, we're going to lose visual on one sector for thirty seconds during the battery swap."

"Noted. Everyone heard that?" Wade said into the convoy radio. "Maintain speed and formation."

Acknowledgments came back from all seven vehicles.

The road got rougher. Pavement gave way to gravel, then to dirt. The trucks bounced and jostled, headlights cutting wild patterns across the scrubland.

"All vehicles, we're fifteen miles out," Jr. announced. "In five miles we'll need to kill the lights and go dark. Night vision from here on out."

In Anthony Renzo's truck, his son Billy pulled out night vision goggles from the tactical bag at his feet. Ryan Mattern did the same.

"You boys ever done anything like this before?" Anthony asked.

"No sir," Billy said. "But we're ready."

Anthony glanced at his son—sixteen years old, armed, about to participate in a rescue operation. He wanted to tell him to stay in the truck, stay safe. But he knew Billy wouldn't listen. None of these boys would.

"Stay close to me," was all Anthony said.

The convoy rolled on. Ten miles out. The thermal feed showed no change—the kidnappers still in the house, Billy and Jake still in the barn.

Jr. zoomed the drone camera in tighter. He could make out details now—the two bodies on the barn floor, the severe arch in their backs, their arms clearly bound behind them.

"Jesus," Jr. whispered.

Wade glanced at the tablet. His jaw clenched. "How much longer have they been like that?"

"Almost four hours now." Jr.'s voice was tight. "Maybe longer."

"We're coming," Wade said, more to himself than to Jr. "Hold on, boys. We're coming."

"All vehicles, five miles out," Jr. announced. "Kill your lights. Night vision only. Reduce speed to thirty. We go in quiet from here."

Seven sets of headlights went dark. The convoy became shadows moving through shadows.

Jr. adjusted his own night vision goggles, the world turning green and grainy. On his tablet, the thermal feed was clear—three red shapes in the house, two in the barn, the kidnappers' truck still parked behind the structure.

"Grandpa, I've got an idea for approach," Jr. said. "The barn is between us and the house. If we come in from the south, we can use the barn as cover. The kidnappers won't see us until we're on top of them."

"Smart," Wade said. He keyed his radio. "All vehicles, we're coming in from the south. Wilson, Ryan—you two swing wide and cover the north side of the house. Block any escape routes. The rest of us park behind the barn, use it for cover. On my signal, we move on the house."

"Copy that," came Wilson's voice.

"What about Billy and Jake?" Tom asked over the radio.

"First priority is neutralizing the threat," Wade said. "Once the kidnappers are secured, we get the boys out. Tom, you and Josh—soon as we breach the house, you head for the barn. Get them free."

"Understood."

The convoy slowed. Jr. could see the property now through his night vision—the old house, the barn with half its roof missing, the kidnappers' truck partially hidden.

"Two miles out," Jr. said quietly. "Drone shows no movement. They don't know we're here."

"All vehicles, kill your engines at one mile," Wade ordered. "We walk in the rest of the way."

The tension was suffocating. Every man in every truck checked their weapons one more time. Safeties off. Chambers loaded. Fingers off triggers but ready.

"One mile," Jr. said.

Engines died. Seven vehicles coasted to a stop in the darkness, positioned behind a low ridge that kept them out of sight of the house.

Doors opened silently. Twenty men climbed out, rifles and sidearms ready. The six wiz kids checked their Glocks. Pops chambered a round in his AR-15, his face hard as stone.

Wade gathered them in a tight circle, speaking in a harsh whisper. "Wilson, Ryan—you two circle around north. Give us five minutes, then get in position. Everyone else, we move as one unit to the barn. Use it for cover. When I give the signal, we breach the house. Fast and overwhelming. These bastards are armed, so expect resistance. But we do this clean. Understood?"

Nods all around.

"Jr., you keep that drone feed active. If anything changes, you signal immediately."

"Yes sir, Grandpa."

"Tom, Josh—the second we breach, you go for the barn. Get Billy and Jake out of those ropes. Ray, you go with them."

"Got it," Tom said.

Wade looked around at the assembled men—family, friends, teenagers who should be worrying about homework instead of rescue operations. "Let's bring our boys home."

They moved out in silence, twenty shadows crossing the empty ground toward the old homestead. The barn loomed ahead, dark and skeletal against the night sky.

On Jr.'s tablet, the thermal feed showed the kidnappers still inside the house. Unaware. Unprepared.

In the barn, two heat signatures lay motionless on the ground.

The consortium was coming.

And God help anyone who stood in their way.

Chapter 8: Endurance

Billy had lost all sense of time. Four hours? Five? In the darkness behind the blindfold, with nothing but pain and the sound of his own breathing, minutes stretched into eternities.

The cramps in his legs had gotten worse. His calves felt like they were tearing apart, muscles locked in sustained contraction from being bent backward for so long. He tried flexing his ankles—just a tiny movement—but the rope connecting them to his wrists was unforgiving. Any attempt to straighten his legs only pulled harder on his already-screaming shoulders.

His hands were completely numb now. Not the tingling numbness from before—that had faded an hour ago into absolute nothing. He couldn't feel his fingers at all. Couldn't tell if they were moving or not. The ropes around his wrists had cut off circulation so completely that his hands might as well not exist.

But his arms—God, his arms. The constant pressure of the rope lashing them to the branch made every muscle from his shoulders to his elbows scream. His biceps and triceps bulged against the hemp restraints, and the binding cut so deep he could feel it in the bone. His shoulders burned with a fire that wouldn't stop, joints stretched at angles they were never meant to hold.

The branch itself felt like it was fused to his spine now. Every breath pressed him down onto it, the wooden pole digging between his shoulder blades like a dull knife trying to cut him in half.

Breathe. Just keep breathing.

The gag had become unbearable. His torn undershirt, soaked with saliva and sweat, had expanded in his mouth until it felt like he was choking on it. Every swallow was difficult. Every breath through his nose was labored, panicked. The fabric pressed his tongue down and back, making him fight the urge to gag.

Beside him, Jake made a sound. Not words—just a low, agonized groan that came from somewhere deep.

"Mmm," Billy managed back. I'm here. Still here.

Another sound from Jake. Then silence again.

Billy's bare chest was caked with dirt and sweat. The barn floor beneath him was filthy—he could smell the rot, the oil, the decades of decay. His skin itched everywhere, but with his arms locked behind him, there was nothing he could do about it. The blindfold clung to his face, damp and suffocating.

How much longer can we do this?

The thought terrified him. Not just the physical pain—though that was bad enough—but what came after. What if they'd been tied like this too long? What if the damage was permanent? What if—

A sound outside.

Billy's breath caught. He strained to hear through the blood pounding in his ears.

Footsteps. Multiple sets. Moving carefully, quietly.

His heart rate spiked. Were the kidnappers coming back? Or—

Please. Please let it be help.

But how would help know where to find them? They were in the middle of nowhere, in an abandoned barn that nobody knew about. The kidnappers had been careful. They'd—

More sounds. Closer now. Voices, low and muffled through the barn walls.

Jake heard it too. Billy could tell from the change in his brother's breathing—faster, more alert. Jake made an urgent sound through his gag, trying to call out, but it came out as nothing more than a muffled grunt.

Billy tried too. "MMMPHHH!" He threw everything he had into it, trying to make noise, trying to signal that they were here, they were alive, please someone help them—

"MMMPHHH! MMMPHHH!"

Jake was doing the same, both brothers screaming through their gags, the sounds barely carrying beyond their own ears.

Then—a different sound. Mechanical. Distant but distinct.

A helicopter? No. Smaller. Higher pitched.

A drone.

Billy's mind raced. The consortium had drones. Six of them. With thermal imaging and—

They found us. Oh God, they found us.

But the sounds outside weren't moving toward the barn. They were moving away. Toward the house where the kidnappers were.

Billy's hope crashed. They were going for the kidnappers first. Which made sense—neutralize the threat before attempting rescue—but it meant he and Jake would be left here, tied and helpless, while a confrontation happened fifty yards away.

What if the kidnappers fight back? What if there's shooting? What if—

He forced the thoughts down. Had to stay calm. Had to breathe.

Jake was making constant sounds now—low, continuous moans through his gag. Whether from pain or frustration or hope, Billy couldn't tell.

"Mmm-mmm," Billy tried. It's okay. They're here. We're going to be okay.

But lying there in the darkness, every muscle in his body on fire, rope cutting into flesh, unable to move or speak or see, Billy had never felt less okay in his entire life.

More sounds outside. Raised voices—muffled but urgent. The kidnappers had noticed something.

Then everything exploded into noise.

Shouting. Commands. The sound of doors being kicked in. Men yelling—some voices familiar, some not. The crack of something hard hitting something else.

"ON THE GROUND! NOW!"

"DON'T FUCKING MOVE!"

More shouting. Scuffling sounds. Someone cursing. Then—

"CLEAR! HOUSE IS CLEAR!"

Wade's voice. That was definitely Wade's voice.

"Tom, Josh—get to the barn! NOW!"

Footsteps running. The barn door sliding open with that metallic screech Billy had heard twice before.

"Oh Jesus Christ," Tom's voice, horrified. "BILLY! JAKE!"

More footsteps pounding into the barn.

"Get those blindfolds off first," Josh said, his voice shaking. "Let them see—"

Hands on Billy's face. Gentle but urgent, untying the fabric around his eyes. The blindfold fell away and Billy blinked against the sudden light—not bright, just evening sunlight through the barn gaps, but after hours of darkness it was blinding.

Tom's face swam into view above him. His father's eyes were wet.

"We got you, son. We got you. You're okay now."

Billy tried to speak. The gag muffled everything.

"Hold on." Tom worked at the knot behind Billy's head, finally loosening it enough to pull the soaked fabric from Billy's mouth.

Billy gasped, sucking in air, his jaw aching from being forced open for so long. "Dad—"

"Shh. Don't talk yet. Just breathe."

Beside him, Josh was doing the same for Jake, removing his blindfold and gag. Jake's first words were a string of curses that would have made Pops proud.

"Easy, easy," Josh said. "We're gonna get you out of this. Ray—knife. We need to cut these ropes."

Ray was there, pulling a folding knife from his belt. "Jesus, they really trussed you boys up."

"Hurts," Billy managed. "Everything hurts."

"I know, son. I know." Tom positioned himself behind Billy, studying the rope work. "Okay. We're gonna cut you loose, but we need to do it carefully. These ropes are tight—your circulation's been cut off. When we release the pressure, it's gonna hurt worse before it gets better."

"Just... do it," Billy said.

