Sweet 16

 

Chapter 1: Best Day Ever

Billy Benson Junior was at the top of his world. Today he turned 16.

The morning started like any birthday in the frat house—with tradition. His uncles Billy and Jake cornered him first, grinning like devils. Sixteen punches, one for each year, delivered to his shoulder with enough force to make him stagger but not enough to actually hurt. Celab joined in for good measure, laughing as Jr. tried to dodge and weave.

"Come on, old man!" Jr. laughed, rubbing his shoulder. "That all you got?"

"Old man?" Billy Sr. grabbed him in a headlock. "I'll show you old man, birthday boy!"

The roughhousing finally ended when Jr. produced his prize—his brand new Junior Texas Driver's License. He held it up like a trophy, the plastic still crisp and new.

"Gentlemen," he announced with mock formality, "as of today, I can legally drive on the road."

Jake whistled. "Look at that baby face. They actually gave you a license?"

"Jealous?" Jr. shot back with a grin.

The truth was, he'd been driving ranch vehicles since he was twelve. Off-road license at fourteen. But this—this was different. This meant freedom. This meant taking Anna Nelson on a real date.

Anna. Just thinking about her made his stomach flip.

He checked himself in the mirror one more time. Cowboy hat positioned just right. The bouquet of wildflowers he'd picked that morning sat on his bunk—purple verbena, Indian blanket, and white prickly poppies. His wifebeater showed off arms that had finally filled out from ranch work, muscles that hadn't been there a year ago. He flexed once, caught Jake watching him in the mirror, and they both laughed.

"You're gonna sweep her right off her feet," Billy Sr. said, clapping him on the back. "Just remember—"

"Steakhouse, be a gentleman, have her home by sunset," Jr. recited. "I know, I know."

He grabbed the flowers and headed downstairs, his boots echoing on the wooden steps.

The kitchen was full. Pops, his great-grandfather, held court at the head of the table, a cigar already going despite the early hour, a cup of coffee laced with something stronger sitting in front of him. Tom, his grandfather, sat beside him with Sarah. Ray and Billy flanked the other side. Josh, Jr.'s father, stood by the window, coffee mug in hand.

"Well, well, well," Pops announced, his gravelly voice carrying across the room. "Look what the cat dragged in. All gussied up like a damn peacock."

"Language, Pops!" Rebecca called from the stove, but she was smiling.

"What? I said 'damn,' not—"

"Pops!" Rebecca cut him off, but Jr. could see her fighting back laughter.

Josh crossed the room and pulled Jr. into a bear hug. "Happy birthday, son. Sixteen years old." He held Jr. at arm's length, looking him over. "When the hell did you get so big?"

"Ranch work," Jr. said, grinning. "And Mom's cooking."

"And those flowers?" Ray asked, raising an eyebrow. "Those for Anna Nelson?"

"Maybe," Jr. said, feeling his ears turn red.

"Maybe?" Jake laughed. "Boy's got it bad. Look at him—all cleaned up, flowers, probably spent an hour on that hat."

"Twenty minutes," Jr. muttered.

"Oh, Lord," Pops chimed in, taking a long drag on his cigar. "First date jitters. I remember those days. Course, I didn't need flowers—I had charm." He winked. "And a hell of a lot less supervision. You kids today with your damn curfews and—"

"He'll be home by sunset," Josh said firmly, but there was warmth in his voice. "Right, Jr.?"

"Yes, sir."

Tom raised his coffee mug. "To my grandson. Sixteen and already better with horses and guns than I was at twenty-five."

"That's my great-grandson!" Pops corrected, pounding the table. "And damn right he's good. Taught him myself!"

"Hear, hear!" Ray called out.

Rebecca appeared at Jr.'s side, her eyes already glistening. "My baby. Sixteen. Driving. Dating." Her voice cracked.

"Mom, don't—"

"I'm fine!" She dabbed at her eyes with her apron. "I'm just so proud of you. You look so handsome." She adjusted his hat, brushed some dust off his shoulder, then pulled him into a tight hug. "You be careful on that road, you hear me? And you treat Anna like a lady."

"I will, Mom. I promise."

"And don't let Pops teach you any of his tricks!" she called after him.

"My tricks are legendary!" Pops protested. "The boy could learn a thing or two!"

