Wet manila rope shrinks by approximately 10-15% when it dries. This shrinkage is due to the natural fibers swelling with water and then tightening as they dry. The largest change occurs the first time the rope gets wet, and it will be more stable afterward.
Chapter 1: Taken
Billy Benson wiped the sweat from his forehead and squinted at the fence line. Three more posts to reset before he could head back to the ranch house. The south pasture was a goddamn oven in late August, and he was out here alone because Jake had taken the ATV to help Celeb with the water troughs on the east side.
He didn't hear them coming.
The first blow caught him behind the knees, dropping him hard into the dirt. Before he could yell, a hand clamped over his mouth and something rough—burlap, maybe—got shoved against his face.
"Got him! Move!"
Billy thrashed, trying to twist free, but there were at least three of them. Strong hands yanked his arms behind his back. He felt rope bite into his wrists—quick, tight, efficient. Not the careful knots Jake tied when they were fooling around as kids. This was mean.
"Shut up and you might live through this, Benson."
That voice. Billy knew that voice.
Christ. Marcus Doyle.
Marcus and his cousins—Shane and Brett—had been fired from the consortium six months back for being lazy shits who spent more time drinking beer in the barn than actually working. Tom had given them three warnings. Pops had told them to get the hell off the property and not come back.
They threw Billy face-down in the bed of a pickup, tied his ankles, and tossed a tarp over him. The engine roared to life.
Billy's radio was still clipped to his belt, but with his hands bound behind him, he couldn't reach it. His phone was in his front pocket—might as well be on the moon.
The truck bounced over rough terrain for what felt like twenty minutes before hitting smooth asphalt. Then they just drove. And drove.
Billy tried to keep track of time, of turns, of anything that might help. After the first hour, he gave up. It was hot under the tarp, hard to breathe, and his shoulders were screaming from the position.
He could hear them talking in the cab, voices drifting back through the open rear window.
"...fifty grand each, man. Easy money."
"You think they'll actually pay?"
"Are you kidding? That consortium's got money coming out their ass. Half a mil is nothing to them."
"What if they don't?"
"Then pretty boy back there learns what it feels like to really suffer. Either way, we're gonna make them sweat."
Laughter. The sound made Billy's stomach turn.
They're going to kill me. Even if the family pays, they're going to kill me.
More driving. The sun was setting—Billy could tell by the temperature drop and the angle of light bleeding through the tarp's weave. He tried to think. Tried to plan. But there was nothing. No weapon. No way to signal. No idea where he was.
Finally, the truck slowed and turned onto what sounded like gravel. Then dirt. They stopped.
"End of the line, Billy boy."
The tarp got ripped off. Billy blinked in the dimness—twilight, a clearing, and behind them an old barn that looked like it hadn't been used in a decade. Boards missing. Roof sagging. Middle of nowhere.
Shane hauled him out of the truck bed and cut the rope on his ankles. "Walk."
Billy's legs barely held him. They shoved him forward, into the barn. It smelled like rot and old hay and something dead in the walls.
Marcus grinned at him. "Welcome to your new home, asshole. Hope you like it, 'cause you're gonna be here a while."
Billy glanced at the three of them—Marcus, Shane, Brett. All in their twenties. All stupid enough to think this would work.
"You're making a mistake," Billy said, his voice rough. "My family—"
"Your family's gonna pay up or watch you die. That's how this works."
Shane shoved him toward a wooden post in the center of the barn. "Now shut the hell up. We got work to do."
Billy's heart hammered. He looked around for an exit, a weapon, anything.
There was nothing.
Just an old barn, three angry men, and the long drive back to a ranch that felt impossibly far away.
Chapter 2: The Trap
"Strip him down," Marcus said.
Billy twisted away, but Brett grabbed him from behind while Shane yanked at his shirt. They tore it off, then his boots, his jeans. Left him in nothing but his boxer shorts and the dirt on his skin.
The barn was stifling. No breeze. Just dead air and the smell of decay.
"What the hell are you—"
"Shut it." Marcus slapped him hard across the face. "You talk when we tell you to talk."
They shoved Billy face-down onto the filthy barn floor. Dust and bits of old hay stuck to his sweating skin.
Brett came over with coils of rope. Not the synthetic stuff they used on the ranch. This was manila—thick, rough, natural fiber. The kind that swelled when it got wet.
Billy's stomach dropped.
Oh, Christ. No.
"Hold him down."
Shane pressed a knee into Billy's back while Brett started wrapping. The rope went around his chest first—tight bands that made it hard to take a full breath. Then his arms, pinned to his sides and wrapped again and again. His wrists, bound together behind his back.
Marcus worked on his legs. Rope around his thighs. His knees. His calves. His ankles. Every wrap was methodical, deliberate, cruel. Billy could feel the pattern—like a spider spinning a web around its prey, layer after layer.
Billy tried to struggle, but there was no give. The rope was already tight—too tight. He could barely move. Just his fingers and toes. Everything else was locked down.
"Almost done, Billy boy," Marcus said, stepping back to admire their work. "You look real pretty like that."
Shane laughed. "Like a goddamn spider wrapped him up for dinner."
Billy's face was pressed against the dirt. He could feel every inch of the rope—across his chest, his back, his arms, his legs. It was everywhere. A web holding him in place.
"One more thing." Brett grabbed Billy's jaw, forced his mouth open, and shoved a wadded-up sock inside—Billy's own sock. Billy gagged, tried to spit it out, but Brett tied a strip of cloth around his head to keep it in.
"There. Now you can't scream for help." Brett patted his head. "Not that anyone's gonna hear you out here anyway."
Marcus crouched down beside Billy's head, his face close. "Now here's the fun part, Billy. You know what happens to manila rope when it gets wet?"
Billy's eyes went wide.
"It swells up. Absorbs the water. Then when it dries..." Marcus grinned. "It shrinks. About fifteen percent, give or take. Gets real tight. Real uncomfortable."
No. No, no, no.
"Shane, grab that rope and pull his ankles up."
Shane yanked Billy's bound ankles upward, bending his legs back. Brett threaded another length of manila rope from Billy's ankles to his wrists, pulling everything together until Billy was bowed backward in a hogtie. His back arched painfully, his shoulders screaming.
They tied it off with about an inch of slack. Just enough that Billy wasn't in agony yet.
Just enough to let the shrinking rope do the work later.
"Perfect," Marcus said. "Now get the hose."
No. Please, God, no.
Shane dragged a garden hose from the corner of the barn. Marcus turned the nozzle on full blast, soaking Billy from head to toe. Cold water poured over his hair, his face, his back. They drenched every inch of rope, saturating it completely.
Billy could feel it immediately—the water seeping into the fibers, the rope swelling slightly, tightening just a fraction more against his skin.
Marcus crouched down again, right in Billy's line of sight. "We tied you up real tight. Soaked you good. And now..." He checked his watch. "You got about twenty hours before that rope squeezes the life out of you. Maybe less, depending on how hot it gets in here."
Billy's heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst.
Shane pulled out Billy's phone from the pile of clothes. "Smile for the camera, asshole."
The flash went off. Once. Twice. Three times. Different angles. Billy bound and dripping, face-down in the dirt, eyes wild above the gag.
"Perfect. Your family's gonna love these."
Brett was already typing on the phone. "How much we asking for again?"