"Ray, start with the hogtie rope. The one connecting his ankles to his wrists."

The sound of the knife sawing through hemp. Then—release. Billy's legs dropped, no longer pulled backward, and the relief was immediate and agonizing all at once. His muscles screamed as they tried to straighten, cramping violently.

"FUCK!" Billy shouted.

"I know, I know," Tom said. "Josh, you getting Jake?"

"Yeah. Almost—there."

Another release. Jake's hogtie cut. His legs dropped and he let out a roar of pain.

"Okay, now the arms," Tom said. "This is gonna be the worst part. Ray, cut the ropes holding his arms to the branch, but leave his wrists tied for now. We'll get those after."

More sawing. More rope falling away. And then—

The branch was pulled free from behind Billy's back, and his arms, no longer forced upward, dropped. The sudden change in position sent lightning through his shoulders. Billy screamed.

"Easy! Easy!" Tom supported Billy's weight, helping him roll onto his side. "Don't try to move your arms yet. Let the blood flow back first."

Billy lay there, gasping, tears streaming down his face. His arms hung useless behind him, still bound at the wrists, but at least they weren't pulled up anymore. The pain was indescribable—nerve damage, muscle cramps, blood rushing back into oxygen-starved tissue.

Beside him, Jake was in the same state, Josh holding him steady as Ray cut away the last of the ropes binding his arms to the branch.

"Wrists now," Tom said. "Almost done, Billy. Almost done."

The final cuts. The ropes around Billy's wrists fell away, and his arms were free.

Billy tried to move them. Couldn't. They just hung there, dead weight, pins and needles exploding from his shoulders to his fingertips as circulation returned.

"Don't force it," Tom said. "Give it time."

"Can't... feel my hands," Billy gasped.

"You will. Just takes a few minutes."

Wade appeared in the barn doorway. "How are they?"

"Alive," Tom said. "Hurt, but alive. We need to get them to the hospital."

"Ambulance is twenty minutes out. Wilson called it in."

"No hospital," Billy croaked.

Everyone looked at him.

"What?" Tom said. "Billy, you've been tied up for five hours. You need to get checked out."

"No hospital," Billy said again, more firmly. His voice was raspy but determined. "Just want to go home."

"Billy—"

"I'm fine. We're fine." He looked over at Jake, who was slowly sitting up with Josh's help. "Right?"

Jake nodded, wincing. "Fuck hospitals. I want to go home. See Mom. See Rebecca." He paused, then added, "And I'm starving."

Despite everything, Tom almost laughed. "You're starving?"

"Been tied up for five hours," Jake said. "Didn't get lunch. Yeah, I'm fucking starving."

Wade knelt beside Billy, his weathered face tight with controlled concern. "You boys sure? Rebecca's a nurse—she can look you over at home if you want. But if there's real damage—"

"We're Bensons," Billy said. "We're tough. Just get us home."

Wade looked at Tom, who sighed. "All right. But Rebecca checks you both over the second we get back. And if she says hospital, you go. Deal?"

"Deal," both brothers said.

"Can you stand?" Ray asked.

Billy tried. His legs were rubber, cramping and weak. Tom caught him before he fell.

"Easy. Take your time."

With Tom on one side and Ray on the other, Billy got to his feet. Every muscle protested. His shoulders felt like they'd been dislocated and put back wrong. His wrists were raw and bleeding where the ropes had cut in. But he was standing.

Jake managed the same with Josh's help, though he was cursing the entire time.

"Wait," Billy said, looking toward the barn door. "Where are they?"

"Who?" Tom asked.

"The kidnappers. Where are the sons of bitches who did this to us?"

Wade's expression darkened. "In the house. Wilson and Ryan have them cuffed and secured."

"I want to see them," Billy said.

"Billy, you can barely stand—"

"I want to see them." Billy's voice was steel. "They tied us up like animals. Left us on that filthy floor for five hours. I want to look them in the fucking eyes."

Jake nodded. "Me too."

Tom and Wade exchanged looks. Then Wade nodded slowly. "All right. But just a look. You don't touch them. That clear?"

"Clear," Billy said.

They helped the brothers out of the barn and across the yard to the old house. Billy's legs shook with every step, but he forced himself forward. Jake limped beside him, Josh keeping him steady.

Inside, the three kidnappers were on their knees in the middle of the living room floor, hands cuffed behind their backs. Wilson and Ryan Nelson stood guard, rifles ready. The kidnappers looked up as Billy and Jake entered—the big one in the middle, the other two flanking him.

And there, standing in the corner with a glass of something dark in his hand, was Pops.

The old man's face was red with fury. When he saw Billy and Jake, his expression shifted—relief, then rage again as he looked back at the kidnappers.

"These the motherfuckers?" Pops asked.

"Yeah," Billy said quietly.

Pops walked forward, stopping in front of the big one. "You tied up my grandsons like fucking animals."

The man said nothing, staring at the floor.

"LOOK AT ME!" Pops roared.

The man's head jerked up.

"You grabbed two boys off their own land. Tied them up so tight they couldn't move. Left them on a filthy barn floor for five fucking hours. For what? Money?"

Still silence.

"You picked the wrong fucking family," Pops said, his voice dropping to something cold and deadly. "You have any idea what you did? You brought down six ranching families on your head. An entire consortium. You thought you could grab two ranch hands and nobody would notice? Nobody would care?"

Billy stepped forward, Tom still supporting him. He looked at the big kidnapper—the one who'd held the gun on him, who'd roped his arms to that branch, who'd shoved the gag in his mouth.

"You're done," Billy said quietly. "You're going to prison for a long time. And every single day you're in there, you're gonna remember that you fucked with the wrong people."

Jake moved up beside his brother. "And when you get out—if you get out—you better hope you never see Kings County again. Because if you do, the Benson family will know. And we'll be waiting."

The big kidnapper's face had gone pale.

"You boys took something from us today," Pops said. "Five hours of pain and fear. But you know what you gave us?" He gestured around the room—at Tom and Josh and Ray, at Wade and his deputies, at Robert Beaumont and the other consortium men crowding the doorway. "You showed us what we're capable of when you fuck with our family. Three hours from kidnapping to rescue. Drones, thermal imaging, a goddamn tactical assault. You thought you were professionals?"

Pops leaned in close.

"We're ranchers. We take care of our own. And you just learned that the hard way."

He straightened, turned to Wade. "Get these pieces of shit out of my sight."

"With pleasure," Wade said. "Wilson, Ryan—get them loaded up. We're taking them in."

As the deputies hauled the kidnappers to their feet and marched them out, Billy felt some of the tension drain from his body. It was over. Really over.

"Come on," Tom said gently. "Let's get you boys home."

The ride back to the ranch took thirty minutes. Billy and Jake sat in the back of Tom's truck, wrapped in blankets someone had found, sipping water. Jr., Celeb, and Colt kept asking questions—were they okay, what was it like, how did they hold on—but mostly the brothers were quiet.

When they pulled into the ranch yard, the house lit up like Christmas. Every light on, people spilling out onto the porch.

Sarah was first down the steps, Rebecca right behind her. The moment Billy and Jake climbed out of the truck—still moving slowly, still hurting—their mother and sister-in-law were on them.

"Oh my boys, my boys," Sarah sobbed, pulling Billy into a hug that made his shoulders scream but he didn't care.

Rebecca was checking Jake over with practiced efficiency, her nurse training kicking in even through the tears. "Any numbness? Tingling? Can you move your fingers?"

"I'm okay, Bec," Jake said. "I promise."

"You're not okay, you were tied up for five hours—"

"I'm hungry," Jake said, cutting her off. "That's what I am. Starving."

That got everyone's attention.

Sarah pulled back, wiping her eyes. "Hungry?"

"Didn't get lunch," Billy said. "Or dinner. Been a long day."

Sarah looked at Caroline Beaumont, then at Mary Nelson, Patricia Renzo, Linda Mattern, and Maria Rodriguez. The women exchanged glances, and something shifted in the air—from tears to action.

"Right," Sarah said, her voice steadying. "We're cooking. Big meal. Everyone eats."

"I've got steaks in the freezer," Caroline said, already moving toward the house.

"I'll get them defrosting," Mary added.

"Someone fire up the grills," Linda called out. "We're feeding the whole consortium tonight."

The ranch house transformed into controlled chaos. Women moving through the kitchen, pulling out pots and pans, defrosting steaks in the sink, firing up not one but three grills on the back patio. The men started setting up tables outside—this wasn't a sit-down-and-be-quiet dinner. This was a celebration.

Billy and Jake were installed in the living room, Rebecca checking them over despite their protests. She examined the rope burns on their wrists, the deep welts on their arms, made them move their shoulders through range-of-motion tests.

"You're lucky," she said quietly. "Another hour or two and you might have had permanent nerve damage."

"But we don't," Jake said.

"No. You don't." She squeezed his hand. "You're gonna be sore for days. Maybe weeks. But you'll heal."

"Told you we didn't need the hospital," Billy said.

Rebecca gave him a look that could have melted steel. "Don't push it."

Outside, the smell of grilling steaks filled the air. Pops had claimed his chair on the patio, glass of brandy in hand, watching the controlled chaos with satisfaction.

Jr. and his friends hovered near Billy and Jake, still asking questions, still wanting to know everything. Billy found himself telling the story—the ambush at Cottonwood Creek, the drive to the abandoned barn, being tied up and left in the dark.

"And you couldn't see anything?" Jr. asked.

"Nothing. Blindfolded the whole time."

"Or talk?"

"Gagged. Could barely breathe."

The wiz kids listened with wide eyes, the reality of what had happened sinking in.

"But you found us," Jake said, looking at Jr. "With the drones and the tech. You found us in three hours."

"Three hours and seventeen minutes," Jr. said. "Felt like forever."

"On our end too," Billy said.

Dinner was ready an hour later—massive ribeyes, baked potatoes, grilled vegetables, fresh bread. Everyone ate outside under the stars, the consortium families gathered together like they'd just won a war.

Which, in a way, they had.

Billy sat between his parents, eating slowly, his shoulders still aching but his stomach grateful for real food. Jake was across from him, already on his second steak, telling Pops and Robert about the moment they realized the cavalry had arrived.

"Best sound I ever heard," Jake said through a mouthful of meat. "Dad yelling our names. Knew we were gonna be okay."

"Damn right you were," Pops said, raising his glass. "Nobody fucks with the Benson family. Nobody fucks with this consortium. Those sons of bitches learned that tonight."

"Damn right," echoed around the table.

