Chapter 1: Louisiana Arrives

The Amtrak pulled into Hanford Station at 2:47 PM, fifteen minutes late like always. Celab Beaumont leaned against his pickup, arms crossed, watching passengers stumble down the steps into the brutal Texas afternoon heat. He spotted his cousin immediately—tall kid, seventeen, lugging a duffel bag that looked like it weighed more than he did.

"Colt!" Celab called out, pushing off the truck.

His cousin's face broke into a grin. "Celab! Man, it's good to see you!"

They met halfway with the kind of back-slapping hug that family gives when they haven't seen each other in over a year. Colton had his daddy's build, lean and rangy, with eyes that were always looking for the next adventure.

"How was the ride from Louisiana?" Celab asked, grabbing the duffel and tossing it in the truck bed.

"Long as hell. But I'm here now." Colton climbed into the passenger seat, already grinning at the gun rack mounted behind them. "Is that a—"

"Remington 870. Mine. We got better ones at the ranch." Celab fired up the engine. "Uncle Robert and Aunt Caroline are dying to see you. Then we'll head over to the Bensons for the BBQ."

"Sounds perfect."

The drive took twenty minutes, cutting through Kings County's endless sprawl of scrubland and cattle pasture. Celab filled Colton in on ranch life—the consortium, the work, and most importantly, living at the Benson ranch in what everyone called the frat house.

"Wait, you don't live with your parents?" Colton asked.

"I do, technically. But I bunk at the Bensons' most nights. It's me, Billy, Jake, and Billy Jr. all in one room. Two bunk beds. It's like being back in college, except with better guns and worse hygiene."

Colton laughed. "That sounds amazing."

"It is. Wait till you meet Jr. You two are gonna get along like a house on fire."

Robert and Caroline were waiting on the porch when they pulled up to the Beaumont ranch. Caroline came running before Colton even got the door open.

"Colton! Oh, it's so good to see you, honey!" she cried, pulling him into a warm hug.

"Good to see you too, Aunt Caroline." Colton grinned as she released him.

"Let the boy breathe, Caroline," Robert said, stepping forward with his hand out. "Welcome to Texas, Colton. How was the ride?"

"Long, but worth it, Uncle Robert." Colton looked around at the sprawling property. "This place is incredible."

"Wait till you see the Benson spread," Robert said. "Makes ours look like a starter home. Speaking of which, we got a BBQ over there in an hour. Whole consortium's coming out to meet you."

"Six families," Celab added. "Basically everyone who matters in Kings County."

Caroline fussed over Colton for the next twenty minutes, making sure he'd eaten, asking about his folks back home, and reminding him at least three times to behave himself. Finally, Robert shooed them off.

"Go on, get out of here. Show him the Benson place before your aunt talks his ear off."

The Benson Ranch house rose up from the horizon like something out of an old Western—sprawling, white-painted wood, with a wraparound porch that had seen generations of boots and brandy. Celab parked out front next to a row of trucks.

"This is it," Celab said. "Home away from home."

Billy Jr. came jogging out before they'd even made it to the porch. He was sixteen, lean and sun-browned, with the kind of easy confidence that came from growing up on a working ranch.

"You must be Colton," Jr. said, sticking out his hand. "I'm Billy Jr. Celab's told me all about you."

"All good things, I hope," Colton said, shaking firmly.

"Mostly." Jr. grinned. "Come on, let me show you around before everyone gets here."

The three of them headed inside. Jr. gave Colton the grand tour—the kitchen where Grandma Sarah ruled with an iron skillet, the living room with its massive stone fireplace, the gun room that made Colton's eyes go wide.

"This is the armory?" Colton asked, staring at the racks of rifles and shotguns.

"Part of it," Jr. said. "Pops has more in the basement. He's got stuff from Vietnam you wouldn't believe."

Then Jr. led them upstairs to the frat house.

"This," Jr. said, throwing open the door, "is where the magic happens."

The room was exactly what Celab had described—two bunk beds crammed into a space that smelled like boot leather, gun oil, and teenage ambition. Clothes were piled in corners. A Texas flag hung on one wall. Hunting magazines were stacked on a rickety nightstand.

"Bottom bunk's mine," Jr. said, pointing. "I share with Billy. Celab and Jake got the other one."

"It's perfect," Colton said, and he meant it.

"Oh, and check this out." Jr. pushed open the door to the room next door. "This is the command center."

Colton stepped inside and his jaw dropped. The room was packed with equipment—satellite phones, encrypted radios, monitors showing drone feeds, tablets mounted on the walls. It looked like mission control for a small military operation.

"We just dropped fifty grand upgrading this," Jr. said proudly. "Me and my buddies built the whole network. Six families, all connected. Hit the 911 button and everyone in the consortium hears it. We got thermal imaging drones, encrypted comms, the works."

"This is insane," Colton said, running his hand over one of the tablets. "Y'all are serious out here."

"Six families, half of Kings County," Celab said. "You got to be."

By 5 PM, the BBQ was in full swing. Trucks filled the gravel lot. The smell of mesquite smoke and brisket hung thick in the air. Colton met what felt like the entire population of Kings County.

Tom and Sarah Benson welcomed him like family. Ray, the business manager, shook his hand. Josh, Jr.'s daddy and the general manager, immediately asked if Colton knew how to shoot. Rebecca promised to keep the boys out of trouble—"or at least patch them up when they get into it."

Billy and Jake Benson came over together, as they always did, matching grins and Stetsons tilted at the same cocky angle.

"So you're the Louisiana kid," Jake said, looking him up and down. "Celab says you can ride."

"Horses or quads?" Colton shot back.

Billy laughed. "I like him already."

"Too bad we can't join you boys tomorrow," Billy said to Celab. "Jake and I got fence work out on the north pasture."

"All week," Jake added with a grimace. "Boss's orders."

"And I got cattle inventory," Jr. said, appearing at Billy's elbow. "Dad's got me counting heads in the south section all day tomorrow."

Josh walked up with a beer in hand. "Celab, I'm giving you the week off. No pay, but you deserve some time with your cousin. Show Louisiana here what Texas is really about."

"Appreciate it, Josh," Celab said, grinning. "We'll make good use of it."

"Just don't get yourselves killed," Josh said. "Rebecca would have my hide if I had to patch you two up."

The Nelson family arrived next—Sheriff Wade, his wife Mary, and their kids. Edna, Billy's girlfriend, waved from across the yard. Wilson and Ryan, the deputy sheriffs, gave Colton approving nods when they heard he could shoot.