"Five hundred K. Split three ways." Marcus stood, slipping the phone into his pocket. "They'll pay. And if they don't..." He shrugged. "Well, Billy here's gonna have a real bad day."
They headed for the door.
"Wait!" Billy tried to shout, but it came out as nothing. A desperate, muffled sound.
Marcus glanced back. "Relax, Benson. If your family's smart, they'll pay up and we'll come cut you loose. If they're not..." He smiled. "Well, you better hope they love you."
The barn door slammed shut.
Billy was alone.
The first hour was the worst kind of quiet.
Billy could hear everything—his own breathing, ragged and fast through his nose. The creak of the barn settling. The faint rustle of something in the rafters. Maybe bats. Maybe rats.
His skin was still damp, but the heat was already working on it. He could feel the water evaporating, the rope starting to dry.
It didn't hurt yet. Not really. But he could feel it. The pressure. The tightness. The hogtie pulling his body into an arch. His shoulders ached. His back burned. And the rope... the rope was everywhere.
They're coming. Jake and Pops and Wade. They'll figure it out. They have to.
But what if they didn't? What if the Doyles just took the money and left him here? What if they couldn't find him in time?
Billy tested the ropes. Pulled against them. Tried to twist his wrists free.
Nothing. They didn't budge. Not even a millimeter.
He was stuck. Bound like a fly in a web. And the spider was coming.
The rope was coming.
He closed his eyes and tried to think of something else. Home. The frat house. Jake's stupid laugh. Edna's smile. Pops sitting on the porch with a glass of whisky, telling war stories and cursing up a storm.
I'm gonna see them again. I have to.
But deep down, in the part of his brain he didn't want to listen to, a voice whispered:
What if you don't?
The rope tightened.
Just a little.
But enough.
Chapter 3: 911
Tom Benson was in the equipment barn checking the combine when his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.
Billy Benson - Incoming Message
Relief washed over him. Billy had been off the radio net since noon, and it was pushing six o'clock. Tom had been trying not to worry—the kid probably just forgot to charge his radio again—but still.
He opened the message.
The photo loaded.
Tom's blood went cold.
Billy. Tied up. Soaked. Face-down on a dirt floor, rope everywhere, eyes wide with terror above a gag.
"Jesus Christ."
Tom's hands shook as he swiped to the next photo. Same scene, different angle. Then another. Billy arched backward in a hogtie, every muscle straining.
A text followed:
We have your boy. $500,000 cash or he dies. Manila rope shrinks 15% when it dries. He's got less than 24 hours. Instructions coming. No cops or he's dead.
Tom's vision blurred. His chest felt like it was caving in.
He ran.
The ranch house was a quarter mile away. Tom sprinted the whole distance, phone clutched in his fist, lungs burning.
He burst through the front door. "Sarah! Pops! Where the hell is everyone?"
Sarah came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "Tom, what—"
"Billy's been taken." His voice cracked. "They have Billy."
Her face went white.
"Where's Pops? Where's Jake?"
"Pops is on the back porch with Jr. Jake and Celeb are out near the—"
Tom was already moving. He shoved through the back door onto the wide covered porch. Pops was sitting in his chair, a glass of whisky in one hand and a cigar in the other. Billy Jr. sat on the railing, laughing at something Pops had just said.
"Pops. Jr." Tom's voice was steel. "We got a problem."
Pops looked up, eyes sharp despite the whisky. One look at Tom's face and he was on his feet. "What happened?"
Tom held out his phone. "They took Billy."
Jr grabbed the phone first. His face went from confusion to horror in two seconds flat. "Grandpa—"
Pops snatched the phone, looked at the photos, and his entire body went rigid. The cigar dropped from his fingers.
"Those motherfucking sons of bitches." His voice was low, deadly. "Who? Who the fuck did this?"
"I don't know yet. Text says $500K. No cops." Tom's hands were shaking. "Manila rope. It shrinks when it dries. They're torturing him."
Jr didn't hesitate. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his encrypted satellite phone, and hit the red button on the side.
The mechanical voice activated immediately, loud and clear across the consortium network:
"911 Emergency. Billy Benson. 911 Emergency. Billy Benson. 911 Emergency. Billy Benson."
The message would repeat on every radio, every phone, every device connected to the network. Within seconds, everyone in the consortium would know.
Pops drained his whisky in one swallow and slammed the glass down on the table. "Get everyone here. Now. I don't give a shit what they're doing—drop it and get here."
"I'm calling Wade," Tom said, already dialing.
Jr was pulling up the command center app on his phone, his fingers flying. "I'm getting the wiz kids. We'll be in the command center."
Pops grabbed Tom's arm, his grip like iron. "We're getting him back, Tom. I don't care what it takes. We're getting him back."
Tom nodded, throat tight. "I know."
Within fifteen minutes, the Benson ranch house looked like a war zone.
Trucks roared up the driveway. The Nelsons. The Beaumonts. The Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes. Men poured out, armed and grim-faced. Women came too—ready to help, ready to coordinate, ready to do whatever it took.
Jake came tearing in from the east pasture on the ATV, Celeb right behind him. The second Jake saw the look on everyone's faces, he knew.
"Where is he?" Jake's voice was raw. "Where the fuck is Billy?"
Tom held out the phone. Jake looked at the photos and let out a sound like a wounded animal. He threw the phone against the wall. It didn't break.
"I'm gonna kill them. I'm gonna fucking kill them."
Celeb grabbed Jake's shoulder. "We'll find him, man. We'll find him."
"Who did this?" Jake was shaking, fists clenched. "Who?"
"We don't know yet," Tom said. "But we will."
Sheriff Wade Nelson came through the door, his face carved from stone. Mary was right behind him, already moving toward Sarah to hold her together.
"Show me," Wade said.
Tom handed him the phone. Wade looked at the photos, read the text, and his jaw tightened. "Manila rope. That's calculated. They know what they're doing."
"They want half a million," Tom said. "Ray's already working on it."
Ray Benson, the business manager, was on his phone in the corner, talking fast. He looked up. "I can get it. Three hours, maybe four. But Dad..." His face was pale. "What if they don't let him go? What if they take the money and leave him there?"
The room went silent.
Pops slammed his fist on the table. "Then we find the cocksuckers first."
Wade turned to the room, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Listen up. We play this two ways. We get the money ready—insurance. But we also find him. Fast." He looked at Tom. "I'm guessing you don't want me calling this in officially."
"Hell no," Pops growled. "You call it in, some dipshit bureaucrat's gonna tell us to stand down and let the FBI handle it. Fuck that. This is family."
Wade nodded slowly. "Then here's how this works. Officially, I don't know anything. Unofficially..." He looked around the room at the armed men. "You're all deputized as far as I'm concerned. Consortium rules. We find Billy, we bring him home, and we deal with whoever did this."
"Damn right," Jake said, his voice shaking with fury.
"Jr.," Wade called out. "You and the boys get to that command center. I want every piece of tech you've got running. Drones, thermals, satellite phones—everything. Find that phone signal. Find Billy."
"Yes, sir." Jr was already moving, the other wiz kids falling in behind him—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez. They disappeared into the command center next to the frat house.
Pops poured himself another whisky, downed it, and looked at the gathered men. "Gear up. Every rifle, every pistol, every goddamn thing you've got. When we find these bastards, there won't be any talking."