Jr. laughed, grabbed his keys from the hook by the door, and turned back to see his whole family watching him—Pops raising his coffee cup with that mischievous glint in his eye, Tom grinning with pride, his grandmother Sarah beaming, his dad Josh with that look of fatherly approval mixed with worry, his uncles razzing him, and his mom crying happy tears.

"See you all later!" he called.

"Bring her back some pie!" Rebecca shouted after him.

"Have her home by sunset!" Josh added.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Pops yelled, which earned him a dish towel thrown by Rebecca.

Jr. pushed through the front door, the screen slamming behind him with that familiar bang. The Texas sun hit his face, already promising a scorcher of a day. His truck—well, technically the ranch's truck, but today it felt like HIS truck—was parked right where he'd left it.

He climbed in, set the flowers carefully on the passenger seat, checked his hat one more time in the rearview mirror, and started the engine. His phone was secure in his back pocket. His license was in his wallet. Anna Nelson was waiting.

Life couldn't get any better than this.

He headed down the long drive toward the Nelson ranch, dust kicking up behind his tires, a smile plastered across his face.

He never arrived.

Chapter 2: Something's Wrong

Anna Nelson stood on the front porch of the Nelson ranch, smoothing down her sundress for the third time in as many minutes. She'd changed twice already—first the blue dress, then the yellow one, finally settling back on the blue. Her father, Sheriff Wade Nelson, had watched the whole performance with an amused smile.

"He's just a boy, Anna," Wade had said. "Same kid who's been coming around here since he was ten."

"It's different now, Daddy," Anna had replied, checking her hair in the hallway mirror one more time.

That had been twenty minutes ago.

Now she checked her phone. 12:47 PM. Jr. had said noon. Well, maybe 12:15, accounting for the drive from the Benson place. But nearly one o'clock?

She tried his cell. Straight to voicemail.

"Hey, it's me. Just wondering where you are. Call me back."

She waited another ten minutes, her stomach starting to knot. This wasn't like Jr. He was always early for everything—early to school, early to youth group, early to help her dad with ranch work. The boy was pathologically punctual.

1:05 PM. She called again. Voicemail again.

Wade appeared at the screen door. "He's not here yet?"

"No, sir." Anna tried to keep the worry out of her voice. "I tried calling twice. It goes straight to voicemail."

Wade frowned. "That's not like him." He reached for the consortium radio on his belt. "Let me reach out to the Bensons."

Anna watched her father key the radio. "Benson house, this is Wade Nelson. Anybody copy?"

Static, then Rebecca's voice crackled through. "Wade? This is Rebecca."

"Is Jr. still there? Anna's been waiting over an hour now."

A pause. "He left at noon, Wade. Should've been there by 12:15 at the latest."

Anna saw her father's expression shift from curious to concerned.

"He's not here, Rebecca. Anna's tried calling his cell twice—goes straight to voicemail."

The sound of commotion came through the radio. Voices in the background, then a new voice—Billy Sr. "Wade, this is Billy. I'm trying him on the radio now."

Anna moved closer to her father, her heart beginning to race.

They waited. Thirty seconds. A minute.

Billy's voice came back, tight with tension. "No response. He's not answering."

"I'm driving the route," Wade said. "You boys do the same from your end."

"Already heading to the truck," Billy replied. "Wade—"

"I know. Let's find him first."

Wade grabbed his keys and looked at Anna. "Get in the truck."

They headed down the Nelson drive toward the main road that connected the two ranches. It was a straight shot, maybe fifteen minutes on a good day, less if you were a sixteen-year-old kid excited about his first real date.

Anna stared out the window, scanning the brush on both sides of the road. Nothing. Just mesquite, cactus, and endless Texas scrubland baking in the afternoon sun.

"There!" Anna pointed.

Tire tracks. Fresh ones, veering off the road and into a shallow ditch about fifty yards ahead.

Wade accelerated, pulling up behind the truck that sat at an angle in the culvert, driver's door hanging open.

The Benson ranch truck.

Empty.

Anna was out before Wade could stop her, running to the passenger side. The wildflowers lay scattered across the bench seat, already wilting in the heat.

"Jr.!" she called. "Billy!"

Nothing but the buzz of cicadas and the tick of the cooling engine.

Wade was at the driver's side, his hand on his weapon now, eyes scanning the area with the practiced alertness of a lawman. He reached in and checked the ignition. Keys still in place. He touched the hood. "Still warm."