But it was Pops who made the biggest impression.

The old man sat in a rocker on the porch, a cigar clamped between his teeth and a tumbler of brandy sweating in his hand. He was seventy-six, wiry as barbed wire, with a face like worn leather and eyes that still saw everything. He'd served two tours in Vietnam, and everyone knew not to ask him about it unless they wanted a story that would either make them laugh or give them nightmares.

"Who's this skinny-ass kid?" Pops barked as Colton approached with Jr. and Celab.

"Pops, this is Colton, Robert and Caroline's nephew," Celab said. "Visiting from Louisiana for spring break."

Pops squinted at him through a cloud of cigar smoke. "Louisiana, huh? You know how to shoot, boy, or you just know how to eat gumbo and play pretend cowboy?"

Colton grinned. "I can shoot, sir."

"Don't call me sir. I work for a living." Pops took a long pull from his cigar. "You ever been hogtied by the Viet Cong and left in a ditch to die?"

"Pops—" Tom started.

"No, sir—uh, no, Pops," Colton stammered.

"Then you don't know shit about tough. But we'll fix that this week." Pops grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "Welcome to Texas, Louisiana."

Jr. leaned over and whispered, "He likes you. If he didn't, he wouldn't bother insulting you."

"Louisiana," Celab repeated, laughing. "That's your name now."

And just like that, it stuck.

By the time the sun started to set, Colton had eaten his weight in brisket, met every family in the consortium, and worked up the nerve to ask the question that had been on his mind since he saw the frat house.

He found Tom Benson by the grill, flipping ribs.

"Mr. Benson? Sir?"

"Call me Tom, son. What's on your mind?"

"Well, I was wondering..." Colton glanced over at Jr. and Celab, who were watching with matching grins. "Would it be alright if I bunked in the frat house with the guys this week? I mean, if it's not too much trouble—"

Tom laughed, a deep booming sound. "Trouble? Hell, boy, you think we'd let you stay anywhere else? You're family. Besides, those boys need another soul to keep 'em from burning the place down."

"Really?"

"Really. Sarah!" Tom called over his shoulder. "Colton's bunking with the boys!"

Sarah appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. "Of course he is. Just don't let Pops teach him too many curse words, you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

Jr. clapped him on the back. "Welcome to the frat house, Louisiana."

That night, after the families had cleared out and the fire pit had burned down to embers, the four of them—Colton, Celab, Billy, and Jake—gathered in the frat house. Jr. had headed off to his bunk already, promising to catch up with them in the morning before work.

"Alright, Colt," Celab said, kneeling down by one of the bunks. "Time to show you the good stuff."

"Good stuff?" Colton watched as Celab pried up one of the floorboards with a pocket knife.

Billy grinned. "Oh, you're gonna love this."

Celab reached into the gap and pulled out a six-pack of beer. Then another. Then a third.

Colton's eyes went wide. "Holy shit. Where'd you get all that?"

"Pops," Billy said, laughing at Colton's expression. "He stocks us up. Says if we're gonna drink, better we do it here where we're safe than out driving around getting into trouble."

"Your great-grandfather supplies you with beer?" Colton said, still staring at the three six-packs now sitting on the floor.

"Damn right I do," came a voice from the doorway.

They all jumped. Pops stood there, cigar in one hand, fresh six-pack in the other.

"Jesus, Pops, you scared the shit out of us," Jake said.

"Good. Keeps you on your toes." Pops tossed the six-pack to Celab. "That one's getting warm down in the basement. Figured the Louisiana boy might want a proper welcome." He fixed Colton with that sharp gaze. "You drink beer, boy, or are you one of those sissy wine cooler types?"

"I drink beer, Pops."

"Good. Don't tell your aunt Caroline. She'll have my ass." Pops turned to leave, then paused. "And boys? Keep it in the house. I catch any of you drunk behind the wheel, I'll whip your asses myself. Clear?"

"Yes, Pops," they chorused.

He grunted and disappeared down the hall.

"That just happened," Colton said.

"Welcome to Texas," Celab said, cracking open a beer and handing it to him. "Pops takes care of his boys."

They settled in, passing around the beers. The initial shock wore off and Colton found himself laughing harder than he had in months.

"Wish we could go hunting with you two tomorrow," Billy said. "But Jake and I got fence work all damn day."

"And I got cattle to count," Jr. called from his bunk. "Dad's making sure I earn my keep."

"Sucks to be y'all," Celab said. "Me and Colt are taking the mule quad out past the south pasture. Maybe bag a couple of hogs."

"Lucky bastards," Jake muttered. "Josh giving you the whole week off?"

"Yep. No pay, but worth it."

Jr. raised his beer from his bunk. "To Louisiana. May he survive his first week in Texas."

"To Louisiana," they echoed, clinking bottles.

Colton stretched out on the bottom bunk they'd made up for him, staring at the ceiling and listening to the easy banter of his cousins and new friends. Outside, a coyote howled in the distance. The ranch settled into its nighttime rhythms.

This was going to be one hell of a week.

He fell asleep grinning.

They did not know that by this time tomorrow, Colton and Celab would be tied up.

Chapter 2: The Hunt

The morning came too early and smelled like coffee and bacon grease.

Colton woke to the sound of boots on hardwood and Billy's voice drifting up from downstairs. "Jr., get your ass moving or you're gonna be late!"

He blinked at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented, then remembered—Texas. The frat house. The beer stash. Pops' yellowed grin.

"Morning, Louisiana," Celab said from the bunk above. "Sleep good?"

"Like the dead."

"Good. We got a long day ahead." Celab swung down from the top bunk, already dressed in jeans and a faded work shirt. "Get your boots on. Grandma Sarah's got breakfast ready."

Downstairs, the kitchen was chaos. Sarah moved between the stove and the counter like a general commanding troops, flipping pancakes and scrambling eggs while barking orders at anyone within earshot. Billy and Jake sat at the table, shoveling food into their mouths. Jr. was attempting to tie his boots while simultaneously eating toast.

"Sit," Sarah commanded, pointing at two empty chairs. "Eat. You're not going anywhere on an empty stomach."

Colton didn't argue.

Twenty minutes later, stuffed with eggs, bacon, and enough coffee to power a small truck, he and Celab loaded up the mule quad. Celab strapped down two rifles—his Remington and a borrowed Winchester for Colton—along with water, ammo, and a first aid kit.