Tom's phone buzzed again.
Another text from Billy's number:
You have 20 hours. We'll send payment instructions soon. Tick tock.
Tom showed it to the room.
Jake let out a roar and punched the wall.
Pops just smiled—a cold, ugly smile. "Twenty hours. That's plenty of time."
He turned to Wade. "You remember what I told you about 'Nam? About how we got information out of the VC when they wouldn't talk?"
Wade's face was unreadable. "I remember."
"Good." Pops lit another cigar. "Because if we find these sons of bitches before that twenty hours is up, I'm gonna remind them why you don't fuck with a Benson."
The room rumbled with agreement.
Tom looked out the window toward the south pasture where Billy had been working. Somewhere out there, fifty miles in any direction, his youngest son was tied up and suffering.
But they were coming.
And God help the men who took him.
Chapter 4: Command Center Activated
The command center hummed to life.
Billy Jr. hit the main power switch, and screens flickered on—six monitors mounted on the wall, each one linked to a different system. Satellite imaging. Drone control. Radio frequencies. Phone tracking. Thermal overlay. Real-time mapping.
"Billy, you're on phone trace," Jr. said, his voice sharp and focused. "Ryan, get the drones prepped. Daniel, pull up the thermal grid. I want a fifty-mile radius mapped and ready."
Billy Renzo was already at his station, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I've got Billy's phone signal. It's active but stationary. Looks like..." He squinted at the screen. "Forty-seven miles northwest. Middle of nowhere."
"Can you narrow it down?" Jr. asked.
"Working on it. Signal's bouncing off two towers—give me five minutes and I'll have coordinates within a quarter mile."
The door opened. Colt walked in, his face grim. He'd been helping Celeb with the water troughs when the 911 came through. "What do you need me to do?"
"Drone backup," Jr. said without looking up. "Ryan's gonna launch all six. You monitor the feeds while he pilots."
"Got it."
Ryan Mattern was in the corner, unzipping the hard cases that held the drones—sleek, high-tech machines with thermal and night-vision cameras. Fifty thousand dollars' worth of equipment, purchased just two months ago when the consortium decided to upgrade their security and livestock monitoring.
Now they were hunting for Billy.
"Drones are charged and ready," Ryan said. "Once we get coordinates, I can have eyes in the air in fifteen minutes."
Daniel Rodriguez looked up from his station. "Jr., you want me to distribute the iPads now? Get everyone linked in?"
"Yeah. Do it." Jr. keyed the radio. "Command to all units. We're distributing the network iPads. Everyone gets synced in—real-time updates, coordinates, thermal feeds. Stay linked."
Daniel grabbed the hard case containing all eighteen iPads—each one encrypted, networked, and loaded with the consortium's custom tracking and communication software. The wiz kids had spent two months setting it up.
He headed outside.
The Benson ranch yard was organized chaos.
Men stood in clusters, checking rifles and loading magazines. Pistols on hips. Shotguns in truck beds. The Nelsons, the Beaumonts, the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes—every family represented, every man ready.
Daniel moved through them quickly, handing out iPads. "Pops, you're number one. Wade, number two. Tom, three..."
Each man took his iPad, powered it on, and watched as the screen synced with the command center. A map appeared, showing the ranch at the center and a blinking red dot forty-seven miles northwest.
"That's Billy's phone," Daniel said. "The kidnappers have it. We'll update coordinates as we narrow it down. Thermal feeds will go live when the drones are up."
Pops looked at the screen, then at Daniel. "You boys did good. Real goddamn good."
Daniel nodded and kept moving. Jake got an iPad. Celeb. Ray. Josh. Robert Beaumont. Every team leader in the consortium.
When he got to the last one, he turned toward the house. "This one's for the ladies."
Inside the Benson ranch house, the kitchen had become the women's command post.
Sarah sat at the table, hands wrapped around a coffee mug she hadn't touched. Mary Nelson was beside her, one hand on her shoulder. Rebecca—Josh's wife and Jr.'s mother—stood at the counter, her nurse's instincts kicking in as she mentally prepared for what might come next.
Caroline Beaumont was on the phone, coordinating with the other families. Edna Nelson sat near the window, her face pale, her hands shaking. She'd arrived ten minutes ago, having driven like hell from the hospital the moment she heard.
Anna Nelson—Jr.'s girlfriend—sat next to Edna, holding her hand.
"They're going to find him," Anna said softly. "Jr. and the boys—they're the best. They'll find him."
Edna's voice cracked. "What if they don't? What if—" She couldn't finish.
Mary moved over and wrapped an arm around her. "They will. Wade's out there. Jr.'s in the command center. Every man in this consortium is moving heaven and earth to bring Billy home."
Sarah finally spoke, her voice hollow. "They're torturing him. That rope... it's shrinking. Every minute that passes, it's getting tighter. He's in pain, and there's nothing I can do."
Rebecca came over and knelt beside her. "Sarah, listen to me. Billy's strong. You raised him to be strong. And he knows—he knows—that his family is coming for him. That's what's keeping him alive right now."
The door opened. Daniel stepped in, holding the last iPad.
"Mrs. Benson," he said, his voice respectful. "This is for you. For all of you. You'll be linked to the command center—same feeds we're seeing, same updates. You'll know everything as it happens."
Sarah took the iPad with trembling hands. The screen showed the map, the red dot, the countdown timer Jr. had set.
17 hours, 42 minutes remaining.
Mary looked at the screen, then at Sarah. "We stay here. We stay strong. And we're ready for when they bring him home."
Edna wiped her eyes. "What can we do? I can't just sit here."
Rebecca straightened. "We prepare. Medical supplies—bandages, antiseptic, pain meds. I'll need water, blankets, ice packs. We don't know what condition he'll be in when they find him."
Anna stood. "I'll help."
Caroline nodded. "I'll get the blankets from the guest room. Mary, you want to handle the kitchen? Food and water for the men when they get back?"
"Already on it," Mary said.
Sarah looked around at the women—her friends, her family—and felt something shift inside her. The helplessness receded, just a fraction.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Mary squeezed her hand. "This is what family does."
Outside, the men had formed up.
Pops stood in the center of it all, whisky glass in hand, cigar clenched between his teeth. He looked at the assembled force and nodded.
"Good. Real good." He raised his voice. "Listen up! When those boys find the cocksuckers who took Billy, we move fast and we move hard. No hesitation. No second-guessing. You see those bastards, you put them down if they resist. Clear?"
A chorus of agreement.
Wade stepped forward, his sheriff's badge visible on his belt. "Officially, I'm not here. Unofficially, you have my full support. But I want one thing understood—we bring Billy home alive. That's the priority. Everything else is secondary."
"Damn right," Jake said. He was standing near the porch steps, a rifle slung over his shoulder, his face carved from stone. Celeb stood next to him, equally armed, equally ready.
Tom came out of the house with Ray behind him. "Money's handled. Ray's got access to the accounts. If they demand a drop, we can do it in four hours."
"They won't get the chance," Pops growled. "We're gonna find them first."
Tom's phone buzzed. Another text.
Payment instructions: Cash. Unmarked bills. Location TBA. 18 hours left. Don't be late.
Tom held up the phone so everyone could see.