Billy looked around at the faces—his family, his friends, the consortium that had dropped everything to find them. The wiz kids who'd tracked them down. The men who'd mounted a tactical rescue. The women who'd turned chaos into a feast.

This was home.

This was family.

And God help anyone who tried to take it away.

Chapter 9: The Frat House

It was past midnight when Billy and Jake finally made it upstairs to the frat house. Their legs were still shaky, shoulders still burning, but the food had helped. So had being surrounded by family.

The door opened and Jr., Celeb, and Colt were already inside, along with Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. The three visiting wiz kids had been given permission to stay the night—nobody was going anywhere after what had happened.

"Thought you two might want some company," Jr. said.

Billy managed a tired grin. "Yeah. We're good with that."

Jake dropped onto his bottom bunk with a groan. "Fuck, that feels good. Actual mattress. No ropes. No dirt."

"Beer?" Celeb asked, already reaching for the floorboard.

"Hell yes," Jake said.

The hidden stash came out—cans of beer that technically weren't supposed to be there but everyone knew about anyway. Jr. started passing them around when footsteps sounded on the stairs.

"Put those away," Billy whispered.

But it wasn't Sarah. It was Pops, followed by Tom. Both men carried glasses—Pops with his brandy, Tom with what looked like whiskey. And Pops had a bottle of Jack Daniels tucked under his arm and a handful of cigars in his pocket.

"Heard you boys were having a meeting," Pops said, closing the door behind him. "Thought we'd join."

Tom looked around the cramped room—five bunks, a mattress on the floor, eight teenagers, and now two adults trying to find space. "This is where you all sleep?"

"It's cozy," Jr. said.

"It's a damn fire hazard," Tom muttered, but he was smiling.

Pops set the Jack Daniels down on the small table between the bunks. "Put those beers away. If we're doing this, we're doing it right." He started pouring shots into whatever cups and glasses the boys could scrounge up.

The door opened again. Sarah stood there, hands on hips, taking in the scene—the bottle of Jack, the cigars Pops was now handing out, her husband and father-in-law clearly planning to stay.

"Thomas Benson—"

"Not tonight, Sarah," Tom said gently.

"Pops, those boys just went through—"

"Exactly," Pops interrupted. "They just went through hell. They earned this. We all did." He held up his glass. "Tonight, we celebrate. Tomorrow, you can lecture us."

Sarah looked at Billy and Jake—both of them wrapped in blankets, exhausted but smiling, surrounded by their brothers and friends. She sighed.

"One night," she said. "But if I hear you're sick tomorrow—"

"We won't be," Jake promised.

"And those cigars better not set anything on fire."

"Yes, ma'am," the boys chorused.

She shook her head and closed the door. They heard her footsteps going back downstairs, muttering about "boys being boys" and "too much testosterone in one room."

Pops grinned. "All right. Windows open, cigars lit, and everyone gets a shot. Even you wiz kids."

"Pops," Tom started.

"They're sixteen. They tracked down my grandsons with military-grade technology and helped mount a tactical rescue. They can have one shot of Jack Daniels."

No one argued with that logic.

The windows were pushed open. Cigars were lit—cheap ones that Pops kept for occasions like this. The Jack Daniels made its rounds, each boy getting a shot glass full. Tom and Pops refilled their own glasses.

"To Billy and Jake," Pops said, raising his glass. "Toughest sons of bitches I know. Tied up for five hours and still ready to fight."

"To Billy and Jake," everyone echoed.

The shots went down. The wiz kids coughed and sputtered. Jake and Billy managed theirs better, though Billy's eyes watered.

"That's awful," Daniel Rodriguez gasped.

"That's Jack Daniels," Pops said. "Builds character."

Celeb took a long pull from his cigar, then immediately started coughing. "How do you smoke these?"

"Practice," Pops said, blowing a perfect smoke ring. "Lots of practice."

Tom sat on the edge of Jr.'s bunk, his own cigar smoking gently. "You boys did good today. All of you. The way you worked together, found that truck, coordinated those drones—that was professional level."

"We learned from the best," Jr. said, nodding at Pops.

"Damn right you did," Pops said. He poured himself another shot, then topped off Tom's glass. "But you went beyond what I taught you. That thermal imaging, the satellite overlays, the GPS coordination—that was all you."

"Couldn't have done it without Billy and Jake holding on," Ryan Mattern said quietly. "If they'd panicked, if they'd—"

"We didn't," Billy said. "Couldn't. We're Bensons."

"Damn right," Pops said again.

Jake shifted on his bunk, wincing as his shoulders protested. "You know what the worst part was? Not being able to talk. The gag—" He stopped, shaking his head. "Couldn't even tell Billy I was okay. Just... muffled sounds."

"I heard you though," Billy said from the bunk above. "Couldn't understand the words, but I knew you were there. That helped."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

A moment of silence. Then Colt said, "What did you think when you heard the drones?"

Billy laughed, a short, tired sound. "Thought, 'Oh thank God, they found us.' Then thought, 'Shit, they're going for the kidnappers first, what if there's shooting?' Couldn't decide if I was relieved or terrified."

"Little of both," Jake added. "But when we heard Dad's voice—" His voice caught. "That's when I knew. We were gonna make it."

Tom looked away, blinking hard.

Pops cleared his throat roughly. "Those sons of bitches picked the wrong family. Think they can grab two Bensons off their own land? Demand ransom like we're some soft city folk?" He took a long drink. "They learned. Whole goddamn county's gonna learn. You fuck with one of us, you fuck with all of us."

"The consortium," Robert Beaumont's son Celeb said. "That's what it means, right? We're not just neighbors. We're family."

"Exactly," Tom said. "Six families, one unit. That's what we built. That's what saved Billy and Jake tonight."

Jr. poured himself another small shot—Pops didn't stop him. "I was so scared," Jr. admitted. "Watching those heat signatures on the screen, not knowing if they were okay, if we'd get there in time—"

"But you did," Billy said. "Three hours. That's insane."

"Three hours and seventeen minutes," Billy Renzo corrected, grinning.

"Of course you timed it," Jake said, laughing. Then he yawned, huge and jaw-cracking. "Shit. I'm exhausted."

"You should be," Tom said. "You boys need sleep. Real sleep."

"Not yet," Billy said. "This is nice. All of us here. Don't want it to end yet."

Pops studied his grandson—wrapped in a blanket, cigar dangling from his fingers, surrounded by his brothers and friends. "All right. One more round. Then you sleep."

The Jack Daniels made another circuit. The cigars burned down. Someone told a joke—Jr., probably—and everyone laughed. The tension from the day slowly bled away, replaced by the comfortable camaraderie of family.

"Pops," Jake said after a while. "Tell us a war story."

"You've heard them all," Pops said.

"Tell us the one about the helicopter."

"That one's classified."

"Bullshit," Jake said. "You told it at Christmas."

Pops grinned. "Maybe I did." He leaned back, glass in hand, cigar smoke curling toward the open window. "All right. Vietnam, 1969. My unit was pinned down outside Da Nang..."

The story unfolded—Pops had told it a dozen times, but nobody minded. It was the ritual of it, the sound of his voice, the way his eyes lit up when he got to the good parts. The boys listened, even though they knew every beat.

By the time Pops finished, Jake was asleep. Just dozed off mid-story, his head tilted back against the wall, mouth slightly open.

Billy wasn't far behind. His eyes were drooping, the cigar burnt down to nothing in his hand.

Tom gently took it from him before it could drop. "Time for bed, boys."

The wiz kids started gathering their things—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez would crash in the guest rooms downstairs. Jr., Celeb, and Colt were already claiming their bunks.

"You need help getting Jake situated?" Tom asked Billy.

"Nah. I got him." Billy climbed down carefully, his muscles protesting every movement, and shook his brother's shoulder. "Jake. Bed."

Jake mumbled something incoherent but didn't wake.

"He's out," Celeb said.

"Yeah." Billy grabbed a pillow and wedged it under Jake's head. "He can sleep sitting up for one night. He's done worse."

Tom pulled a blanket over Jake, then did the same for Billy as he climbed back into his own bunk. "You boys need anything—"

"We're good, Dad," Billy said. "Thanks. For everything."

Tom's throat tightened. "You don't have to thank me. You're my sons."

"Still."

Pops stood, collecting the bottle and the remaining cigars. "Get some sleep. All of you. Tomorrow's gonna be a circus—news crews, probably the FBI, definitely a lot of questions."

"Can't wait," Jr. muttered, already under his covers.

Tom and Pops headed for the door. Tom paused, looking back at the room—five boys in various stages of sleep, the smell of cigar smoke and Jack Daniels in the air, the kind of mess that Sarah would absolutely have opinions about in the morning.

But tonight, it was perfect.

"Night, boys," Tom said quietly.

"Night, Dad," came a chorus of sleepy voices.

"Night, Pops."

The door closed. Their footsteps faded down the stairs.

In the frat house, the boys settled in. Jr. reached over and turned off the main light, leaving just the small lamp by the door. The room fell into comfortable darkness, broken only by moonlight through the open windows.

"Billy?" Celeb's voice, quiet from across the room.

"Yeah?"

"Glad you're okay. Both of you."

"Thanks, Celeb."

Silence for a moment. Then Jr.: "Love you guys."

"Love you too, Jr.," Billy said. "All of you."

More murmured agreements. Then quiet.

Billy lay there, staring at the ceiling of his bunk—the same ceiling he'd stared at for twenty-one years. His shoulders ached. His wrists throbbed. His whole body felt like it had been through a war.

But he was home. In his own bed. With his brothers around him.

Safe.

Below him, Jake snored softly, still half-sitting, still wrapped in his blanket.

Billy smiled and closed his eyes.

The nightmare was over.

Tomorrow would bring questions and news crews and probably a lot of fuss.

But tonight, in the frat house, surrounded by family, everything was exactly as it should be.

And that was enough.

Jake's Revenge

 

Chapter 1: Normal Day, Wrong Place

The fence line ran for three miles along the eastern edge of Benson property, where the land got rough and the mesquite grew thick enough to hide a bull until you were practically on top of it. Jake had been riding it since dawn, checking posts, replacing wire where the deer had pushed through. It was tedious work, the kind that let your mind wander while your hands stayed busy.

He liked it out here. Away from Ray's spreadsheets and Josh's management meetings. Just him, his truck, his tools, and about ten thousand acres of Texas Hill Country that had belonged to Bensons since before anyone could remember.