"Radio," Celab said, clipping the consortium satellite radio to his belt and tucking it under his shirt. "Jr.'s rule. Never leave without it."

"Does it work out there?"

"Everywhere. Satellite connection. Works anywhere in the world. That's why we spent the money on these things."

Billy and Jake came out to see them off, both looking envious.

"Bring back a hog," Jake said. "A big one. I want to see Pops' face when you drag it in."

"Will do," Celab said, firing up the quad. "Try not to die of boredom fixing fence."

"Fuck you," Jake called, grinning.

Colton climbed on behind Celab, gripping the roll bar as they roared out of the lot and into the open pasture. The morning air was cool, but the sun was already climbing, promising another scorcher of a day.

They rode for over an hour, cutting through scrubland and dry creek beds, past herds of cattle that barely looked up as they passed. Celab knew the land like the back of his hand, pointing out landmarks—the old water tower, the line of cottonwoods that marked the southern boundary, the rocky outcrop where Jr. had shot his first buck.

"This is all Benson land?" Colton asked, shouting over the engine.

"This and about ten thousand acres more. Plus the consortium shares grazing rights with the other families. It's a whole network out here."

They stopped once to glass a distant ridge, looking for movement. Celab handed Colton a pair of binoculars.

"Hogs like to root around in the low spots this time of day. See that gulley? Good place to check."

Colton scanned the terrain, feeling the weight of the rifle across his lap. This was different from hunting back home—wilder, bigger, more open. He liked it.

"There," Celab said, pointing. "Two o'clock. See 'em?"

Colton adjusted the binoculars. Three dark shapes moved through the brush, rooting and snorting. Wild hogs.

"Let's go," Celab said.

They cut the engine fifty yards out and approached on foot, moving slow and quiet. Celab took the lead, rifle up, every movement deliberate. Colton followed, heart pounding, trying to remember everything his daddy had taught him about tracking and shooting.

But before they could get into range, the hogs spooked—something upwind—and bolted into the thicker brush.

"Shit," Celab muttered. "Let's circle around. They'll settle down in a few minutes."

They moved east, following a game trail that wound through mesquite and prickly pear. The sun climbed higher. Sweat started to soak through Colton's shirt.

That's when they smelled it.

Chemical. Sharp. Wrong.

Celab stopped, frowning. "You smell that?"

"Yeah. What is it?"

"I don't know. But it ain't natural." Celab's hand moved to the radio at his belt, then hesitated. "Let's check it out. Might be nothing."

They moved forward, cautious now, rifles ready. The smell got stronger. Then they heard voices—low, tense, speaking Spanish.

Celab held up a fist. Stop.

They crouched behind a stand of mesquite and peered through the branches.

Ahead, in a small clearing, sat an old cabin—half-collapsed, forgotten, the kind of place that hadn't seen legitimate use in decades. But it was busy now. Three men moved around a makeshift table covered in plastic containers, propane tanks, and tubing. Bags of white powder were stacked against the cabin wall. A truck was parked nearby, engine off, doors open.

Meth lab.

Colton's breath caught. He looked at Celab, whose face had gone hard.

Celab reached slowly for his radio.

That's when the fourth man stepped out from behind the cabin, saw them, and shouted.

"¡Mierda! ¡Alguien está aquí!"

Everything happened fast.

The men scrambled for weapons. Celab and Colton bolted, crashing through the brush back toward the quad. Shouts erupted behind them. An engine roared to life.

"Run!" Celab yelled.

They made it twenty yards before the truck cut them off, skidding sideways in a cloud of dust. Two men jumped out, rifles raised.

"¡Alto! ¡No se muevan!"

Celab and Colton froze.

Another man came up behind them, breathing hard, pistol aimed at Celab's back. "Drop the guns. Now."

They dropped them.

"Hands up. On your knees."

They knelt.

Colton's mind raced. The radio. Celab still had the radio. If he could just—

But rough hands were already yanking them forward, wrapping rope around their wrists and cinching it tight. Then their elbows. Then their biceps, binding everything until Colton's shoulders screamed.

"Who are you?" the man with the pistol demanded. He was older, scarred, with cold eyes that had seen worse things than two kids stumbling onto his operation.

"Nobody," Celab said. "We're just hunting. We didn't see nothing."

"Bullshit." The man leaned in close. "Where you from?"

"Beaumont ranch," Celab said. "My family. We were just—"

"Beaumont?" The man's eyes narrowed. He turned to one of the others and spoke rapid Spanish. The other man nodded, looking nervous.

"Benson ranch too," one of them said, pointing at Celab's shirt—a faded Benson Cattle Co. logo on the chest.

The leader cursed. "Tie their legs. Gag them. We're taking them to the cabin."

Colton tried to twist away, but hands shoved him face-down into the dirt. Rope bit into his ankles, then pulled back—hogtied, ankles to wrists, until he could barely move. Duct tape slapped across his mouth, then over his eyes, plunging him into darkness.

He heard Celab grunting beside him, then felt himself being lifted and thrown. He hit something hard—truck bed—and the engine roared.

They drove for what felt like forever but was probably only minutes. When the truck stopped and they were dragged out, Colton could smell that chemical stench again, stronger now.

The cabin.

They were dumped on a hard floor. A door slammed. Voices argued in Spanish outside.

Colton lay there in the dark, heart hammering, trying to breathe through his nose. His shoulders burned. His wrists throbbed. But somewhere under his panic, a thought surfaced.

Celab still had the radio.

The satellite radio that worked anywhere in the world.

If they could just get a moment alone, if Celab could reach the button—

But for now, they waited.

In the dark.

Tied up.

Hoping someone would realize they were missing before it was too late.

Chapter 3: Radio Silence

Billy Jr. wiped the sweat from his forehead and squinted at the sun. Nearly noon. He'd been counting cattle in the south section since seven that morning, and his ass was sore from riding fence lines on horseback.

He pulled out his consortium radio and keyed the mic. "Celab, you copy? How's the hunt going?"

Static.

He frowned and tried again. "Celab? Colt? Y'all bag anything yet?"

Nothing.

Probably just out of range, Jr. told himself. The radios were satellite—they worked everywhere—but sometimes the terrain played hell with the signal. Or maybe they had it on mute while they were stalking.

He clipped the radio back to his belt and got back to work.

By three o'clock, Jr. was done with his count and headed back to the ranch house. He'd tried the radio twice more on the ride in. Still nothing.

He found his dad in the barn, working on a tractor engine.