Jake's jaw tightened. "Eighteen hours. That's how long Billy's got before—"
"Before nothing," Pops snapped. "Because we're getting him out in half that time."
Jr.'s voice crackled over the radio—and now through every iPad in the network. "Command to all units. We have coordinates. Locking in now. Drones launching in ten."
Wade turned to the men. "Mount up. We're rolling as soon as those drones give us a visual."
Hour 2
Billy was losing track of time.
The barn was an oven. Heat radiated from the tin roof, thick and suffocating. His skin had dried, but the rope was still damp—heavier now, tighter. Every breath was shallow, restricted by the bands around his chest.
His shoulders screamed. The hogtie pulled his body into an arch that felt like it was going to snap his spine. His wrists burned where the rope bit into them.
He tried to shift, to find some relief, but there was nowhere to go. Every movement just made it worse.
They're coming. They have to be coming.
But what if they weren't? What if the Doyles had already run? What if they'd dumped his phone somewhere and left him here to die?
Billy squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to think of something else.
Edna. Her laugh. The way she'd kissed him goodbye two days ago when she left for her shift at the hospital.
Jake. Sitting on the porch with Pops, arguing about who could shoot better.
Jr. and the wiz kids, always tinkering with some new gadget.
Hold on. Just hold on.
Hour 4
The rope was tighter now. Billy could feel it—a slow, relentless squeeze that made his chest ache and his fingers tingle.
His back was on fire. The arch of the hogtie felt like a knife jammed into his spine. He couldn't straighten out. Couldn't relax. Just the constant pull, the constant pressure.
The gag was the worst. His mouth was dry, his throat raw. He couldn't swallow. Couldn't breathe through his mouth. Just his nose, and even that was getting harder.
What if they don't find me in time?
The thought sent a spike of panic through him. He thrashed against the ropes, pulling, twisting, desperate.
Nothing moved.
He was trapped.
Hour 6
Billy's vision blurred. He wasn't sure if it was sweat or tears.
The rope was cutting into him now. Not deep—not yet—but he could feel it. The pressure on his chest made every breath a fight. His wrists were numb. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets.
And the heat. God, the heat.
He tried to focus on something—anything—but his mind kept circling back to the same thought:
I'm going to die here.
No. No, he wasn't. Jake wouldn't let that happen. Pops wouldn't let that happen. Wade. Tom. The whole damn consortium.
They were coming.
They had to be.
Please. Edna. Jake. Pops. Anyone.
Back in the command center, Billy Renzo looked up from his screen. "I've got them."
Jr. spun around. "What?"
"The phone. It moved. Just a quarter mile, but it moved." Billy pointed at the map. "They're here. Old farmhouse, looks occupied. Drones are in range now."
Ryan's hands worked the controls. On the screen, the thermal overlay showed three heat signatures inside the structure.
"Three hostiles," Colt said. "No sign of Billy."
Jr.'s jaw tightened. "Because he's not there. They've got his phone, but they stashed him somewhere else."
"How far could they have taken him?" Daniel asked.
"Ten miles? Twenty? Could be anywhere within an hour's drive of that location." Jr. keyed the radio and the iPad network. "Command to all units. We have the kidnappers' location confirmed. Three hostiles on site. Billy is NOT at this location. Repeat: Billy is not with them. We need to capture them and make them talk. Sending coordinates now."
Wade's voice came back instantly. "Copy. We're rolling. ETA twenty minutes. Prepare for interrogation."
Pops' voice followed, rough and cold. "Don't you worry about that, boys. We'll get them to talk."
In the kitchen, Sarah's iPad lit up with the update. The red dot sharpened into precise coordinates. A thermal image appeared—three heat signatures.
But no Billy.
Edna's face crumpled. "He's not there. Oh God, where is he?"
Anna squeezed her hand. "They'll make them talk. They'll find out where Billy is."
Rebecca's voice was steady, clinical. "The kidnappers are the key. Once they have them, it's just a matter of time."
Sarah stared at the screen, at the three heat signatures that represented the men who'd taken her son. "They better hope Wade gets to them before Pops does."
Mary's face was grim. "Knowing Pops? They're going to wish they'd never been born."
Jr. looked at the screen, at the three heat signatures that held the answers they needed.
"Hang on, Billy," he whispered. "We're coming. Just hang on."
Chapter 5: The Hunt
Hour 7
The rope was eating into Billy's skin now.
Every breath was agony. The bands around his chest squeezed tighter with each passing minute, making it impossible to fill his lungs completely. His ribs ached. His sternum felt like it was being crushed.
The hogtie had gotten worse. The rope connecting his ankles to his wrists had shrunk enough that his back was bowed at a brutal angle. His spine screamed. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled from their sockets.
And his wrists—God, his wrists. The manila rope had contracted so much it was cutting into his flesh. He could feel wetness there. Blood, probably.
How much longer?
Billy tried to remember what Marcus had said. Twenty hours. But how many had passed? Five? Six? Ten?
He'd lost track. Time had become nothing but pain.
Please find me. Please.
The convoy of trucks rolled down Highway 87 like an army going to war.
Pops rode in the lead vehicle with Wade and Tom. Jake and Celeb were in the truck behind them, rifles across their laps. Jr. sat in the third truck with Ray and Josh, his laptop open, coordinating the entire operation.
"Command mobile to all units," Jr. said into his headset. "Drones two and four are in holding pattern over target area. Thermal confirms three hostiles still inside the structure. No movement."
Billy Renzo was in the fourth truck with Robert Beaumont, his iPad synced to the satellite imaging system. "Billy R. here. I've got GPS lock on all vehicles. ETA to target: twelve minutes."
Ryan Mattern rode in the fifth vehicle, piloting drones from his tablet. "Drone six is doing perimeter sweep. No other vehicles in the area. They're alone."
Daniel Rodriguez was in the sixth truck with the Mattern brothers, managing radio frequencies. "Daniel here. All channels clear. No police scanner activity. We're good."
Colt sat in the truck with Jake and Celeb, monitoring the thermal feeds on his iPad. "Colt. Visual confirms northeast corner placement. They're sitting ducks."
Wade's voice came over the radio. "We go in quiet. Surround the property. No one shoots unless they have to. We need these bastards alive and talking."
"Copy that," came the responses from all vehicles.
Pops took a swig from his flask of whisky and looked out the window. "They better talk fast. Every minute we waste with these cocksuckers is another minute Billy's suffering."
Tom's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "They'll talk."
"Damn right they will," Pops said. "I didn't spend two years in 'Nam learning interrogation techniques for nothing."
Wade glanced at him. "Pops—"
"Don't worry, Sheriff. You're officially not here, remember?" Pops grinned, but there was no humor in it. "You won't see a goddamn thing."
Hour 9
Billy couldn't stop shaking.
The pain had gone from acute to unbearable. The rope around his chest was so tight now he could only take tiny, gasping breaths. His vision swam. His head felt light.
Am I dying?
The thought came with surprising clarity.
Is this how it ends?
He thought of Edna. Her smile. The way she'd look at him like he was the only person in the world. They'd talked about getting married someday. After he finished school. After they saved up enough.
I'm sorry, Edna. I'm so sorry.
He thought of Jake. His brother. His best friend. The person who knew him better than anyone. All those nights in the frat house, talking about nothing and everything. All those mornings working side by side on the ranch.