The sun was high now, pushing toward noon. Jake pulled his truck to a stop near a section where the wire sagged between two posts. He killed the engine and stepped out, the heat hitting him like a physical thing. His white undershirt was already soaked through under his work shirt. The sat radio on his belt clicked against his buckle as he reached into the truck bed for his wire cutters and gloves.

Pops always said this part of the ranch was too isolated for solo work. "Get yourself hurt out here, boy, and we won't find you till the buzzards do." But Jake was twenty-two years old, built like the bulls he wrestled, and he'd been working this land since he could walk. He didn't need a babysitter.

He was three posts deep into the repair, stretching new wire tight, when he heard the truck.

One truck, coming up the ranch road fast, dust plume rising behind it. Jake straightened, shading his eyes. Nobody should be out here. The consortium families all had their own sections to work today, and the ranch roads weren't exactly public access.

The truck slowed as it approached. Beat to hell—an old Ford that looked like it'd been rode hard and put away wet about a thousand times. Four men inside, packed in tight.

Jake didn't recognize any of them.

He kept his hand near his hip, where his sidearm usually sat. Today, because he'd been in a hurry and focused on fence work, it was locked in the glove box of his truck. Stupid.

"Help you boys with something?" Jake called out as the Ford pulled alongside him.

All four doors opened at once. The men stepped out, fanning wide. Mid-thirties, lean and hard-looking, with the kind of faces that had seen too many bar fights and not enough steady work. The driver smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Yeah, actually. We're a little turned around. Looking for the highway back to Abilene."

Jake's jaw tightened. The highway was forty miles north, and you didn't accidentally end up on Benson property unless you'd ignored about six "No Trespassing" signs and climbed through two locked gates.

"You're about as lost as a man can get," Jake said slowly. "Highway's back the way you came. Follow the ranch road north till you hit the main gate. Can't miss it."

The man's smile widened. "That right?"

They were spreading out now, positioning themselves. One moved between Jake and his truck.

"Problem is," the driver said, still smiling that dead smile, "we're not actually lost."

Jake's mind raced. Four of them. No weapon on him. Closest help was Billy and Celeb, probably eight miles west. His truck was ten feet away, but they'd cut him off. The sat radio on his belt felt suddenly very heavy.

"Look," Jake said, voice level, hands visible. "I don't know what you boys are planning, but you've picked the wrong ranch and the wrong—"

The punch came from his blind side. Jake's head snapped sideways, stars exploding across his vision. He swung back on instinct, his fist connecting with jawbone, and one of them went down hard. But then there were hands on him—too many hands—and something hard cracked across the back of his skull.

The ground came up fast. Jake tasted dirt and blood. His vision swam.

"Easy, cowboy," someone said above him. "We just need you to cooperate here."

Jake bucked, trying to throw them off, but someone's boot drove into his ribs and his arms were wrenched behind his back. Zip ties bit into his wrists.

"Get him up," the driver barked. "He's driving."

They hauled Jake to his feet. His head pounded, blood running warm down the back of his neck. They shoved him toward his truck, guns appearing now—two pistols pressed against his sides.

"You're gonna drive," the driver said, climbing into the passenger seat while the other two piled into the back. "And you're gonna do exactly what I tell you, or we put a bullet in your spine right here. Understand?"

Jake said nothing. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached.

"I asked you a question."

"I understand," Jake ground out.

"Good. Now start the truck and head east. Nice and slow."

Jake's hands shook—not from fear, but from rage so pure it felt like it might burn through his skin. He started the engine. His own truck. Forced to drive himself to God knows where, with three guns on him and his own blood soaking into his collar.

The sat radio pressed against the small of his back, hidden under his shirt tail, clipped to his belt. They hadn't found it yet.

Jake put the truck in gear and drove.

Behind him, the Ford followed, the fourth man at the wheel. They headed deeper into the eastern section, away from the main buildings, away from help, toward the old forgotten corners of the property where the fences failed and the land turned wild.

And as the adrenaline began to fade, one thought crystallized with perfect clarity:

They have no idea what family they just fucked with.

Chapter 2: Drive to Nowhere

The first ten minutes, Jake said nothing. Just drove where they told him to drive, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel, jaw working like he was chewing glass.

"Left up here," the driver said, gesturing with his pistol toward a barely visible dirt track that cut through the mesquite. "And slow the hell down. Don't need you getting any ideas about rolling this thing."

Jake took the turn. The truck bounced over ruts and rocks, suspension groaning. Behind them, the Ford followed at a distance, staying far enough back to avoid the dust cloud.

The man in the passenger seat—the driver, the one calling the shots—was maybe thirty-five, with a patchy beard and sunburned neck. Prison tattoos crawled up his forearms. The two in the back were younger, twitchy, guns trained on Jake's head and ribs. One pressed the barrel hard enough into his kidney that Jake could feel every bump in the road.

"You boys are making a hell of a mistake," Jake said finally, his voice low and dangerous.

The driver laughed. "That right?"

"You know whose land you're on?"

"I know it's big enough that nobody's gonna find you for a good long while." The driver leaned back, gun resting casual on his thigh. "And I know your family's got money. Lots of it. Ranch this size? You Bensons are sitting pretty."

Jake's hands tightened on the wheel. "My grandfather fought in Vietnam. My brother Josh was a Marine. You think a bunch of drifter trash like you are gonna—"

The pistol came up fast, barrel pressed against Jake's temple.

"You keep talking like that," the driver said quietly, "and I'll put one in your knee just to make a point. Now drive."

Jake's teeth ground together, but he shut up. For now.

They drove east for what felt like forever—probably forty minutes, maybe an hour. The sun beat down through the windshield. Sweat ran down Jake's back, soaking the white undershirt that clung to his skin. The sat radio dug into his spine where it was clipped to his belt, hidden by his shirttail.

They still haven't found it.

Jake's mind raced through scenarios. He could jerk the wheel, try to roll the truck. But three guns on him at point-blank range—even if he survived the crash, they'd execute him on the spot. He could try to run when they stopped. Make them chase him into the brush. But he'd seen the fourth man in the Ford behind them. They'd run him down or shoot him in the back before he made twenty yards.

So he drove. And he watched.

The driver was confident, cocky even. Ex-con, probably. Done time for something violent. The two in the back were nervous—one kept shifting his weight, the other wouldn't stop fidgeting with his pistol. Amateurs. Desperate amateurs.

That made them dangerous.

Jake memorized every detail. The scar on the driver's hand. The homemade tattoo on the wrist of the kid in the back seat. The way they kept glancing at each other like they weren't sure this plan was going to work.

Good, Jake thought. Be scared. You should be.

"Right up here," the driver said, pointing toward a cluster of live oaks. "See that old house?"

Jake saw it. Barely. A decrepit structure that must've been abandoned for thirty years, roof half-caved in, windows long gone. It sat in a low hollow, surrounded by scrub and stone, invisible from any road.

"Pull up next to it. Kill the engine."

Jake did as he was told. The Ford pulled in behind them, the fourth man climbing out. He was older than the others, grizzled, with a limp and a scar that ran from his ear to his chin.

"Out," the driver barked, gun still trained on Jake. "Slow. Hands where I can see them."

Jake opened the door and stepped out, hands raised. His boots hit the dirt. Three guns tracked his every move. The fourth man from the Ford moved behind him, cutting off any escape route.

The old house loomed in front of him, dark and hollow. Buzzards circled overhead.

"Inside," the driver said, jerking his head toward the doorway.

Jake walked forward, every muscle coiled tight, looking for an opening that didn't exist.

Not yet.

But it would come. And when it did, these bastards were going to learn what it meant to mess with a Benson.

Chapter 3: Tied and Abandoned

The inside of the old house was worse than the outside. Rotted floorboards, collapsed furniture, and the smell of decades of animal waste and decay. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the roof, casting jagged shadows across the floor.

"Right there," the driver said, pointing to the center of the main room. "On your knees."

Jake didn't move fast enough. One of the younger ones shoved him hard between the shoulder blades, sending him stumbling forward. Jake caught himself, then slowly lowered to his knees on the filthy floor.

The driver pulled out a roll of duct tape and tossed it at Jake's feet.

"Pick it up."

Jake stared at the tape, then up at the driver. "What do you want me to do with it?"

"Tape your mouth shut. Three strips across. Do it now."

Jake's jaw clenched. "You gotta be—"

The gun came up, aimed at his face. "I'm not asking twice."

Jake picked up the tape with shaking hands. He tore off a strip and pressed it across his mouth. Then another. Then a third, sealing his lips completely. His breathing came hard through his nose now.

"Good. Now your eyes. Make it tight."

Jake hesitated. This was it—once he couldn't see, couldn't yell, he'd be completely helpless. The driver stepped closer, gun barrel inches from Jake's forehead.

Jake wrapped tape across his eyes. One strip. Two. Three. The world went black.

"Now tie your ankles together. Rope's right in front of you."

Jake's hands fumbled in the darkness, finding the coil of rope. His fingers shook as he wrapped it around his boots, trying to leave slack, trying to buy himself any advantage.

"Tighter. I can see what you're doing. Make it tight or we'll do it for you, and you won't like how we do it."

Jake pulled the rope tighter, cinching the knot. His ankles were locked together now.

"Now your thighs. Wrap it just above the knees."

Jake took the rope, wrapped it around his thighs, tied it off. He could feel his legs becoming useless, immobilized.

"Down on your stomach. Now."

Hands shoved him forward. Jake hit the floor hard, unable to catch himself, temple cracking against rotted wood. Dust filled his nose. He couldn't see. Couldn't yell. Could barely breathe.

They grabbed his arms, wrenching them behind his back.

"Hold still," the grizzled one said, his voice close to Jake's ear. "We're gonna do this real careful-like."

The rope touched Jake's wrists first. Cold and rough. They wrapped it around and around, cinching it tight until the coarse fibers bit into skin. Jake felt his hands going numb almost immediately.

Stay calm. Find a way out of this.

But then they kept going.

The rope moved up his forearms, wrapping in slow, deliberate coils. They pulled as they went, forcing his forearms together inch by inch. Jake tried to keep his arms apart, tried to maintain some space, but hands pressed down on his shoulders, holding him flat while they worked.

"That's it. Nice and tight."

The rope reached his elbows. They cinched it there, pulling hard, and Jake felt his elbows touch. His shoulder blades were forced together, his chest pressed hard against the filthy floor. Pain shot through his shoulders.

Jesus. They know what they're doing.

But they weren't done.

The rope continued up to his biceps. They wrapped it around his upper arms, just below his shoulders, and pulled. Not tight enough to make his biceps touch—that would be impossible—but close. Maybe two inches apart. Jake could feel his arms swelling against the rope, muscles bulging, circulation cutting off.