"Hey, Dad. You heard from Celab today?"

Josh looked up, wiping grease from his hands. "Not since this morning. Why?"

"I've been trying to raise him on the radio. No response."

Josh shrugged. "They're probably deep in the brush. You know how it is out there."

"Yeah, probably." But Jr. couldn't shake the uneasy feeling in his gut.

He headed up to the command center and powered up one of the tablets. The consortium network showed all active radios—little green dots on a digital map. He found his own dot at the ranch house. Billy and Jake were up on the north pasture. His granddad Ray was in town.

But Celab's radio wasn't showing.

Jr. frowned. That didn't make sense. The radios had GPS tracking built in. Even if Celab had it on mute, it should still show his location.

Unless it was turned off.

Or destroyed.

Jr. shook his head. He was being paranoid. Celab probably just forgot to charge it, or the battery died. It happened.

He tried the radio one more time. "Celab, this is Jr. If you can hear me, give me a call when you get back in range."

Static.

Jr. set the radio down and tried to focus on his homework. But every ten minutes, he found himself checking the tablet, looking for that green dot that wouldn't appear.

By five o'clock, Jr. was genuinely worried.

He found Pops on the porch, cigar in hand, watching the sun dip toward the horizon.

"Pops, you seen Celab and Colt come back yet?"

"Nope." Pops took a long drag. "They said they'd be back by dark. Still got a couple hours."

"I've been trying to radio them all day. No answer."

Pops' eyes sharpened. "All day?"

"Since noon. And his GPS isn't showing on the network."

Pops was on his feet before Jr. finished the sentence. "Get your daddy. Get Tom. Now."

Ten minutes later, half the ranch was mobilized. Josh, Tom, Pops, Jr., Billy, and Jake loaded into two trucks with rifles, radios, and flashlights.

"Where were they headed?" Tom asked.

"South pasture," Jr. said. "Past the old water tower. Celab said they were going after hogs."

"That's a big area," Josh said. "We'll split up. Tom, you take the east trail. I'll take west. Jr., you're with me. Keep trying that radio."

They drove hard, headlights cutting through the gathering dusk. Jr. kept the radio keyed, calling Celab's name over and over.

Nothing.

Then, just after six, they found it.

The mule quad, parked in a clearing near a dry creek bed. Both rifles still strapped to the roll bar. Water bottles untouched. No sign of Celab or Colton.

Tom pulled up beside them, and everyone climbed out.

"Rifles are still here," Billy said, his voice tight. "They wouldn't leave without their guns."

Jr. knelt by the quad, examining the ground. Boot prints. Lots of them. And tire tracks—not from the quad. A truck.

"Pops," Jr. called. "Look at this."

Pops crouched beside him, running his fingers over the tracks. His face went hard.

"They were taken," Pops said quietly.

"What?" Josh's voice cracked.

"Look at the tracks. At least four, maybe five men. They came in a truck, surrounded the boys, and took them." Pops stood, his jaw clenched. "And there's rope fibers here. Duct tape residue. They tied them up."

Tom grabbed his radio. "All units, this is Tom. We have a situation. Celab and Colton have been taken. I repeat, they've been taken. Everyone back to the ranch house. Now."

Jr.'s hands were shaking as he hit the emergency button on his radio—the big red 911 that activated the entire consortium network.

The mechanical voice echoed across every radio in Kings County:

"911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Billy Jr."

And in the background, from the ranch house thirty miles away, they all heard it:

Caroline Beaumont's scream.

Within twenty minutes, the Benson ranch house was packed.

Every family in the consortium had arrived—trucks skidding into the gravel lot, men and women piling out with grim faces and ready hands. The command center upstairs was lit up like Christmas, tablets glowing, radios crackling.

Robert Beaumont stood in the living room, his face ashen, one arm around Caroline, who was sobbing into his chest.

Sheriff Wade Nelson arrived with his deputies, Wilson and Ryan, all three armed and ready.

"Talk to me," Wade said, his voice calm but steel-hard. "What do we know?"

Josh laid it out—the missing radio contact, the abandoned quad, the tire tracks and rope fibers.

"Someone took them," Josh said. "We don't know who or why, but they're tied up somewhere."

"Ransom?" Wade asked.

"Maybe. Or they saw something they weren't supposed to."

Wade's jaw tightened. "Drug runners. We've had reports of cartel activity moving through the county. Meth labs in the back country."

"Then we find them," Robert said, his voice shaking with barely controlled rage. "We get my nephew and Celab back. Now."

"We will," Wade said. "But we need to be smart about this. If it's cartel, they're armed and dangerous. We can't just—"

That's when Jr.'s tablet pinged.

Everyone turned.

Jr. stared at the screen, his face pale. "I just got a text. From Colton's phone."

"What does it say?" Tom demanded.

Jr. didn't answer. He just turned the tablet around.

The image showed two boys—Celab and Colton—hogtied on a dirty floor, duct tape over their mouths and eyes, their faces already bruised.

Below the image, a single line of text:

$500,000. Instructions to follow. No police.

Caroline's scream echoed through the house.

Chapter 4: The Button

Inside the cabin, Colton had lost all sense of time.

Minutes? Hours? He couldn't tell. The duct tape over his eyes turned everything into suffocating darkness. The tape over his mouth made every breath a struggle through his nose. The rope binding his wrists, elbows, and biceps cut deep, and the hogtie pulled his ankles back until his spine screamed.

But worse than all of that was not knowing where Celab was.

He could hear voices outside—harsh Spanish, arguing. Footsteps on the cabin floor. The scrape of furniture. But no sound from his cousin.

Then he felt it.

A vibration against the floor. Close. Maybe three feet away.

Someone else was here. Had to be Celab.

Colton tried to make noise through the tape, a muffled grunt. The vibration stopped, then started again—rhythmic. Deliberate.

Celab was trying to communicate.

The vibration came again. Then again. And Colton realized what it was.

The radio.

Someone was calling them. Jr., probably. Or one of the others. The satellite radio clipped to Celab's belt was on mute, vibrating silently with incoming calls, over and over.

But Celab couldn't answer. Not with his hands bound behind him, hogtied like Colton. Not with the cartel members right outside the door.

The calls kept coming. Colton counted the vibrations. Five. Six. Seven.

Then they stopped.

Silence.

Time crawled by. Colton's body ached. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. Sweat soaked through his shirt. The chemical smell from the meth operation made his head pound.

Then the door opened.

Footsteps. Two men, speaking rapid Spanish. One of them kicked Colton's boot. He grunted.