I should've told him I loved him more.
He thought of Pops. The old man with his whisky and cigars and foul mouth. The way he'd tell war stories and make them all laugh. The way he'd look at Billy and say, "You're a good kid, Billy boy. Real good."
I wish I could hear him say it one more time.
The rope tightened again. Just a fraction. But enough.
Billy screamed into the gag, but no sound came out.
Just silence.
Just pain.
The farmhouse came into view—a run-down structure with peeling paint and a sagging porch. Two trucks were parked out front.
Jr.'s voice came over the radio. "Command mobile to all units. Thermal shows all three hostiles still inside. Northeast corner of the structure. No weapons visible."
Billy Renzo checked his GPS. "All vehicles in position. Green light across the board."
Ryan adjusted his drone controls. "Drones repositioning for overhead coverage. You'll have eyes on every exit."
Wade keyed his mic. "Copy. Teams Alpha and Bravo, circle around back. Charlie, cover the east side. Delta, you're with me on the front approach. Nobody moves until I give the signal."
The trucks split up, engines cutting as they rolled to strategic positions around the property. Men poured out, rifles at the ready, moving with the practiced efficiency of hunters who knew their territory.
Daniel's voice was calm over the radio. "All frequencies still clear. No incoming traffic. You're good to go."
Pops climbed out of Tom's truck, his .45 in one hand and his flask in the other. He took a long drink and passed the flask to Tom. "For luck."
Tom drank and handed it back. "Let's get our boy."
Jake was already moving toward the house, his face a mask of cold fury. Celeb grabbed his arm. "Easy, man. We do this Wade's way."
"Fuck Wade's way," Jake hissed. "Those bastards have Billy."
"And we're gonna get him," Celeb said. "But we need them alive. You go in there guns blazing, they might not talk."
Jake's jaw worked, but he nodded.
Colt's voice came over the radio. "Thermal shows no movement. They don't know we're here."
Wade's voice: "All units in position. On my mark... Mark."
They moved as one.
Hour 11
Billy couldn't feel his hands anymore.
The rope around his wrists had cut off circulation completely. His fingers were numb. Dead weight hanging behind his back.
His chest felt like it was caving in. Each breath was a battle he was losing. The bands of rope had contracted so much they were crushing him.
This is it. This is how I die.
The barn spun around him. Or maybe he was spinning. He couldn't tell anymore.
Mom. Dad. I'm sorry.
His vision went dark at the edges.
Jake. Edna. Pops.
The darkness crept closer.
I tried. I really tried.
The front door of the farmhouse exploded inward.
Wade went in first, pistol raised. "Sheriff's department! On the ground! Now!"
Marcus Doyle jumped up from the couch, eyes wide. Shane and Brett scrambled for the back door, but the Beaumont brothers were already there, rifles leveled.
"Don't even fucking think about it," Robert Beaumont growled.
"Down! Now!" Wade shouted.
They dropped to their knees, hands up.
Jake came through the door like a force of nature, rifle swinging toward Marcus. "Where is he? Where's Billy?"
"I don't—"
Jake lunged forward and slammed the rifle butt into Marcus's face. Blood sprayed. Marcus went down hard.
"Jake!" Wade grabbed him. "Stand down!"
"Fuck that! Where's my brother?" Jake kicked Marcus in the ribs. "Where is he?"
Celeb and Tom pulled Jake back, but barely.
Wade crouched down in front of Marcus, his voice ice cold. "You're going to tell us where Billy Benson is. Right now."
Marcus spat blood. "Go to hell."
Shane started to speak. "Look, we can make a deal—"
"Shut up!" Marcus snarled at him.
Pops walked into the room, .45 hanging loose at his side. He looked at the three kidnappers, looked at Wade, and smiled.
"Sheriff," Pops said conversationally. "I think you need to step outside for a minute. Make sure the perimeter's secure."
Wade hesitated.
"Go on now," Pops said. "This might take a while."
Wade looked at the three kidnappers, then at Pops, and slowly nodded. "I'll be outside. Radio if you need me."
He left, taking most of the men with him.
Only Pops, Tom, Jake, and Celeb remained.
Jr.'s voice crackled over the radio from outside. "Command mobile standing by. All drones holding position. Thermal still clear in all directions."
Pops took another swig of whisky and set the flask down on the table. He pulled up a chair and sat down in front of Marcus.
"Now then," Pops said, his voice pleasant. "Let me tell you a story about Vietnam. About what we did to VC prisoners who wouldn't talk..."
Hour 12
Billy was screaming.
Not out loud—he couldn't do that through the gag. But inside his head, he was screaming.
The rope was so tight now it felt like his ribs were going to crack. His chest couldn't expand. He couldn't breathe.
Help me. Please. Someone help me.
His body convulsed, fighting for air that wouldn't come.
I don't want to die. Please. I don't want to die.
The darkness closed in.
And then—
Silence.
Marcus Doyle was crying.
Pops hadn't laid a hand on him. Hadn't needed to. The stories alone—the things Pops had done in 'Nam, the things he was prepared to do right here, right now—had broken him in ten minutes.
"The barn!" Marcus sobbed. "He's in a barn! About ten miles north of here! Off County Road 12!"
"Describe it," Tom said, his voice deadly calm.
"Old. Red. Falling apart. You can't miss it."
Jr. was already on it, fingers flying across his laptop in the truck outside. "Command mobile to all units. Satellite imaging search initiated. County Road 12, ten-mile radius north."
Billy Renzo's voice: "Got it. Structure matches description. Sending coordinates now."
Ryan: "Repositioning drones. ETA to new target: three minutes."
Daniel: "All units, new GPS coordinates pushed to your iPads. Follow the nav."
The iPads lit up with a new red dot. Ten miles north.
Colt's voice came through: "Thermal imaging will be live as soon as drones arrive on site."
Pops stood up, holstered his .45, and looked down at Marcus. "You better pray we get there in time. Because if Billy's dead..." He leaned close. "I'm coming back for you. And what I just told you? That'll seem like a goddamn vacation."
Jake didn't wait. He was already running for the truck.
Tom grabbed the radio. "All units, move! Now! We've got Billy's location!"
The convoy roared to life.
Jr.'s voice, steady and focused: "Command mobile tracking all vehicles. Stay on GPS route. Fastest path is Highway 87 to County Road 12. ETA: eight minutes."
Ryan: "Drones arriving at barn location in sixty seconds. Stand by for visual."
Billy Renzo: "All iPads synced. You'll have real-time thermal as soon as we get eyes on target."
Ten miles.
Ten miles between them and Billy.
And the clock was still ticking.
Chapter 6: The Rescue
Hour 16
The convoy tore down County Road 12, engines screaming.
Ryan's voice came over the radio. "Drones have visual on the barn. It's there. Red structure, mostly collapsed. Thermal imaging is—" He paused. "I've got one heat signature. Stationary. On the ground."
Jr.'s voice was tight. "That's him. That has to be him."
"Vital signs?" Wade asked.
"Weak but present," Ryan said. "He's alive."
A collective exhale went through every truck.
Jake's voice cracked. "How much further?"
Billy Renzo: "Two miles. GPS shows a turn coming up on the right. Dirt road, half a mile in."
"I see it," Tom said from the lead truck.