His shoulders screamed. His chest couldn't expand properly. Every breath was work.

The radio. Focus on the radio. It's still there. Still on your belt.

More rope around his torso now. They wrapped it around his chest, around his arms, pinning everything in place. Around and around, methodical and slow. Jake could feel every loop, every cinch, every adjustment they made to ensure he couldn't move.

"Roll him on his side."

They flipped him. More rope around his torso, crisscrossing his chest, binding his arms so tight to his body that he couldn't even twitch his fingers anymore.

Can't feel my hands. Can't move my arms. Can't—

"Now the legs."

They bent his bound legs up behind him. Jake knew what was coming and tried to resist, tried to keep his legs down, but it was useless. They connected the rope from his ankles to the web of rope around his torso and arms, pulling until his back arched, until every muscle in his body went rigid.

Hogtied. Completely and utterly immobilized.

"Get the picture."

Flash. Flash. Flash.

"That'll do. His family sees this, they'll pay up quick."

"We just leaving him like this?"

"He ain't going nowhere. Look at him. Trussed up like a goddamn steer."

Laughter. Boots moving toward the door. The creak of hinges. Engines starting.

Then nothing.

Silence.

Jake lay in the darkness, bound so tight he could barely breathe. Tape over his mouth. Tape over his eyes. Arms roped from wrists to shoulders, swollen and numb. Legs bent back. Back arched. Every muscle screaming.

The sat radio pressed against his lower back where it was clipped to his belt, hidden under his shirt.

Inches away.

Miles away.

Jake pulled against the ropes. Nothing. Not even a fraction of give.

He tried again.

Pain exploded through his shoulders and spine.

I have to get to that radio.

I have to.

Chapter 4: Hour One

The first thing Jake felt was rage.

Pure, white-hot fury that burned through every nerve in his body. Not fear. Not panic. Just anger so consuming it felt like it might crack his ribs from the inside.

These bastards put their hands on me. Tied me up like an animal. Left me here in the dirt.

He pulled against the ropes with everything he had. His shoulders screamed in protest. The rope around his wrists bit deeper. His back arched further, muscles straining, sweat pouring down his face and soaking into the tape over his eyes.

Nothing moved. Not an inch.

Jake tried to roll. His body rocked slightly but the hogtie kept him locked in place. He couldn't get leverage. Couldn't get his legs under him. His bound ankles and thighs were useless dead weight pulling his spine into an unnatural curve.

Come on. COME ON.

He yanked his wrists apart, trying to snap the rope or slip free. Fire shot up his forearms. The rope only dug deeper, cutting into already raw skin.

His breathing came hard and fast through his nose, the only airway he had left. The tape across his mouth sealed tight. He tried to work his jaw, tried to loosen it, but three layers of duct tape weren't going anywhere.

Calm down. Think. You're wasting energy.

But calm was impossible. The rage demanded action, movement, something. Jake thrashed again, his body bucking against the floor, ropes creaking but not giving. Dust filled his nose. He coughed behind the tape, nearly choking, forced himself to slow his breathing.

Okay. Okay. Stop.

He lay still, panting, every muscle trembling. The pain was starting to register now—not just the sharp bite of rope, but the deep, grinding ache in his shoulders from being wrenched back for so long. His hands were completely numb. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore.

How long had it been? Twenty minutes? An hour? Time was meaningless in the darkness.

Jake shifted his weight, trying to relieve the pressure on his chest. As he moved, something pressed harder into his lower back.

The sat radio.

It's still there.

Hope flared, immediate and desperate. The radio was clipped to his belt, hidden under his shirttail. They hadn't found it. If he could just reach it—if he could hit the emergency button—

But his hands were behind him, roped tight to his torso, fingers numb and useless. The radio was maybe six inches below where his fingertips could reach. Might as well be six miles.

You can get to it. You have to.

Jake flexed what little movement he had in his fingers. Pins and needles shot through his hands as blood tried to flow. He couldn't feel the rope anymore, couldn't feel much of anything, but he could move his fingers. Barely.

He arched his back more, ignoring the scream of his spine, trying to reach lower. His fingertips brushed fabric. His shirt. He was close.

Pain exploded across his shoulders. His back couldn't bend any further. The hogtie wouldn't allow it.

Then I'll have to work the ropes.

Jake twisted his forearms, trying to create any space, any give in the binding. The coarse rope scraped against his skin. He kept twisting, pulling, forcing his arms to move against the grain of the rope.

Something warm and wet on his forearms. Blood, probably. The rope was taking skin with it.

Don't care. Keep going.

He rotated his wrists, felt the rope catch and drag, felt hair ripping out by the roots, felt skin peeling away. The pain was distant, secondary to the mission. His forearms were on fire but he kept working them, scraping them raw against the rope, trying to create even a millimeter of slack.

The rope fibers bit deeper. More skin gone. More blood.

Rebecca's gonna have a field day patching this up later.

The thought almost made him laugh. Almost.

He pulled his legs down again, fighting against the rope connecting his ankles to his torso. Every muscle in his thighs and calves engaged, straining, burning. The rope cut deeper into his ankles. His back arched impossibly further.

And the rope gave. Just a fraction. Maybe an inch of slack.

His raw, bleeding forearms scraped lower. His fingers—still barely able to feel—reached down.

He felt the edge of his belt. The smooth metal of the clip.

The sat radio.

I'm coming for you, you son of a bitch.

Jake Benson made his decision in that moment, lying hogtied and blind in the darkness of an abandoned house, his forearms scraped raw and bleeding.

He was going to reach that radio.

No matter what it cost him.

Chapter 5: The Alarm Sounds

Billy checked his watch for the third time in ten minutes. 4:47 PM.

"Jake should've been back by now," he said to Celeb, who was loading fence posts into the back of his truck.

Celeb shrugged. "You know Jake. Probably found something that needed fixing and lost track of time."

"Yeah, maybe." But Billy's gut said different. Jake was a hothead, sure, but he was never late for dinner. Not when Mom was making pot roast.

By 5:15, Billy was pacing. He pulled out his sat phone and dialed Jake's number.

No answer.

He tried again. Straight to voicemail.

"Something's wrong," Billy said.

Celeb stopped what he was doing. "You want to drive out there?"

"Yeah. Now."

They found Jake's section twenty minutes later. The fence posts he'd been working on. His tools on the ground. Fresh tire tracks—two sets, one Jake's truck, one he didn't recognize.

No Jake.

Billy's blood went cold.

He pulled out his sat phone and hit the emergency button.

"911 Billy Benson. 911 Billy Benson. 911 Billy Benson."

The mechanical voice repeated three times across every sat phone, every radio, every device in the consortium network. In the command center, alarms blared. In the ranch house, phones buzzed. In the Beaumont house, the Nelson house, every house across half of Kings County—the call went out.

Emergency. Now.

---

The ranch house erupted like a kicked hornet's nest.

Pops was in the den when the alarm sounded, the mechanical voice cutting through the afternoon quiet like a knife.

"911 Billy Benson. 911 Billy Benson. 911 Billy Benson."

The old man was on his feet before the third repetition ended, brandy glass forgotten on the side table.

"TOM!" Pops bellowed, his voice carrying through the entire house. "GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE!"

Tom and Sarah came running. Ray appeared from his office, phone already in hand. Josh was pulling on his boots before anyone had to ask.

Billy's voice crackled over the open channel. "Jake's missing. Eastern section, fence line twelve. Signs of a struggle. Unknown vehicle tracks. We need everyone. Now."

"What happened?" Tom demanded.

"Jake's gone," Pops said, his jaw set like granite. "And it wasn't voluntary."

Sarah's hand went to her mouth. "Oh my God—"

"No time for that," Pops snapped, already moving toward the gun safe. "We're getting him back. Tom, call Wade. Tell him to get every man he's got. Ray, get the Beaumonts and the other families on the line. Josh—"

"I'm already calling Rebecca," Josh said, phone to his ear. "She needs to prep the clinic just in case."

Pops threw open the armory door. Rifles, shotguns, sidearms, ammunition. He started pulling weapons down, checking loads, his movements sharp and efficient despite his seventy-six years.

"Those sons of bitches picked the wrong goddamn family to fuck with," he growled.

---

In the command center—the room next to the "frat house" that used to be storage—Billy Jr and his three buddies were already at work.

Screens lit up. Tablets synced. The portable satellite system came online with a hum.

"I've got Jake's truck GPS," Billy Jr said, fingers flying across the keyboard. His face was pale but focused. "It's moving. Heading east into the back sections."

"Can you track it?" Ryan Mattern asked, pulling up drone feeds on his tablet.

"Already am. Sending coordinates to everyone now."

Billy Renzo was on his tablet, pulling up thermal imaging protocols. "If they've got him in a building, we'll find him."

Daniel Rodriguez had three drones prepped and ready to launch. "Say the word and these birds are in the air."

"We're going with them," Billy Jr said, already unplugging the portable command center—a ruggedized setup of iPads, satellite uplinks, and drone controllers they'd built for exactly this scenario.

"Damn right we are," Ryan said, grabbing cases of equipment.

Daniel was already loading drones into hardshell cases. Billy Renzo grabbed the portable satellite antenna.

Four sixteen-year-olds, armed with fifty thousand dollars worth of cutting-edge tech, moving with the precision of a SWAT team.

---

Downstairs, the women mobilized with the same efficiency as the men.

Sarah, Mary Nelson, and Caroline Beaumont had the kitchen turned into a command post. Coffee brewing by the gallon. Sandwiches being made. Thermoses being filled.

Anna Nelson arrived with Edna, both of them pale but focused.

"What can we do?" Anna asked.

"Help Rebecca set up the clinic," Sarah said, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "Dining room. Move the table, set up the medical supplies. We need to be ready when they bring him home."

Rebecca was already converting the dining room into a field hospital, her nursing training kicking in automatically. IV bags, bandages, antiseptic, pain medication—everything laid out with surgical precision.

"He's going to be okay," Sarah said quietly.

"Damn right he is," Rebecca replied, her jaw set. "Because we're bringing him home."

---

Wade Nelson arrived with his deputies—Wilson and Ryan—all three armed and grim-faced. The Beaumonts pulled up with Robert carrying a hunting rifle. The Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes came armed and ready. No questions asked. One of their own was missing.

Pops handed out weapons like he was dealing cards. Sidearms to everyone. Rifles to those who could shoot. Even Louisiana—Celeb's seventeen-year-old cousin—got a pistol and three magazines.