"Still alive," one said in accented English. "Good. Boss wants pictures."

Rough hands grabbed Colton and rolled him onto his side. He heard the click of a phone camera. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then the same sounds from across the room. Celab getting photographed too.

"Send them," the voice said. "Let the families see what happens when you fuck with our business."

The door slammed. Footsteps faded.

Silence again.

Colton's mind raced. Pictures meant ransom. Ransom meant the families would know they were alive. But it also meant these men were serious. They weren't going to let them go.

Not without getting paid.

Or worse.

Time passed. Minutes. Maybe an hour. Colton drifted in and out of panic, forcing himself to breathe, to stay calm, to think.

Then he heard movement across the room.

Shuffling. Grunting. Celab was trying to move, trying to reach something.

The radio.

If Celab could just get his bound hands to the button on his belt—if he could trigger the 911 alert himself—the GPS would broadcast their location to every tablet and radio in the network.

More shuffling. A muffled curse through the tape. The sound of Celab straining against the ropes, his body twisting, trying to reach the button clipped under his shirt.

Colton held his breath, listening.

A click.

Then—silence.

Had he done it? Had Celab hit the button?

Colton waited. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.

Then he felt the vibration again. Three sharp bursts.

The emergency broadcast was going out.

At the Benson ranch house, chaos erupted.

Every radio in the building went off at once—eighteen satellite radios, all screaming the same mechanical message:

"911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Celab."

The sound was deafening. Everyone in the command center grabbed for their devices. Jr. lunged for the nearest tablet, his fingers flying across the screen.

"I got him!" Jr. shouted. "I got his GPS! He's—"

The screen flashed red. A location marker appeared on the map.

"South ridge. Old Hutchins cabin. About eight miles past where we found the quad."

Jr. was already moving, barking orders at his three buddies who'd been monitoring the system. "Billy Renzo, get drone one in the air. Daniel, drone two. Ryan Mattern, pull up the thermal imaging feed. I want eyes on that cabin in three minutes."

"On it!" The boys scattered to their stations, pulling controllers from cases, powering up screens.

Wade stepped forward. "I want full surveillance before we go in. Heat signatures, vehicle count, building layout. Everything."

"You'll have it, Sheriff," Jr. said, his hands flying across a tablet. He grabbed the stack of iPads they'd prepared for exactly this kind of situation. "Eighteen tablets. Everyone gets one. Live feed from all drones, GPS tracking, encrypted comms."

He started distributing them—one to Wade, one to Wilson, one to Ryan Nelson, one to Josh, one to Tom, one to Pops, one to Robert. The other consortium members each took one. The wiz kids kept the rest at the command center.

"Drones launching now," Billy Renzo called out.

On every tablet screen, two video feeds appeared—one from each drone, racing across the darkening landscape toward the coordinates.

Robert stepped forward, his face pale but determined. "I'm coming."

"Robert—" Tom started.

"That's my nephew out there," Robert said, his voice shaking. "I'm coming."

Wade looked at him, then nodded. "Fine. But you follow orders. This goes bad, I need everyone sharp. Understood?"

"Understood."

Pops chambered a round into his rifle. "We go in quiet. Vietnam style. Surround them, cut off exits, then breach on my signal."

"Your signal?" Wade raised an eyebrow.

"You want your boys alive? You follow me." Pops' eyes were hard as steel. "I've done this before. Trust me."

Wade hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. You take point on tactics. But I'm in command. Clear?"

"Crystal."

"Drone one approaching target," Daniel called out. "Thirty seconds."

Every eye in the room locked on the tablets.

The drone's camera showed the cabin coming into view—a ramshackle structure with a sagging roof, one truck parked outside, lights flickering through the gaps in the walls.

"Thermal imaging online," Ryan Mattern said. "Switching feeds now."

The image changed to heat signatures. Six figures inside the cabin—four moving around, two stationary. Hanging.

Jr.'s stomach clenched. "That's them. Celab and Colton. They're strung up."

Caroline let out a sob. Sarah held her tighter.

"Vehicle count?" Wade asked.

"One truck outside," Jr. said. "Looks like a Ford F-250. Texas plates but I can't make out the numbers from this angle."

"How many hostiles?"

"Four confirmed inside. Thermal's showing them armed—looks like rifles and handguns."

Wade turned to the group. "Four armed men. Two hostages suspended. We need to move fast before they relocate."

"Drone two in position," Billy Renzo said. "Covering the back exit."

Jr. pulled up a tactical overlay on the tablets. "One door in front, one window on the west side, back door on the east. No other exits visible."

Pops studied the feed. "We go in three teams. Team one—me, Tom, and Billy—take the front. Team two—Wade, Wilson, and Ryan—cover the back. Team three—Josh, Robert, and Jake—secure the perimeter and the truck. Jr., you and your boys stay on the drones. Guide us in."

"Yes, sir."

"Load up," Wade said. "Weapons hot. Rules of engagement—if they point a gun at you or the hostages, you drop them. No hesitation. Understood?"

A chorus of "Yes, sir" echoed through the room.

As the men grabbed rifles, tactical vests, and extra magazines, Jr. stayed glued to his screen, watching the thermal signatures inside the cabin.

One of the figures approached the two hanging bodies.

Jr.'s blood ran cold. "They're hitting them again. We need to move. Now."

Back in the cabin, Celab lay perfectly still, his heart hammering.

He'd done it. He'd hit the button.

But he'd also made noise doing it. And the radio was still vibrating against his side—the confirmation signal that the emergency broadcast had gone through.

Please don't hear it, Celab prayed. Please don't—

The door burst open.

"¿Qué fue eso?" a voice shouted. "I heard something. Check them!"

Boots stomped across the floor. Hands grabbed Celab, rolling him over roughly.

"He's got a radio! Fuck, it's transmitting!"

"¿Qué?" The leader's voice, sharp and furious. "How long?"

"I don't know—it's showing an active emergency signal—"

The leader cursed, a long string of Spanish obscenities. "They know where we are. Destroy it. Now."

The radio was ripped from Celab's belt. The sound of it smashing against the wall. Once. Twice. Plastic shattering.

"Cut the hogties," the leader barked. "String them up. We're sending one more message, then we're moving them."

No. No, no, no.

Rough hands grabbed Colton's ankles. The rope connecting them to his wrists was cut, and the relief was immediate and agonizing. His legs straightened, blood rushing back into cramped muscles.