The convoy made the turn, kicking up dust as they bounced over the rutted road. The barn came into view—a sagging red structure that looked like it might collapse at any moment.
Colt's voice: "Thermal confirms. One signature inside. No movement."
"Jesus Christ," Pops muttered. "Sixteen goddamn hours."
The trucks screeched to a halt.
Men poured out, but Wade held up his hand. "Slow. We don't know what condition he's in. We could hurt him worse if we rush."
Jake ignored him and sprinted for the barn door.
"Jake!" Tom shouted, but Jake was already inside.
The rest followed.
The barn was like walking into hell.
The heat was suffocating. The stench of rot and decay hung in the air. And in the center of the floor, lit by shafts of light coming through gaps in the walls, was Billy.
Jake stopped dead.
"Oh God. Oh Jesus Christ."
Billy lay face-down on the dirt floor, his body arched backward in a brutal hogtie. Rope everywhere—wrapped around his chest, his arms, his legs, all of it cutting deep into swollen, reddened flesh. His skin was slick with sweat and streaked with blood where the rope had bitten through.
His eyes were half-open, unfocused. A muffled sound came from behind the gag—weak, desperate.
"Billy!" Jake dropped to his knees beside him. "Billy, we're here. We've got you."
Billy's eyes rolled toward Jake's voice but didn't seem to see him.
Tom was already at Billy's other side, his hands shaking as he touched his son's shoulder. "Get the water. Now. And knives. We need to cut him loose."
Celeb ran back to the trucks. "I need water! Buckets, bottles, anything!"
Pops knelt down, his face carved from stone. He put a hand on Billy's head. "You did good, Billy boy. Real good. We're getting you out."
Rebecca pushed through the crowd of men, her nurse's bag already open. "Everyone back. Give me room." She knelt beside Billy and started assessing. "Pulse is weak and rapid. Respirations shallow. He's in shock." She looked up. "How long has he been like this?"
"Sixteen hours," Tom said, his voice breaking.
"Christ." Rebecca's hands moved quickly, checking Billy's circulation. "His hands and feet—no pulse in the extremities. The rope's cut off blood flow. We need to get it off now, but carefully. If we release it too fast, the rush of blood could cause problems."
Celeb came running back with armfuls of water bottles and a bucket from one of the trucks. "Got it!"
"Pour it on the rope," Rebecca ordered. "Soak it completely. We need it to expand before we cut."
Men grabbed bottles and started pouring water over Billy's bound body. The manila rope darkened as it absorbed the water, swelling slightly.
Billy made a sound—a keening, desperate noise behind the gag.
"Easy, son," Wade said, kneeling beside him. "We're getting you out. Just hold on a little longer."
Jr. stood back, his iPad forgotten in his hands, tears streaming down his face. "Uncle Billy..."
Ryan and Daniel flanked him, both looking shaken.
Colt stood near the door, his jaw tight. "How the hell did he survive this?"
"Because he's a Benson," Pops growled. He took a long pull from his flask. "And Bensons don't quit."
After two minutes of soaking, Rebecca nodded. "Okay. The rope should be looser now. Start with the hogtie—the line connecting his ankles to his wrists. Cut it carefully. Don't nick his skin."
Tom pulled out his pocketknife and slid the blade under the connecting rope. It was still tight, resistant. He sawed through it carefully.
The rope snapped.
Billy's body collapsed forward slightly as the tension released. He gasped behind the gag, his back finally able to straighten.
"Good," Rebecca said. "Now the gag. Get that off so he can breathe."
Jake's hands were shaking as he untied the cloth around Billy's head and pulled the wadded sock from his mouth. Billy sucked in a ragged breath and immediately started coughing, his throat raw.
"Water," Rebecca said. "Small sips."
Tom held a bottle to Billy's lips. Billy drank desperately, coughing and choking.
"Easy. Easy." Tom's voice was thick with tears.
Rebecca continued directing. "Now the chest bindings. Those are the most dangerous. Cut them slowly, one wrap at a time."
Wade and Tom worked together, sliding knives under each loop of rope and cutting carefully. With each band that fell away, Billy's breathing came easier. His chest expanded fully for the first time in sixteen hours.
"Ankles next, then wrists," Rebecca said.
Celeb worked on Billy's ankles while Jake handled his wrists. The rope had cut deep grooves into the skin, some bleeding, others just raw and swollen.
As the last rope fell away, Billy's arms dropped limply to his sides.
"Billy?" Jake leaned close. "Can you hear me?"
Billy's eyes focused on Jake's face. His lips moved. "Jake..."
It was barely a whisper, but it was enough.
Jake let out a sob and pressed his forehead to Billy's. "Yeah, brother. I'm here. We all are."
Billy's eyes moved to Tom. "Dad..."
"Right here, son." Tom gripped Billy's shoulder. "We're taking you home."
Pops moved into Billy's line of sight. "Told you we'd find you, you stubborn shit."
The corner of Billy's mouth twitched. Might have been a smile.
Rebecca was checking his extremities. "Circulation is returning. That's good. But we need to get him to the hospital now. He needs IV fluids, pain management, and monitoring. There could be muscle damage, nerve damage—we won't know until we get him checked out properly."
"Kings County?" Wade asked.
"Yes. It's closer than anything else, and they know him there."
Tom and Jake carefully lifted Billy, supporting him between them. Billy's legs wouldn't hold his weight. They carried him out of the barn into the daylight.
The assembled men parted to let them through. Every face was grim with relief.
Jr. ran forward. "Uncle Billy—"
Billy's eyes found him. "Jr..." His voice was a rasp. "You... you found me."
"Damn right we did." Jr. wiped his eyes. "The wiz kids don't fail."
They loaded Billy into the back of Tom's truck, laying him across the seat. Rebecca climbed in beside him, already pulling supplies from her bag.
"I'm starting an IV," she said. "Saline. He's severely dehydrated."
Sarah's voice came over the iPad network, shaking with relief and fear. "Tom? Do you have him? Is he—"
"We have him," Tom said into his radio. "He's alive. We're bringing him to Kings County Hospital. Meet us there."
"Thank God. Oh thank God."
Edna's voice followed, breaking. "Billy—is he—"
"He's okay," Jake said, leaning into the truck cab. "He's gonna be okay, Edna. We'll see you at the hospital."
Pops climbed into the passenger seat, flask in hand. He looked back at Billy. "You scared the shit out of us, boy."
Billy's eyes met his. "Sorry... Pops."
"Don't be sorry. Just don't do it again."
Tom started the engine. "Wade, you coming?"
"Right behind you. I'll radio ahead, let the hospital know you're coming." Wade turned to the rest of the men. "Good work, everyone. Let's convoy to the hospital. Stay together."
The trucks formed up again, but this time there was no urgency. Just a steady, careful procession carrying one of their own home.
Jr.'s voice came over the radio, calm and coordinated. "Command mobile to all units. GPS route to Kings County Hospital pushed to all iPads. ETA twenty-five minutes. Hospital has been notified."
Billy Renzo: "All drones returning to base. Mission complete."
Ryan: "Equipment secure. Good job, everyone."
Daniel: "All frequencies clear. We're in the clear."
Colt: "Hell of a day."
In the back of the truck, Rebecca worked efficiently, monitoring Billy's pulse, his breathing, the IV drip.