"You know how to use that?" Pops asked Louisiana.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Don't shoot unless you have to. But if you have to, don't miss."

Billy Jr and his crew came down the stairs, arms loaded with equipment cases and iPads.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Tom asked.

"With you," Billy Jr said, his voice steady. "We've got the GPS tracker, the drones, the thermal imaging. You need us."

Tom looked at Pops. The old man was already nodding.

"Get in my truck," Pops said. "Back seat. Set up your gear. You're riding with me."

The four boys started distributing iPads to the convoy members—one to Wade, one to Josh, one to Billy, one to Robert Beaumont. Each synced to the central network, showing Jake's GPS location in real time.

Pops watched them work, then reached back into the armory.

"Hold up," he said, pulling out four compact 9mm pistols and holsters. "You boys know how to use these?"

Billy Jr looked at the sidearm, then at Pops. "Yes, sir."

"All of you?"

Ryan, Daniel, and Billy Renzo nodded. Ranch kids. Every one of them had been shooting since they could hold a rifle.

"Then you're carrying," Pops said, handing each of them a pistol, holster, and two spare magazines. "Clip 'em on. Keep 'em holstered unless you need 'em. But if you need 'em, use 'em. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," all four said in unison.

Tom opened his mouth to object, then closed it. Sarah looked like she wanted to say something but bit her tongue. This was Pops' call. And when one of their own was missing, age didn't matter.

The boys clipped the holsters to their belts, checked the safeties, and climbed into Pops' extended cab truck. The portable command center took up the entire back seat. iPads mounted, satellite antenna being attached to the roof, drone controllers at the ready.

Wade stood in the center of the driveway, the whole consortium assembled.

"Here's what we know," he said, voice calm and authoritative. "Jake was ambushed on the eastern fence line. His truck is moving east. We've got GPS tracking and eyes in the sky. We find the truck, we find Jake."

"What about the bastards who took him?" Pops demanded, a cigar clenched between his teeth, Jack Daniels bottle in one hand.

"We get Jake first," Wade said. "Everything else is secondary. Understood?"

Nods all around.

"Billy Jr, you got those coordinates locked in?"

"Yes, sir," Billy Jr called from Pops' truck, iPad glowing in his lap. "Truck stopped moving. Old Hutchins place, eighteen miles east."

"That's consortium land," Robert Beaumont said.

"Damn right it is," Pops snarled, climbing into his truck. "And they just fucked up royally."

Wade looked at the convoy. Eight vehicles. Twenty armed men. Four sixteen-year-olds with technology that would make the military jealous and sidearms on their hips.

"Mount up," Wade said. "We're bringing Jake home."

The convoy rolled out into the fading Texas sunlight, Pops' truck in the middle with the wiz kids tracking every movement, distributing real-time intel to every vehicle, drones ready to launch, armed to the teeth and ready for war.

Chapter 6: Hours Two and Three

Time became a cruel, warped thing in the darkness.

Jake had no way to measure it. No watch, no sun—the tape over his eyes made sure of that. Only the pain told him time was passing, growing from sharp and immediate to a deep, grinding ache that spread through every joint, every muscle, every fiber of his being.

His forearms were on fire where he'd scraped them raw against the rope. He could feel blood—dried now, sticky—crusting on his skin. The hair on his arms was mostly gone, ripped out strand by strand as he'd twisted and worked against the binding.

Keep going. Don't stop.

Jake's fingers—barely able to feel anymore—scraped against the sat radio clip on his belt. He'd reached it twice now, touched the edge of the device, but couldn't get enough purchase to press the button. His numb fingers just slid off, useless.

Come on, you son of a bitch. Work.

He pulled his legs down again, fighting the hogtie, trying to create more slack. The rope connecting his ankles to his torso cut deeper. His back screamed. His spine felt like it might snap.

The rope gave another fraction of an inch.

Jake's breathing came in short, desperate gasps through his nose. The tape over his mouth was soaked with sweat and saliva. He wanted to scream, to yell, to curse these bastards to hell and back—but all that came out were muffled grunts that died in his throat.

Billy's probably realized I'm missing by now.

The thought gave him strength. Billy would raise hell. Pops would open the armory. The consortium would mobilize like an army.

Just have to stay alive long enough for them to find me.

But doubt crept in. The house was isolated, hidden in a hollow. Even if they found his truck, even if they tracked the GPS—how long would that take? Hours? A day?

How long can I last like this?

Jake's shoulders felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. The rope around his biceps had cut off circulation so completely that his arms were swollen, bulging against the binding. He couldn't feel his hands at all anymore. Just a distant, terrible numbness.

Don't think about that. Focus on the radio.

He twisted his torso, trying a different angle. The movement sent fresh waves of pain through his spine. His raw forearms scraped against the rope again—more skin gone, more blood.

But his fingers touched the radio. Found the button.

Press it. Press it now.

Jake tried. His numb fingers wouldn't respond. Wouldn't press down with enough force. The button remained un-pushed, the signal unsent.

NO.

Rage flooded through him again. Pure, animal fury. He yanked against the ropes with everything he had left, his body bucking, muscles straining to the breaking point.

The rope didn't give.

His body did.

Something in his left shoulder popped—not dislocated, but close. Pain like lightning shot down his arm. Jake's muffled scream died behind the tape.

He lay still, panting, trembling. Tears leaked from under the duct tape covering his eyes, running down his filthy face.

Can't give up. Can't.

They're coming. They're coming for me.

Just have to hold on.

Thoughts of his family flickered through his mind like a fever dream. Mom's pot roast. Pops cursing over a hand of cards. Billy grinning as they raced their trucks across the back forty. Josh clapping him on the shoulder after a good day's work.

Rebecca. She'd be mad as hell when she saw what he'd done to his arms. Probably make him sit still while she cleaned every inch of raw skin with antiseptic, lecturing him the whole time.

I'll take the lecture. Just let me get home.

Jake positioned his fingers over the radio button one more time. He couldn't feel them. Couldn't feel anything but pain and numbness and exhaustion so deep it felt like drowning.

But he pressed.

Nothing happened.

He pressed again. And again. Numb fingers on a button he couldn't see, couldn't feel, couldn't confirm he was even hitting.

Please. Please work.

The darkness pressed in. The pain pressed in. The exhaustion pressed in.

And Jake Benson, the toughest son of a bitch in Kings County, kept fighting.

Because that's what Bensons did.

Chapter 7: Tracking the Ghost

Tom's phone buzzed just as the convoy was preparing to roll out.

Unknown number. Text message.

He opened it.

The first image loaded and Tom's blood turned to ice.

Jake. On the floor of some decrepit building. Hogtied so tight his back was arched, arms roped from wrists to shoulders, legs bent back and connected. Duct tape over his mouth and eyes. The ropes cutting into his skin.

"Jesus Christ," Tom breathed.

A second image. Same angle, closer. You could see the strain in Jake's body, every muscle rigid.

Then the message:

$500,000. Cash. 24 hours. Instructions to follow. No cops or he dies.

"POPS! WADE!" Tom shouted.

Everyone converged. Tom held up the phone. Sarah gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Pops stared at the image, his face turning purple with rage.

"Those motherless sons of bitches," Pops snarled, his voice shaking. "THOSE GODDAMN—"

"Half a million," Ray said, already calculating. "We can get it. Banks open in the morning, we can—"

"We ain't paying them shit," Pops roared. "We're getting Jake back and then we're making them pay."

Wade studied the photo, his lawman's eyes scanning every detail. "That's professional work. They've done this before."

"I don't give a damn if they're professionals," Billy said, his voice tight. "Where is he?"

"Billy Jr," Wade called toward Pops' truck. "You got Jake's truck location?"

"Yes, sir. Old Hutchins place. Eighteen miles east."

Tom looked at the photo again, at his son trussed up like an animal, and his jaw set like granite.

"Then let's go get him."

---

The convoy moved fast across the eastern sections, eight vehicles kicking up dust in the fading sunlight. In Pops' truck, Billy Jr's fingers flew across the iPad screen while his three friends monitored drone feeds and thermal imaging.

"GPS says the truck stopped at the old Hutchins place," Billy Jr said, zooming in on the map. "But I'm picking up another signal—phone signal. Burner phones, probably. About two miles west of the truck."

"Two separate locations?" Wade's voice crackled over the radio.

"Yes, sir. They dropped Jake somewhere and drove off to make the ransom call."

Pops took a long pull from his Jack Daniels bottle. "Smart bastards. Or they think they are."

"We hit the phone signal first," Wade said over the radio. "Take them alive. We need to know where Jake is."

"The hell we do," Pops muttered, cigar clenched between his teeth. "We got his truck location."

"Truck don't mean Jake's there," Wade said. "Could be a decoy. We need confirmation."

Billy Jr pulled up the coordinates. "Sending the location to everyone now. Old service station, abandoned. Three miles north."

The convoy adjusted course.

---

The service station materialized out of the scrub like a ghost—crumbling concrete, rusted pumps, windows long gone. The beat-up Ford sat out front, still warm.

Wade's hand went up. The convoy stopped, engines idling.

"Spread out. Surround the building. Nobody fires unless they fire first. We need them talking."

Twenty armed men fanned out in a loose perimeter. The wiz kids stayed in Pops' truck, eyes glued to their screens, launching the drones.

"I've got four heat signatures inside," Billy Renzo said, watching the thermal feed. "Ground floor, northeast corner."

Wade, Wilson, and Ryan moved to the front door, weapons drawn. Tom and Josh took the back. Robert Beaumont and the other consortium members held the perimeter.

"SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT!" Wade's voice boomed. "COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!"

Silence.

Then scrambling. Voices shouting inside.

"We know you're in there. You've got ten seconds before we come in."

The door burst open. The grizzled one came out first, hands raised, eyes wild. Then the driver. Then the two younger ones. All four armed but smart enough not to draw.

Wade's deputies had them on the ground in seconds, wrists cuffed, weapons confiscated.

Pops walked up, Jack Daniels in one hand, cigar in the other. He looked down at the driver like he was examining a pile of dog shit.

"Where's my grandson?" Pops asked, his voice quiet and deadly.

The driver spat. "Got our message, did you?"

Tom shoved his phone in the man's face, the photo of Jake visible. "You think this is funny?"

"I think it's business," the driver said. "Half a million gets him back. Simple transaction."

Pops' boot caught him in the ribs. Not hard enough to break anything. Hard enough to make a point.

"Pops!" Wade barked.

"WHERE IS HE?" Pops roared, all seventy-six years of Vietnam vet fury in that voice.