But the relief didn't last.

He was dragged across the floor, then lifted. His bound wrists were looped over something—a hook? A beam?—and suddenly his full weight was hanging from his arms. His feet barely touched the floor.

He heard Celab being strung up beside him.

Then the blows started.

Fists to the stomach. The ribs. The face. Colton couldn't block, couldn't dodge, couldn't do anything but hang there and take it. He tasted blood through the tape over his mouth.

Beside him, Celab grunted with each hit.

"Take pictures," the voice said. "Show them what happens. Then we load them in the truck and go."

Camera clicks. Flash through the duct tape over Colton's eyes.

"How long do we have?" one of the men asked.

"If they're smart? Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. Enough time to teach these boys a lesson and get the hell out."

More blows. More pictures.

Then the door slammed.

Colton hung there, gasping for air through his nose, his entire body screaming. Blood dripped from his nose onto his shirt. His ribs throbbed. Every breath hurt.

But through the pain, one thought kept circling.

Celab had done it.

He'd hit the button.

Help was coming.

They just had to stay alive long enough for it to arrive.

Chapter 5: Extraction

The convoy of four trucks tore through the night, headlights off, guided only by the GPS coordinates on their tablets and Pops' iron nerve behind the wheel of the lead vehicle.

Jr. and his three buddies rode in the trucks—one wiz kid per vehicle—tablets glowing in their laps, providing real-time updates from the drones circling overhead.

"Target in two miles," Jr.'s voice crackled over the encrypted radios. "Thermal shows all four hostiles still inside. Celab and Colton are still hanging. No movement from them for the past three minutes."

In the lead truck, Pops' jaw tightened. "They're unconscious or close to it. We need to move faster."

"Heat signatures from the truck engine," Billy Renzo reported from the second vehicle. "It's warm. They're planning to move."

"How long?" Wade asked.

"Engine's been running within the last ten minutes. Could bug out any second."

Wade keyed his radio. "All teams, we go in hot. No time for slow approach. Pops, you still got point?"

"Damn right I do."

"One mile out," Jr. said. "Cutting the feed to half-brightness on your tablets. Don't want the glow giving you away."

The trucks slowed as they approached, rolling to a stop a quarter mile from the cabin. The men piled out silently, checking weapons, adjusting vests, pulling on night vision goggles.

Pops gathered them in a tight circle, speaking in a harsh whisper. "Billy Renzo, keep that drone on the front door. Daniel, back door. Ryan Mattern, you're our eyes on the whole perimeter. Jr., you coordinate. Any of those fuckers so much as twitches toward an exit, you sing out."

"Yes, sir."

Pops turned to the assault teams. "Team one—me, Tom, Billy—we take the front. Flash bangs through the window, then breach the door. Team two—Wade, Wilson, Ryan Nelson—you stack on the back door. Wait for my signal, then breach simultaneous. Team three—Josh, Robert, Jake—you disable that truck first, then cover the perimeter. Nobody gets out. Clear?"

"Clear."

Robert's hands were shaking as he checked his rifle. Josh put a hand on his shoulder. "We're getting them back, Robert. Hold it together."

"I know. I know." Robert took a breath. "Let's go."

They moved through the darkness like ghosts.

Pops led team one in a wide arc, approaching the cabin from the west. Wade's team circled east to the back door. Josh's team split off toward the truck.

Jr. watched it all unfold on his tablet, the thermal overlay showing his family moving into position like pieces on a chessboard.

"Team three in position at the vehicle," Jake's voice came through. "Slashing tires now."

The soft hiss of air escaping. Four tires, gone in seconds.

"Vehicle disabled," Josh confirmed.

"Team two at the back door," Wade whispered.

"Team one at the front," Pops said. "Jr., give me an update. Where are the hostiles?"

Jr. studied the thermal feed. "Two hostiles near the front room. One at the back. One... shit, one's with the boys. He's hitting them again."

Pops' voice went cold. "Flash bangs in ten seconds. Wade, you breach on my bang. Three... two... one..."

The night exploded.

Flash bangs shattered through the cabin windows—front and side—the concussive BANG echoing across the valley. Even a quarter mile away, Jr. felt it in his chest.

"GO GO GO!" Pops roared.

The front door splintered under Tom's boot. Pops was through first, rifle up, night vision painting the chaos inside in shades of green.

Two men stumbling, blinded and deafened by the flash bangs. Pops put two rounds in the first one's chest before the man even knew which way was up. Tom took the second with a controlled pair to center mass.

The back door crashed open. Wade and his deputies poured through.

The third hostile was bringing his rifle up when Wilson hit him—three shots, tight group, the man went down hard.

"Clear back!" Wade shouted.

"Clear front!" Pops answered.

"Where's number four?" Billy yelled.

A gunshot cracked from deeper in the cabin.

"He's with the hostages!" Jr. screamed over the radio.

Pops and Tom charged through the interior doorway.

The fourth man—the leader—stood between Celab and Colton's hanging bodies, pistol raised, wild-eyed and desperate.

"¡Atrás! Back! I'll kill them!"

Pops didn't hesitate. The man's gun was pointed at the ceiling, not at the boys. Half a second of opportunity.

The rifle barked once.

The leader dropped.

"CLEAR!" Pops shouted. "Hostiles down! Get these boys down NOW!"

Tom and Billy rushed forward, knives out, cutting the ropes holding Celab and Colton suspended. Robert burst through the door just as Colton collapsed into Billy's arms.

"Colton! COLTON!"

"He's alive," Billy said, easing the boy to the floor. "He's breathing. Get that tape off him."

Tom worked on Celab, peeling away the duct tape over his eyes and mouth. Celab sucked in a desperate breath, coughing, blood on his lips.

"Easy, son. Easy. You're safe now. You're safe."

Robert tore the tape from Colton's face with shaking hands. "Colton, can you hear me? It's Uncle Robert. We got you. We got you."

Colton's eyes fluttered open, unfocused, confused. "Uncle... Robert?"

"Yeah, buddy. Yeah. You're safe now."

Wade was on his radio. "All hostiles neutralized. Hostages recovered. We need medical. Rebecca, you copy?"

"Copy," Rebecca's voice came through, steady and professional. "Bringing the med kit to your location. ETA five minutes."

Wilson and Ryan Nelson swept the rest of the cabin, clearing rooms, checking bodies. "All four hostiles confirmed down," Wilson reported. "No other occupants."

Jr. and the wiz kids came sprinting up the trail, tablets still in hand, breathless.