Then he saw it. Pieces of rope on the ground beside the driver's door. Cut rope, the ends frayed and ragged.

Wade keyed his consortium radio, his voice flat and cold. "All units, this is Sheriff Nelson. Found the Benson truck at mile marker 47, County Road 12. Vehicle abandoned. Signs of a struggle."

Anna felt the world tilt. "Daddy?"

"Get back in my truck, Anna. Now."

"But—"

"NOW!"

As Anna climbed back in, she saw another truck racing up from the Benson direction, dust billowing behind it. Billy Sr. at the wheel, Jake beside him.

They skidded to a stop. Billy was out and running before the engine died, Jake right behind him. Both men went straight to the abandoned truck, their faces draining of color when they saw the scattered flowers, the cut rope on the ground.

Billy picked up a piece of the rope, his hands shaking. Then his face went hard. He pulled the consortium radio from his belt and pressed the emergency button three times in rapid succession.

"911BillyB. 911BillyB. 911BillyB."

The mechanical voice echoed across every radio in the consortium network.

Within seconds, every radio in half of Kings County crackled to life, voices overlapping in controlled chaos as the emergency protocol activated.

The Renzos. The Matterns. The Rodriguezes. The Beaumonts.

Everyone was coming.

Chapter 3: Convergence

The mechanical voice echoed across every consortium radio: "911BillyB. 911BillyB. 911BillyB."

Billy Sr. stood by the abandoned truck, the cut rope still in his hand, his face carved from stone. Jake paced beside him like a caged animal. Wade Nelson was already on his radio.

"Wilson, Ryan—I need you at mile marker 47, County Road 12, now. Full forensics. Photos, tire tracks, prints, everything. Bag this rope as evidence."

"On our way," Wilson's voice crackled back.

"Let's get to the house," Wade said. "We coordinate from there."

The drive back to the Benson ranch was silent except for the roar of engines. But they weren't alone. From every direction, trucks were converging—the emergency signal had done its job.

When they pulled into the ranch yard, vehicles were already arriving. The Renzos—Mr. and Mrs. Renzo with Billy Renzo in the back, duffel bags full of equipment at his feet. The Matterns right behind them, Ryan Mattern clutching a laptop case and portable server. The Rodriguezes, Daniel already pulling iPads and cables from a backpack.

Robert and Caroline Beaumont pulled up with Celab, who jumped out carrying a case of drones.

The front porch of the Benson house was command central. Pops stood there with a cigar clamped in his teeth, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and his rifle leaning against the railing. His face was purple with rage.

Tom stood beside him, steady and calm. Josh paced the length of the porch, his jaw clenched so tight it looked ready to crack. Ray watched everything with cold calculation. Rebecca stood by the door with Sarah and Mary Nelson, all three women pale but composed.

Billy Sr. climbed out of the truck, holding up the cut rope. "Found the truck at mile marker 47. Empty. Engine still warm. This was on the ground."

"Goddamn it!" Pops roared, slamming the whiskey bottle down. "Where is he? Where's my great-great-grandson?"

"Pops—" Tom started.

"Don't you 'Pops' me! Some son of a bitch grabbed that boy on his birthday! His goddamn birthday! When I find them, I swear to Christ, I'll—"

"We'll find him," Josh said, his voice deadly quiet. He turned to the gathering crowd. "Billy Renzo! Ryan Mattern! Daniel Rodriguez! Get your equipment. Now."

The three boys moved like they'd been shot from a cannon.

"Kitchen table," Rebecca said. "Set up there."

Within minutes, the Benson kitchen was transformed into a tactical operations center. The boys worked with practiced efficiency—laptops opened, cables running everywhere, portable satellite uplink on the counter, monitors synchronized.

Billy Renzo had his main laptop running tracking software. Ryan Mattern was managing three screens simultaneously. Daniel Rodriguez was syncing a stack of iPads—a dozen of them, all displaying the same real-time data.

"Here," Daniel said, distributing the tablets. "Everyone in the consortium gets one. Whatever we see, you see."

Mr. Renzo took one. Mr. Mattern grabbed two. Robert Beaumont took another. Wade examined his with approval. Billy Sr., Jake, Celab, Ray, Tom, Josh—everyone got a tablet linked to the system.