---

Miles away, in the darkness of the old house, Jake heard nothing of the confrontation.

His world had shrunk to three things: pain, exhaustion, and the sat radio button under his numb fingers.

One more time. Just one more time.

His forearms were hamburger. He could feel the blood—fresh blood now, not dried—where the rope had scraped him raw to the muscle. His shoulders had gone past screaming into a dull, grinding agony that radiated down his spine.

But his fingers were on the button.

He couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything anymore. But he knew where it was.

Press. PRESS.

Jake threw everything he had left into his hand. Every ounce of strength. Every bit of will. His fingers—dead, numb, useless fingers—pushed down.

The button clicked.

He felt it. Or thought he did. Or prayed he did.

Again. Make sure.

He pressed again. Held it down. Three seconds. Five seconds.

The mechanical voice would be broadcasting now. If it worked. If his numb fingers had actually pressed hard enough. If the battery hadn't died. If—

Stop. You did it. You had to have done it.

Jake tried to yell through the tape. Tried to make any sound that might carry over the open channel. All that came out were muffled, desperate grunts.

"Mmmppffff! Mmmppffff!"

Please hear me. Please.

His body went limp, every muscle giving out at once. He'd done all he could do.

Now it was up to them.

---

In Pops' truck, the drones swept the terrain around the old Hutchins place, thermal cameras searching.

"There," Ryan said, pointing at the thermal feed. "Heat signature. Single person. Inside the structure."

The drone zoomed in. The image resolved—a body on the floor, curled in an unnatural position.

"That might be him," Billy Jr said, his voice tight. "But I can't confirm—"

Every sat phone in the convoy erupted at once.

"911 Jake Benson. 911 Jake Benson. 911 Jake Benson."

The mechanical voice cut through everything. Then the channel opened.

Muffled sounds. Desperate, strained. "Mmmppffff! Mmmppffff!"

Jake. Trying to yell through the tape. Fighting to be heard.

Billy's face went white. "THAT'S HIM! THAT'S JAKE!"

"Billy Jr, location!" Wade barked.

"Signal's coming from the old Hutchins place! That heat signature—that's him!"

Pops didn't wait. He was already in his truck, engine roaring.

"GO! GO! GO!" Wade shouted.

Tom left the driver on the ground, sprinting for his vehicle. Billy and Celeb were already moving. The entire convoy abandoned the rednecks—still cuffed, still on the ground—and roared toward Jake's signal.

---

The muffled sounds continued over the open channel. Desperate. Exhausted. But alive.

"Hold on, Jake," Billy said into his radio, his voice cracking. "We're coming. Just hold on."

The convoy tore across the scrubland, engines screaming, dust clouds rising like pillars behind them.

Toward the old Hutchins place.

Toward Jake.

Chapter 8: The Rescue

The old Hutchins place rose out of the hollow like a rotted tooth—crooked walls, caved roof, windows empty as eye sockets. The convoy skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust, engines still running, headlights cutting through the growing darkness.

Wade was out first, weapon drawn. "Spread out! Secure the perimeter!"

But Billy didn't wait. He was running toward the house before Wade finished talking, Celeb right behind him. Billy Jr burst out of Pops' truck and sprinted after them.

"BILLY! JUNIOR!" Tom shouted, but he was running too. They all were.

Billy hit the doorway first, his flashlight sweeping the interior. The smell hit him like a fist—rot and decay and something else. Fear. Pain.

"JAKE!"

His light found him in the corner. A shape on the floor. Bent backward. Roped. Taped.

"Oh God. Oh Jesus, Jake—"

Billy dropped to his knees beside his brother. Billy Jr was right there, his face pale in the flashlight glow. Jake's body jerked at the sound, a muffled sound coming from behind the tape over his mouth.

"We're here. We're here, Uncle Jake. We got you," Billy Jr said, his voice cracking.

Tom was there, knife out, already cutting. "Easy. Hold still, son. We're getting you out."

The rope around Jake's ankles fell away first. His legs dropped to the floor, joints cracking. Jake's muffled groan was agony.

"His arms," Josh said, his voice tight. "Jesus Christ, look at his arms."

The ropes were embedded in Jake's skin, his forearms raw and bleeding, hair ripped away. His biceps were swollen against the binding, his hands purple and lifeless.

"Careful," Rebecca said, appearing beside them with her kit. "Don't move him too fast. His circulation's been cut off for hours."

Tom cut the rope binding Jake's ankles to his torso. Jake's back straightened slightly, another groan behind the tape.

"The tape," Billy said, reaching for Jake's face.

"Wait," Rebecca said. "Let me—"

But Billy was already peeling it away from Jake's eyes. One strip. Two. Three.

Jake's eyes opened, squinting against the flashlight beams. Bloodshot. Disoriented. But focused. Alive.

Rebecca carefully removed the tape from his mouth, working slowly to minimize the pain.

Jake sucked in a huge breath, coughing, gagging on the dust and his own dried saliva.

"Easy," Rebecca said. "Breathe slow. You're okay."

Tom was cutting the ropes around Jake's torso now, around his arms. Each loop that fell away revealed more damage—rope burns, raw skin, swelling.

"Can you feel your hands?" Rebecca asked.

Jake tried to move his fingers. Nothing. "No. Can't—can't feel anything."

"That's normal. Circulation's coming back. It's going to hurt like hell in a minute."

The last of the ropes fell away. Jake's arms dropped to his sides, dead weight. He gasped, tears streaming down his filthy face as blood rushed back into his limbs.

"I know," Rebecca said quietly. "I know it hurts. Just breathe."

Billy grabbed Jake's shoulder. Billy Jr gripped his uncle's boot, the only part he could reach in the crowd.

"You're okay. You're out. We got you," Billy said.

Jake's eyes focused on Billy, then swept the room. Tom. Josh. Celeb. Billy Jr kneeling beside him. Pops standing in the doorway, cigar in his mouth, tears running down his weathered face.

"Where..." Jake's voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "Where are they?"

"The bastards who took you?" Billy said. "We got 'em. Wade's got 'em cuffed."

Jake tried to sit up. His body wouldn't cooperate. Every muscle was locked, cramping, screaming.

"Don't," Rebecca said, hands on his chest. "You need to stay down. Let your body adjust."

"Where. Are. They." Not a question. A demand.

Tom looked at Wade, who'd appeared in the doorway.

"They're secure," Wade said. "Back at the service station. Under guard."

Jake's jaw set. Despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, despite everything—rage flickered in his eyes.

"I want to see them."

"Jake—" Tom started.

"I. Want. To. See. Them."

Pops stepped forward, Jack Daniels bottle in hand. He held it out to Jake.

"Drink first. Then we'll talk about what comes next."

Jake took the bottle with shaking, purple hands that barely functioned. He drank. The whiskey burned going down, but it was real. It was proof he was alive.

He handed the bottle back and looked at his father.

"Get me up."

"Son, you need medical attention—"

"GET. ME. UP."

Billy and Celeb moved in, lifting Jake to his feet. He swayed, his legs barely holding him. His arms hung useless at his sides. But he was standing.

"Take me to them," Jake said, his voice gaining strength. "Right now."

Wade looked at Tom. Tom looked at Pops. Pops took a long drag on his cigar and nodded.

"Get him in my truck," Pops said. "Boy's earned the right."

They half-carried Jake out of that house, into the clean night air, away from the darkness that had held him for hours. Billy Jr walked beside them, one hand on his uncle's arm.

But the darkness in Jake's eyes—that was coming with them.

And the rednecks were about to learn what it meant to kidnap a Benson.

Chapter 9: Reckoning

They half-carried Jake to Pops' truck. Rebecca was already climbing in beside him, her medical kit in hand.

"I'm coming with you," she said, not asking. Josh didn't argue.

Jake was wedged between Billy and Celeb in the back seat, Rebecca leaning over from the front with her kit open.

"Let me see those arms," she said as Pops started the engine.

"Rebecca, I'm fine—"

"The hell you are. Let me see them."

Jake held out his forearms. Even in the dim light of the truck, the damage was visible—raw flesh, blood crusted in the creases, patches where skin was just gone.

"Jesus, Jake," Rebecca breathed. "You scraped yourself down to muscle in places."

"Had to reach the radio."

"I know." She pulled out antiseptic and gauze. "This is going to sting."

"Everything stings right now."

She started cleaning, working quickly as Pops drove. The truck bounced over ruts and Jake hissed through his teeth, but Rebecca's hands stayed steady.

"You're lucky you didn't hit an artery," she said, wrapping gauze around his right forearm.

"Wasn't thinking about arteries."

"Clearly." She moved to the left arm, cleaning and wrapping. "You were thinking about that radio and nothing else."

"Got it pressed, didn't I?"

"You did." She secured the bandages with medical tape. "And I'm proud of you for that. But I'm still going to torture you with antiseptic when we get home."

"Can't wait," Jake said dryly.

Pops took a swig from his Jack Daniels bottle and passed it back. "Boy earned that bottle. Drink up."

Jake drank. The whiskey burned going down, but it was good.

Rebecca finished bandaging both arms, then sat back. "That'll hold until we get you home. But those bandages stay on, you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Billy Jr, squeezed in with the portable command center equipment, looked at his uncle. "You okay, Uncle Jake?"

Jake looked at the sixteen-year-old—his nephew who'd tracked him with drones and iPads, who'd been part of the rescue.

"I am now, Junior. Thanks to you and your tech."

Billy Jr nodded, trying not to show how much that meant to him.

The convoy pulled up to the service station. Wade's deputies had the four rednecks exactly where they'd left them—cuffed, zip-tied, sitting in the dirt against the crumbling wall.

The grizzled one looked up as Jake climbed out of the truck, and his face went pale.

"Oh shit," one of the younger ones whispered.

Jake walked forward, his bandaged forearms white in the growing darkness. Behind him, Billy carried the coil of rope—the same rope that had bound Jake for six hours.

The four kidnappers stared at him. At the bandaged forearms. The purple hands. The rope burns around his wrists. The hollow, dangerous look in his eyes.

"You tied me up and left me," Jake said quietly. "Now I'm returning the favor."

He took the rope from Billy. Grabbed the driver first, spinning him around so his cuffed wrists were accessible.

Jake wrapped the rope around the cuffs, cinching it tight. Then he ran the rope up—up the man's back, up to his neck. He looped it around the driver's throat and pulled.

The driver's arms were yanked up behind him, wrists forced high between his shoulder blades. The rope around his neck tightened. He gasped, choking, rising up on his toes to relieve the pressure.