"Are they okay?" Jr. asked, sliding to his knees next to Celab.

"Rope burns, contusions, maybe a cracked rib or two," Tom said, examining Celab's wrists. "But they're alive."

Celab looked up at Jr., tried to grin through split lips. "Told you... the radios... work everywhere..."

Jr. laughed, a shaky sound that was half relief, half hysteria. "You scared the shit out of us, man."

"Sorry..."

Pops knelt beside Colton, checking his pupils with a small flashlight. "You did good, Louisiana. Real good. Most men would've panicked. You kept your head."

"Pops..." Colton's voice was raw. "They... they were gonna..."

"I know. But they didn't. You're tough. Tougher than you knew." Pops patted his shoulder. "Welcome to Texas, kid. For real this time."

Rebecca arrived with the medical kit, Josh right behind her. She worked quickly and efficiently, checking vitals, cleaning wounds, wrapping rope burns in gauze.

"No serious injuries," she announced after ten minutes. "Mostly soft tissue damage. They'll be sore as hell for a week, but nothing's broken. We'll take them back to the ranch, keep an eye on them overnight."

"What about the cabin?" Wade asked, looking around at the meth lab equipment. "The drugs?"

"I'm calling it in to DEA and the state police," Wade said. "This is cartel work. They'll want to process the scene. But the boys come first."

"Damn right they do," Pops said.

They loaded Celab and Colton into the back of Josh's truck, Rebecca riding with them to monitor their condition. Robert sat beside his nephew, one hand on Colton's shoulder, unwilling to let go.

Caroline was waiting when they pulled into the Benson ranch, tears streaming down her face. She pulled Colton into a crushing hug the moment he climbed out of the truck.

"Don't you ever—EVER—scare me like that again!"

"Yes, ma'am," Colton mumbled into her shoulder.

Sarah had hot soup ready. The boys were installed on the couch in the living room, wrapped in blankets, surrounded by the entire consortium.

Pops handed Celab a tumbler of brandy. "You earned this."

Celab took it with shaking hands, sipped, coughed. "Thanks, Pops."

Pops turned to Colton. "You too, Louisiana."

"I'm seventeen—"

"You got kidnapped by the cartel and lived. You're drinking brandy. That's final."

Colton took the glass.

Jr. sat on the floor next to them, tablet still in his lap, watching the drone feeds as the state police descended on the cabin.

"That was insane," Jr. said quietly. "All of it."

"Yeah," Celab agreed. "Thanks for... you know. Coming to get us."

"That's what family does," Jr. said.

Pops raised his own glass. "To family. To the consortium. And to Louisiana—who's now officially one of us."

"To Louisiana," the room echoed.

Colton looked around at the faces—his family, old and new—and felt something settle in his chest. Pride. Belonging.

"To Texas," he said, raising his glass.

They drank.

Chapter 6: Welcome to Texas

Three days later, the Benson ranch was alive with celebration.

The rope burns on Colton's wrists had faded to angry red lines. The bruises on his ribs were turning yellow-green. Celab moved without wincing now, though he still favored his left side. Rebecca had cleared them both—nothing permanent, just the kind of damage that would make for good stories later.

And now, finally, they had something worth celebrating.

Two massive wild hogs hung from the processing rack behind the barn, already dressed and quartered. Colton and Celab had gone back out that morning—with Jr., Billy, and Jake as backup, and strict orders from Caroline not to leave each other's sight—and bagged them both within an hour.

"Damn fine shooting, Louisiana," Pops had said when they dragged the hogs in. "Knew you had it in you."

Now the hogs were cooking low and slow over mesquite coals in the massive pit behind the ranch house. The smell alone was enough to draw every family in the consortium.

By five o'clock, trucks filled the gravel lot. Kids ran wild through the pastures. The women gathered in the kitchen, helping Sarah with sides. The men stood around the fire pit, beers in hand, telling stories that got taller with each retelling.

Colton found himself at the center of more attention than he'd ever wanted.

"So when they tied you up," Wilson Nelson asked, "did you think you were gonna die?"

"Wilson," Wade said sharply.

"No, it's okay," Colton said. He thought about it. "Maybe for a minute. But then I figured... Celab's got that radio. Jr. built that whole network. If anybody could find us, it'd be y'all."

"Damn right," Jr. said, appearing at his elbow with a Coke. "Fifty grand in equipment. About time it paid off."

"Best investment we ever made," Tom said, clapping Jr. on the shoulder.

The hogs came off the pit at six, the meat falling off the bone. Sarah and the women had laid out enough sides to feed an army—coleslaw, potato salad, baked beans, cornbread, biscuits. The long tables in the backyard groaned under the weight of it all.

Pops stood at the head of the main table and raised his beer. "A toast," he said, his gravelly voice cutting through the chatter. "To Celab and Louisiana. Who survived what most men wouldn't. And to this consortium—six families who proved that when one of us is in trouble, all of us answer. That's what makes us strong."

"Hear, hear!" The chorus echoed across the yard.

They ate like they'd been starving. The hog was perfect—smoky, tender, with just the right amount of char. Colton had never tasted anything better.

"You did good, Colt," Celab said quietly beside him. "Real good."

"We both did."

After dinner, someone brought out a guitar. Billy picked it up, strumming a few chords, and soon half the consortium was singing—old country songs, ranch songs, the kind of music that had been passed down through generations of Texas families.

Colton didn't know all the words, but he hummed along, feeling the warmth of the fire and the family around him.

Then Pops stood up.

"Louisiana," he called out. "Come here."

The singing stopped. Everyone turned.

Colton walked over, suddenly nervous.

Pops disappeared into the house and came back carrying something wrapped in an old blanket. He set it on the table and unwrapped it carefully.

A rifle. Winchester Model 70. The wood polished to a deep shine, the metal perfectly maintained, the kind of weapon that had seen real use and real care.

"This," Pops said, "was my rifle in Vietnam. Carried it through two tours. Saved my ass more times than I can count." He picked it up, checked the action, then held it out to Colton. "Now it's yours."

Colton's throat tightened. "Pops, I can't—"

"You can and you will. You earned it. You survived something most men twice your age wouldn't have. You kept your head. You trusted your family." Pops pressed the rifle into his hands. "Welcome to Texas, Louisiana. For real this time."

Colton took the rifle, feeling the weight of it, the history. Around him, the consortium erupted in applause.

"Thank you, Pops," Colton managed.