Billy's eyes stayed on Jake, who sat beside him, holding his hand.
"Thought... I was gonna die," Billy whispered.
"Not a chance," Jake said fiercely. "You're too stubborn. Just like Pops."
Billy's eyes drifted closed. "Tired..."
"Then rest," Rebecca said gently. "You're safe now. We've got you."
Tom looked in the rearview mirror at his youngest son, battered and broken but alive.
"Hang on, Billy," he murmured. "Almost home."
Chapter 7: Diagnosis
The emergency room at Kings County Hospital erupted when the convoy arrived.
Sarah was there first, running to the truck before Tom had even killed the engine. Mary and Edna were right behind her.
"Billy!" Sarah's hands reached for her son as Tom and Jake carried him through the automatic doors.
"Mrs. Benson, please—" A nurse tried to guide her back.
"That's my son!"
"We know. We'll take care of him. Let us work."
They transferred Billy to a gurney. Rebecca rattled off his vitals to the ER staff as they wheeled him away. "Sixteen hours bound in wet manila rope. Circulation compromise to all extremities. Dehydration. Possible nerve damage..."
The doors swung shut.
The waiting room filled with Bensons, Nelsons, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes. Forty people crammed into a space meant for twenty. No one left.
Pops found a chair in the corner, poured whisky into a styrofoam cup, and lit a cigar before a nurse could tell him not to.
"Sir, you can't—"
Wade flashed his badge. "He can."
The nurse wisely retreated.
Jake paced. Back and forth, back and forth, his boots squeaking on the linoleum. Jr. sat with Anna, his leg bouncing, iPad forgotten beside him.
Tom held Sarah. She hadn't stopped shaking.
Edna sat with her face in her hands, Mary's arm around her shoulders.
An hour passed.
Then another.
Finally, the doors opened.
Dr. Peterson walked out—a man in his early seventies with wild gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a stethoscope around his neck that looked older than some of the people in the room. He'd delivered all four Benson boys. Been the family doctor for three decades.
"Tom. Sarah." He nodded to them, then his eyes found Pops. "You old bastard. I heard you were involved in this mess."
"Had to clean up after your generation's failures, Peterson," Pops shot back. "We taught these kids too soft."
"You didn't teach them shit. You just drank whisky and told lies."
"Worked, didn't it? Boy's alive."
Dr. Peterson's mouth twitched. Might have been a smile. He turned to the assembled crowd. "All right. Listen up. I'm only saying this once, and if any of you repeat half of what I'm about to tell you outside this room, HIPAA's gonna have my ass."
"How is he?" Sarah's voice cracked.
"He's tough. I'll give him that." Dr. Peterson pulled out a small notepad. "Here's what we're looking at. Severe rope burns on wrists, ankles, chest, and back. Some lacerations where the rope cut through skin—not deep, but they'll scar. Significant bruising across his torso. Mild compression injuries to the ribcage, but no fractures. That's the good news."
"And the bad?" Tom asked.
"Dehydration was severe. We've got him on IV fluids. He'll need monitoring for kidney function over the next twenty-four hours. There's some nerve compression in his wrists and hands from prolonged circulation loss—we won't know the extent until the swelling goes down. Could be temporary. Could be permanent. Too early to tell."
Edna made a small sound. Anna squeezed her hand.
"His shoulders took a beating from that hogtie," Dr. Peterson continued. "Strained rotator cuffs, possible ligament damage. He'll need physical therapy. And his back—" He shook his head. "Kid's gonna be sore for weeks. But again, no permanent structural damage that I can see."
"Can we see him?" Jake asked.
"In a minute. He's sedated right now. We gave him something for the pain and to help him sleep. Psychologically..." Dr. Peterson looked at Sarah. "He went through hell. Sixteen hours thinking he was going to die. That leaves marks you can't see on an X-ray. He's going to need time. Support. Maybe counseling."
Sarah nodded, tears streaming down her face.
"So what's the plan, doc?" Wade asked.
"Three days here. We monitor him, manage the pain, make sure there are no complications. Then he goes home under Rebecca's care—" He nodded to Rebecca. "Light duty for a week minimum. No ranch work. No heavy lifting. He rests, he heals, and if I hear he's been doing anything stupid, I'm coming out there to kick his ass. And yours, Tom."
"Understood," Tom said.
Pops took a sip of his whisky. "Light duty. Hell, the boy's known for light duty. This'll be right up his alley."
The tension in the room cracked. A few men chuckled. Jake let out a short, broken laugh.
Dr. Peterson pointed at Pops. "You're an asshole, you know that?"
"Takes one to know one, Peterson."
"Damn right." Dr. Peterson looked at the crowd. "All of you can see him, but not all at once. Two at a time. Five minutes max. He needs rest, not a parade."
Sarah and Tom went first.
Billy looked small in the hospital bed.
IVs ran into both arms. Bandages wrapped his wrists and ankles. His chest was bare except for the electrode pads monitoring his heart rate. The bruises were already darkening—purple and black across his ribs, his shoulders, his back.
But his eyes were open.
"Mom," he whispered. "Dad."
Sarah was at his side instantly, her hand on his cheek. "Baby. Oh, my baby."
"I'm okay." His voice was rough, barely there. "I'm okay."
"You're not okay," Tom said, his voice thick. "But you will be."
"Jake... is he—"
"Right outside. Driving everyone crazy. You know how he gets." Tom managed a smile. "You want to see him?"
Billy nodded.
Tom stepped into the hall. "Jake. Your turn."
Jake nearly knocked over a nurse getting through the door.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, staring at his brother. "Jesus, Billy."
"Hey." Billy tried to smile. It came out as more of a grimace.
Jake moved to the bedside and grabbed Billy's hand—carefully, mindful of the bandages. "I thought—" His voice broke. "I thought we lost you."
"Not... that easy... to get rid of me."
"Damn right." Jake wiped his eyes. "You scared the shit out of me, man."
"Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just—" Jake's grip tightened. "Just don't do it again."
"Deal."
Jr. appeared in the doorway. "Can I—"
"Get in here, Jr.," Billy said.
Jr. came to the other side of the bed. "Uncle Billy. The drones worked. The whole system—it all worked."
"You... found me." Billy's eyes were getting heavy. "You and... the wiz kids."
"Damn right we did."
"Good... good job."
Dr. Peterson stuck his head in. "All right, that's enough. Kid needs to sleep. You can come back tomorrow."
"We're staying," Jake said.
"Jake—"
"We're. Staying." Jake's voice left no room for argument. "Me and Jr. We're not leaving him."
Dr. Peterson looked at Billy, who gave a small nod.
"Fine," Dr. Peterson said. "But you stay quiet. Let him rest. And if I catch either of you being stupid, I'm kicking you both out."
"Yes, sir," Jr. said.
The doctor left. Tom and Sarah stood.
"We'll be back first thing in the morning," Sarah said, kissing Billy's forehead. "I love you."
"Love you too, Mom."
Tom gripped Billy's shoulder gently. "Get some rest, son. You earned it."
As they left, Billy's eyes drifted closed. Jake settled into the chair on one side of the bed. Jr. took the other.
"You sleep," Jake said quietly. "We'll be right here."
Billy's hand twitched in Jake's grip.
"Not going anywhere, brother," Jake whispered. "Not going anywhere."