"That's what it felt like," Jake said. "Couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Thought I was gonna die."

He held it there. Five seconds. Ten. The driver's face turned red, then purple.

Jake let the rope slacken. The driver collapsed forward, gasping.

"Jake," Wade said quietly. "That's enough."

Jake moved to the next one. The grizzled one. Same process. Rope around the cuffs, up to the neck, pull. The man choked, struggling, eyes bulging.

Jake held it. Let him feel it. Then released.

"Please—" one of the younger ones started.

"Did I say 'please'?" Jake asked. "Did that work for me?"

He did it to the third one. Then the fourth. Each one choking, terrified, understanding—finally understanding—what they'd done.

When Jake was done, he stepped back. The four men were on their knees, gasping, tears running down their faces.

"Wade," Jake said. "I think they tried to escape. Had to secure them better."

Wade walked over, eyeing the ropes still looped around their necks and cuffs.

"Yep," Wade said. "Attempted escape. Had to restrain them." He pulled out his knife and cut the ropes from their necks, leaving just the cuffs. "There. Much more secure now."

He looked at Jake. "You done?"

"Yeah," Jake said. "I'm done."

Pops walked up beside Jake, Jack Daniels bottle in hand. He took a long drink, then offered it to Jake.

Jake drank. The whiskey burned, but it was good.

"Let's go home," Jake said.

And they did.

Chapter 10: Homecoming

The ranch house blazed with lights when the convoy pulled in, every window lit up like Christmas. Sarah stood on the porch, her hand pressed to her mouth, tears already streaming down her face as Jake climbed out of the truck.

"Mom," Jake said, and that's all he got out before she had him in a hug, careful of his bandaged arms.

"My boy. My boy." She pulled back, looking him over. "Are you—"

"I'm okay, Mom. I'm okay."

The women had transformed the dining room into exactly what Rebecca had planned—a field hospital ready for anything. But Jake was walking, talking, and demanding food.

"Sit," Rebecca ordered, pointing at a chair. "I need to redo those bandages properly."

"After dinner," Jake said.

"Now."

They compromised. Rebecca re-cleaned and re-wrapped his arms while Sarah heated up what was left of the pot roast she'd been keeping warm for hours. The antiseptic burned like hellfire and Jake cursed through gritted teeth, but Rebecca didn't let up.

"Told you I'd torture you with this," she said, dabbing at the raw flesh. "Should've listened when I said don't scrape your arms to hamburger."

"Would you rather I stayed tied up?"

"No. But I reserve the right to make you suffer for it now."

---

By the time Rebecca finished, the dining room and kitchen were packed. The Nelsons, the Beaumonts, the Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes—everyone who'd been part of the rescue. Sarah and Mary Nelson had the food laid out buffet-style: what was left of the pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, a platter of cold cuts and cheese, rolls, two pies. Coffee brewing by the gallon.

Jake got the pot roast. Sarah loaded his plate herself—the last of it, extra gravy, three rolls.

"There wasn't enough for everyone," Sarah said apologetically to the room. "But there's plenty of everything else."

"Jake earned the pot roast," Wade said, making himself a sandwich with the cold cuts. "Nobody's complaining."

"Damn right he did," Pops agreed, building his own sandwich—three kinds of meat stacked high.

Jake sat at the head of the dining table, Billy on one side, Celeb on the other. Tom and Josh took seats nearby with their own plates. The wiz kids clustered together at the kitchen table with Anna and Edna, working through sandwiches and pie, still running on adrenaline.

Pops walked in with his sandwich plate, a cigar already lit, and four bottles of Jack Daniels under his arm.

"Don't you light that thing in my house, old man," Sarah said, but there was no heat in it. Not tonight.

"Woman, my grandson just survived a kidnapping. I'll smoke where I damn well please." But he moved to the doorway between the dining room and kitchen, leaning against the frame, plate in one hand, cigar in the other. He set the four bottles on the counter. "And I'm sharing the good stuff tonight."

He started pouring—generous measures into coffee cups, juice glasses, whatever was handy. Passed them around to every man in the room. Even the wiz kids got healthy pours that made their eyes widen.

"Pops—" Sarah started, seeing how much he was giving the sixteen-year-olds.

"They helped save Jake. They're drinking tonight." His tone left no room for argument.

She pressed her lips together but nodded.

Wade raised his cup. "Hell of a day."

"Hell of a day," Tom agreed, taking a long sip of straight Jack and cutting into his sandwich. "Could've been worse."

Billy Jr took his first real drink of whiskey and coughed, his eyes watering. "Burns," he wheezed.

"That's how you know it's working," Pops said, grinning and refilling the boy's cup before he could protest.

Ryan and Daniel exchanged glances and drank deep. More coughing. Billy Renzo was already giggling, his face flushed red.

"Could've been a lot worse," Josh said, watching Jake. "If he hadn't gotten to that radio..."

"But he did," Billy said firmly, taking another drink, his words already loosening. "Because he's stubborn as hell."

"Runs in the family," Sarah said from the kitchen, her voice thick with emotion. She accepted her own small pour from Pops—much smaller than what the men got.

Pops made the rounds, topping off cups that were still half full. "Drink up. We're celebrating tonight."

Rebecca sat beside Josh, her own cup of Jack-laced coffee warming her hands. "I've seen a lot of injuries working at the hospital. But what Jake did to his arms..." She shook her head and took a drink. "That took guts."

"And stupidity," Jake said, grinning, raising his cup. "But mostly guts."

The room laughed. Pops refilled Jake's cup.

Mary Nelson was pouring coffee—but Pops was right behind her, adding Jack to every cup. "When that 911 went out and we heard Jake's voice—even muffled like that—I've never seen men move so fast."

"Pops nearly ran me over getting to his truck," Billy Jr said, his second cup already half empty, his cheeks bright red. He was grinning wide, starting to feel the alcohol.

"Damn right I did," Pops said, pouring the boy another generous measure. "Nobody takes a Benson. Nobody."

"Pops, they're sixteen," Sarah said weakly.

"And they're heroes. Heroes drink." He moved to Ryan, Daniel, and Billy Renzo, topping them all off. The boys were giggling now, whispering to each other, everything suddenly hilarious.

Robert Beaumont raised his coffee cup, sloshing slightly. "Here's to the consortium. Worked exactly like we planned."

"Better than we planned," Wade said, his own speech starting to slur just slightly. "Those boys with their drones and GPS—" He gestured toward the wiz kids with his cup. "Made my job easy."

Billy Jr tried to respond but dissolved into giggles. Ryan was explaining something about thermal imaging but couldn't get through it without laughing. Daniel had his head on the table, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Billy Renzo was just grinning at nothing, his eyes glazed.

Anna looked at her brother with concern. "Billy, maybe—"

"I'm fine!" Billy Jr said, far too loud, then giggled again. "Everything's fine. Everything's great."

Pops laughed and clapped the boy on the shoulder. "That's the spirit."

"What did you do to those men?" Caroline Beaumont asked carefully. "After you found Jake?"

The room went quiet—or as quiet as it could with four drunk teenagers trying to stifle giggles.

Jake set down his fork. "Let them feel what I felt. For about thirty seconds each. Then Wade cut them loose."

"Attempted escape," Wade said flatly, taking another sip. "Had to restrain them. That's my story."

"Good story," Pops said, grinning around his cigar, pouring more Jack into Wade's cup without asking.

The conversation flowed looser now, words slurring, laughter coming easier. Pops kept the bottles moving—filling, refilling, topping off. By the time plates were empty and pie was served, everyone was at least buzzed. The wiz kids were beyond buzzed—they were drunk, giggling at everything, leaning on each other for support.

Billy told the story of finding Jake's tools, his words running together. Tom talked about the ransom photos, gesturing wildly with his cup. The wiz kids tried to explain the drone operation but kept dissolving into laughter, unable to finish sentences.

Pops held court in the doorway, working through his sandwich and his Jack, cigar smoke wreathing his head. He poured freely, generously, keeping everyone's spirits—and cups—full.

By the time he pulled out his box of cigars, everyone was ready.

"Alright. Boys. Frat house. Now." He waved the cigar box and grabbed the bottles—still a quarter full each.

"Pops—" Sarah started, but even she was buzzed enough not to put up much fight.

"They earned it," Pops said simply.

Jake, Billy, Celeb, and Louisiana stood, swaying slightly. Billy Jr tried to stand and nearly fell over. Ryan caught him, both of them laughing hysterically. Daniel and Billy Renzo were holding each other up, tears streaming down their faces from laughing.

"Oh lord," Rebecca muttered.

"One night," Sarah said, waving them off. "Just... don't let them die."

"Yes, ma'am," came the chorus—slurred, enthusiastic, completely sincere.

They stumbled out—seven young men, four of them barely able to walk straight, all of them grinning like idiots. Pops led the way, steady as a rock despite having drunk as much as anyone, bottles in one hand, cigars in the other.

The frat house door closed behind them.

And the real celebration began.

---

Inside the frat house, Pops handed out cigars to everyone. The wiz kids took them with reverence, holding them like sacred objects.

"How do we—" Billy Jr started.

"Watch me," Pops said. He lit his own, puffed, demonstrated. Then he went around lighting theirs one by one.

The wiz kids coughed immediately. Billy Jr turned green. Ryan was laughing and coughing at the same time. Daniel just stared at his cigar like it had betrayed him. Billy Renzo puffed enthusiastically and nearly threw up.

"Just puff, don't inhale," Pops said, grinning. "You'll get the hang of it."

He poured more Jack—heavy pours into every cup and mug he could find. The room filled with smoke and the smell of whiskey.

"Alright," Pops said, settling into the chair. "Jake. Tell us everything."

Jake leaned back, cigar in one hand, cup in the other, his bandaged arms propped on his knees. The room was hazy with smoke. The wiz kids were giggling in the corner, barely able to hold their cigars.

And Jake told his story.

By the end, Billy Jr was crying drunk tears, his cigar forgotten. Ryan and Daniel were leaning on each other, eyes glazed. Billy Renzo had given up on the cigar entirely and was just drinking, hiccuping occasionally.

"You boys," Pops said, looking at the four drunk, smoke-wreathed teenagers with fierce pride. "You're honorary Bensons now."

"Yes, sir," they slurred in unison.

Jake looked around the room—his brothers, his nephew, all of them drunk and happy and loyal. The smell of smoke and whiskey and brotherhood.

"To family," Jake said, raising his cup.

"To family!"

They drank until the bottles were empty and the cigars were ash and the wiz kids were passed out on bunks, grinning in their sleep.

And Jake Benson was home.