"Don't thank me. Just take care of it." Pops grinned. "And now you gotta prove you can shoot it."

"Oh shit," Jake said, laughing. "Here we go."

They set up targets in the back pasture—tin cans on fence posts, paper targets stapled to hay bales, a few clay pigeons for good measure. Floodlights from the trucks lit up the makeshift range.

"Alright," Pops announced. "Shooting competition. Best out of ten shots. Winner gets bragging rights and first pick of the leftover hog."

"I'm in," Billy said immediately.

"Me too," Jake added.

"Obviously," Celab said.

One by one, they stepped up. Billy shot well—seven out of ten. Jake matched him. Celab, still sore, managed six. Tom got eight. Josh got seven. Even Robert took a turn, hitting five and looking pleased with himself.

Then it was Colton's turn.

He loaded Pops' rifle—his rifle now—felt the smooth action, the perfect balance. The crowd went quiet. All eyes on the Louisiana kid.

He breathed steady. Squeezed the trigger.

Ting. Can down.

Again. Ting.

Ten shots. Ten hits.

The consortium erupted in cheers.

"Holy shit," Jake said. "Louisiana just smoked us."

"Not yet," Jr. said, stepping up with his own rifle. "My turn."

Jr. was calm, methodical, every bit the marksman his daddy had trained him to be. He lined up his shots with the precision of someone who'd been doing this since he could hold a rifle.

Ting. Ting. Ting.

Ten shots. Ten hits.

"Tie!" Billy shouted. "We got a tie!"

"Shootoff," Pops declared. "Moving targets. Clay pigeons. Best out of five."

Jake loaded the thrower. "Y'all ready?"

Colton and Jr. stood side by side. Jr. grinned at him. "Don't hold back, Louisiana."

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Pull!"

The first clay sailed through the air. Both rifles cracked simultaneously. Both clays shattered.

"Pull!"

Again. Double hit.

Three. Four. Five.

Every single clay broken by both shooters.

The crowd was losing its mind.

"What now?" Wade asked.

Pops stepped forward, laughing. "Now we call it a draw and declare both of them champions. Jr. and Louisiana—best shots in Kings County."

More cheers. Jr. clapped Colton on the back. "Not bad for a kid from Louisiana."

"Not bad for a Texas ranch boy."

They walked back to the fire pit together, rifles slung over their shoulders, grinning like fools.

As the celebration continued, the women drifted toward the house with the younger kids, leaving the men around the fire pit. Tom brought out a bottle of Jack Daniel's, and the mood shifted to something quieter, more solemn.

"Alright, boys," Pops said, eyeing Colton, Jr., Billy, Jake, and Celab. "You've earned a seat at this fire. Come on."

The five of them gathered with the men—Tom, Josh, Wade, Robert, Wilson, Ryan Nelson, Ray. Pops poured Jack into tumblers and passed them around. When he got to Jr. and Colton, Caroline appeared in the doorway.

"Pops, they're—"

"They're men who survived the cartel," Pops said flatly. "They drink with the men. You got a problem with that, take it up with me later."

Caroline looked at Robert, who nodded slowly. She pressed her lips together but retreated into the house.

Pops handed Colton a tumbler. "Don't sip it like a damn wine cooler. Drink it like a man."

Colton took a drink. The whiskey burned all the way down, making his eyes water. He coughed.

"There you go," Pops said, grinning. "That's how you know it's working."

The men settled into their chairs, the fire crackling between them. Stories started flowing—old war stories from Pops, ranch disasters from Tom, crazy arrests from Wade. The Jack made the rounds.

"I still can't believe you hit that button," Jr. said to Celab. "Hogtied, in the dark, with those assholes right outside."

"Didn't have a choice," Celab said. "It was that or hope they'd just let us go. And that wasn't happening."

"Damn right it wasn't," Wade said. "DEA processed that cabin. Those men had priors. Long ones. They weren't letting you boys walk out of there."

Colton took another drink, the whiskey going down easier this time. "When they strung us up... that's when I thought we were done."

"But you weren't," Pops said. "Because your family came. That's the difference between surviving and dying—having people who'll come through hell to get you back."

"Amen," Robert said quietly.

The conversation drifted to lighter topics—the quality of the hog, the shooting competition, plans for the summer. Colton felt the warmth spreading through his chest, and he wasn't sure if it was the Jack or the sense of belonging.

After his third pour, Colton was feeling loose, comfortable. He leaned back in his chair and looked at Pops.

"You know what, Pops? That whole thing was fucked up."

The fire pit went silent.

Then Pops threw his head back and laughed—a deep, booming sound that echoed across the pasture.

"There it is!" Pops slapped his knee. "There's the first one! Took you long enough, Louisiana!"

The men erupted in laughter. Jr. was practically falling out of his chair.

"What'd I say?" Colton asked, confused.

"Your first curse word," Billy said, grinning. "We've been waiting for it all week."

"Technically he said 'shit' earlier," Jake pointed out.

"That doesn't count," Pops said. "That was in the moment. This was deliberate. This was a man speaking his mind." He raised his glass. "To Louisiana. Who finally learned how to talk like a Texan."

"To Louisiana!"

They drank.

Colton felt his face flush, but he was grinning. "Well, it was fucked up."

"Damn right it was," Celab said, clinking his glass against Colton's.

Later, as the fire burned down to embers and the men started heading inside, Colton found himself alone on the porch with Pops one more time.

"Hell of a week," Pops said, the familiar refrain.

"Yeah. Fucked up, but hell of a week."

Pops grinned. "See? Sounds natural already." He took a long drag on his cigar. "You coming back?"

"Summer. Definitely."

"Good. We'll have more adventures. Hopefully ones that don't involve the cartel."

"That'd be nice."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the stars.

"Pops?" Colton said.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For the rifle. For the Jack. For... treating me like I belong."

Pops looked at him with those sharp old eyes. "You do belong, Louisiana. You proved that. You kept your head, you trusted your family, and you survived. That makes you one of us." He paused. "And you finally learned how to curse properly. That seals the deal."

Colton laughed. "Aunt Caroline's gonna kill me when I get home."

"Probably. But it'll be worth it."

Inside, they could hear the boys calling. "Colt! You coming? Last night in the frat house!"

Colton stood, steadier on his feet than he expected given three glasses of Jack. "Coming!"

Pops watched him go, that slight smile on his weathered face.

The kid would be alright.

Hell, the kid was already alright.

Welcome to Texas, indeed.

Wednesday, October 22, 2025

Louisiana