Outside in the waiting room, Pops stood and raised his styrofoam cup of whisky. "To Billy. Tough as nails and too damn stubborn to die."
"To Billy," the room echoed.
They'd come so close to losing him.
But they hadn't.
And that was enough.
Chapter 9: Welcome Home
Three days later, the Benson ranch looked like the Fourth of July had come early.
Trucks lined the driveway. Smoke billowed from three massive grills set up near the main house. Tables groaned under the weight of food—platters of brisket, ribs, chicken, corn on the cob, potato salad, coleslaw, and about fifteen different pies.
And in the center of it all, Pops had set up his "liquor stand"—a folding table with bottles of whisky, bourbon, beer, and what looked suspiciously like moonshine in unmarked mason jars.
"This is a goddamn celebration," Pops announced to anyone within earshot. "And celebrations require proper libations."
Dr. Peterson stood next to him, pouring himself a generous glass of whisky. "Proper libations, my ass. You just want an excuse to get everyone drunk."
"Damn right I do. Boy came home alive. If that's not worth getting drunk over, I don't know what is."
Billy sat in a padded lawn chair under the big oak tree, Edna curled up beside him. He still moved carefully—his shoulders and back were stiff, the rope burns on his wrists and ankles wrapped in fresh bandages. But he was smiling.
"You comfortable?" Edna asked for the tenth time.
"I'm perfect," Billy said, squeezing her hand.
She leaned in and kissed him—soft, gentle, careful. When she pulled back, her eyes were wet. "Don't you ever scare me like that again."
"I won't. I promise."
"Good." She kissed him again.
Across the yard, Jr. had Anna pressed up against his truck, kissing her like the world might end tomorrow. When they finally came up for air, Anna was blushing.
"Billy Jr.!" Rebecca called from the food table. "Save some of that for later!"
Jr. grinned and grabbed Anna's hand, pulling her toward the BBQ. "Come on. I'm starving."
Jake appeared with two plates piled high with food. He handed one to Billy. "Eat. Rebecca's orders. You need to put weight back on."
"Yes, sir," Billy said, taking the plate.
Jake settled onto the ground next to Billy's chair, his own plate balanced on his knees. "How you feeling? Really?"
"Sore. Tired. But good." Billy looked around at the assembled families—all six consortium ranches represented, kids running around, men gathered near the grills, women clustered at the tables. "Real good."
Celeb walked over with Colt, both carrying beers. "Room for two more?"
"Always," Billy said.
They settled onto the grass, forming a loose circle. For a few minutes, they just ate in comfortable silence.
Then Colt spoke up. "So. Sixteen hours tied up in a barn. What was that like?"
"Colt—" Jake started.
"No, it's okay," Billy said. He thought about it. "Honestly? The first few hours, I was just scared. Then it got painful. Really painful. And then..." He paused. "Then I just kept thinking about you guys. About home. Figured if I could just hold on long enough, you'd find me."
"Damn right we did," Jake said fiercely.
"The wiz kids are the real heroes," Billy said, raising his voice. "Jr.! Billy R.! Ryan! Daniel! Get over here!"
The four sixteen-year-olds looked up from where they were huddled near Pops' liquor stand, suspiciously red-faced and giggling.
"Uh oh," Jake muttered. "Pops has been at them."
Sure enough, Pops was grinning like the devil himself, pouring what looked like Jack Daniels into their solo cups. "Just a little taste," he said loudly. "To celebrate."
Mary Nelson appeared like an avenging angel. "Pops! They're sixteen!"
"Hell, I was drinking at twelve in 'Nam. Did me just fine."
"You're corrupting them!"
"They saved Billy's life, Mary. They've earned a drink." Pops raised his own glass. "To the wiz kids! Best goddamn tech team in Texas!"
The assembled crowd cheered. The wiz kids looked simultaneously embarrassed and proud.
Jr. stumbled over to Billy's chair, clearly feeling the whisky. "Uncle Billy. We really did it. The whole system worked."
"You saved my life, Jr." Billy's voice was thick. "All of you did."
Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel joined them, all grinning like idiots.
"Pops says we're honorary adults now," Ryan announced.
"Pops says a lot of things," Rebecca said, but she was smiling.
Wade Nelson walked over, his sheriff's face on. "Billy. You doing all right?"
"Yes, sir. Thanks to you."
Wade nodded. "Wanted to give you an update on the Doyles. Marcus, Shane, and Brett are all in custody. DA's charging them with kidnapping, extortion, and aggravated assault. They're looking at twenty to thirty years each, minimum."
A satisfied murmur went through the group.
"Good," Jake said darkly. "They deserve every goddamn day of it."
"Agreed," Wade said. "They'll be transferred to state prison after arraignment next week. They won't be bothering anyone for a long time."
Pops wandered over, whisky glass in hand. "Should've let me have another ten minutes with them. Would've saved the state a lot of money on trials."
"Pops," Wade said mildly.
"What? I'm just saying."
Dr. Peterson appeared at Pops' elbow, equally drunk. "You know what we should do?"
"What's that, you old fool?"
"Play a song. For Billy." Dr. Peterson gestured grandly toward the house. "Get the banjos."
Pops' eyes lit up. "Now that's the best goddamn idea you've had in forty years."
"Oh no," Tom muttered. "Here we go."
Five minutes later, Pops and Dr. Peterson were seated on the porch steps, each with a banjo, tuning them with the focused intensity of two very drunk men trying to look sober.
"What are they playing?" Anna whispered to Jr.
"God only knows," Jr. said.
Pops struck the first chord. It was slightly off-key. Dr. Peterson followed. Also off-key, but in a different direction.
They launched into what might have been "Oh! Susanna" or possibly "Camptown Races." It was hard to tell.
"Jesus Christ," Jake said, laughing. "They're terrible."
"They're perfect," Billy said, grinning.
The two old men played with enthusiasm that far exceeded their skill, singing at the top of their lungs, occasionally hitting the right notes by accident. The crowd clapped along, more out of affection than appreciation for the music.
When they finished—or possibly just ran out of steam—the yard erupted in applause.
Pops stood and took a bow. "Thank you, thank you. We'll be here all week."
"God help us," Mary said, but she was smiling.
Dr. Peterson sat back down heavily. "That was beautiful, Pops."
"Damn right it was."
Sarah came over to Billy's chair, her hand on his shoulder. "You should rest soon. Don't overdo it."
"I'm good, Mom. Really." He looked around at the faces—his family, his friends, all the people who'd dropped everything to find him. "I'm exactly where I need to be."
Jake raised his beer. "To Billy. The toughest son of a bitch I know."
"To Billy!" the crowd echoed.
Edna leaned in and kissed him again. Jr. and Anna were back to making out by the truck. The wiz kids were arguing about drone modifications, slightly slurring their words. Pops and Dr. Peterson had started another song, equally off-key.
Tom stood with Sarah, watching their youngest son surrounded by love.
"We almost lost him," Sarah whispered.
"But we didn't." Tom pulled her close. "We didn't."
Pops' voice rang out across the yard. "Another round! And someone get me a fresh cigar! We're just getting started!"
The sun was setting over the Benson ranch, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. The smoke from the grills drifted lazily upward. Laughter filled the air.
Billy Benson was home.
And all was right with the world.
No comments:
Post a Comment