Outside on the porch table, Celab was prepping the drones—six of them, all with high-resolution cameras and GPS tracking. "These are ready to fly the second we get a location," he said.

Inside, the boys worked. Pops hovered behind them, whiskey bottle in hand, muttering curses under his breath.

"Can you find him?" Pops demanded. "Can you find my boy?"

"Working on it," Billy Renzo said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "Jr.'s phone is encrypted, but if it's powered on and transmitting—"

"I don't give a damn about encrypted!" Pops bellowed. "Just find him! Find him before those bastards hurt him!"

"We will, Pops," Ryan said, not looking up from his screens.

The kitchen went silent except for the clicking of keys and the hum of electronics. Everyone stared at their iPads, watching the data stream across the screens. Waiting.

"Come on, Jr.," Billy Renzo muttered. "Where are you?"

Rebecca stood by the sink, her hands gripping the counter so hard her knuckles were white. Sarah stood beside her, one hand on her daughter-in-law's shoulder. Mary Nelson had her arm around Anna, who was crying silently.

"I've got something," Ryan said suddenly. "Weak signal, but—"

Josh's phone rang.

The sound cut through the kitchen like a knife. Everyone froze.

Josh pulled the phone from his pocket. His hand was steady, but his face had gone white.

Unknown number.

He held up the phone so everyone could see the screen, then pressed the speaker button.

"Hello?"

Chapter 4: Hogtied

Billy Benson Junior had never been this angry in his life.

He lay on his side on a concrete floor, every muscle screaming, sweat soaking through his wifebeater. The ropes cut into his skin—wrists bound tight behind his back, elbows cinched together so close his shoulders felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets, biceps wrapped with rope just a few inches apart. His ankles were tied and then pulled back, connected to his wrists in a brutal hogtie that made every breath an effort.

The gag in his mouth tasted like oil and dirt, making him want to retch.

But it was the rage that kept him focused. Pure, white-hot rage.

They'd come out of nowhere. One second he'd been driving, thinking about Anna in that blue sundress, and the next—BAM. Something slammed into the side of his truck, sending him careening off the road. Before he could even process what happened, his door was yanked open and hands were grabbing him.

Three of them. Maybe four. He'd fought—landed at least one good punch, felt his knuckles connect with someone's jaw—but they'd been ready for it. One of them had looped a rope around his arms, pinning them before he could reach for his phone. Then they'd dragged him out, thrown him in the back of a van, and trussed him up like a calf at a rodeo.

Amateur hour, Jr. thought bitterly. Pops would be ashamed of this sloppy hogtie work.

The thought almost made him laugh, but the gag stopped him.

Now he was in what looked like an old barn or warehouse, judging by the smell of dust and rotting wood. Sunlight streamed through cracks in the walls. His cowboy hat was long gone. His carefully styled hair was a mess. His wifebeater was filthy, stained with dirt and sweat, clinging to his chest and showing every muscle he'd worked so hard to build.

Good, he thought savagely. Let them see. Let them know they didn't grab some soft kid. They grabbed a Benson.

One of them—a wiry guy with a scraggly beard and nervous eyes—crouched down in front of him with a phone, angling it for a photo.

Jr. glared at him with every ounce of hatred he could muster. His eyes promised murder. Promised that the second these ropes came off, someone was going to pay.

"Jesus, kid's got a look on him," another voice said from somewhere behind him. Deeper voice, older maybe. "You sure he's only sixteen?"

"Shut up and take the picture," a third voice snapped. This one sounded like the boss. "We need proof of life."

The camera clicked. Once. Twice. Three times.

Jr. tried to move, tried to shift his weight, but the hogtie was too tight. Every movement just pulled the ropes tighter, made his shoulders scream louder. But he didn't stop glaring. Didn't stop letting them know that they'd made the biggest mistake of their miserable lives.

"Got it," the wiry guy said, standing up and backing away from Jr.'s death stare. "Man, if looks could kill—"

"They're gonna pay," the boss said, looking at his phone. "Benson family's loaded. That consortium they run covers half the county. They'll pay whatever we ask to get their golden boy back."

Jr.'s eyes narrowed further. You don't know my family, he thought. You have no idea what's coming for you.

The boss dialed a number, put the phone to his ear, and waited.

Jr. could hear it ringing even from where he lay.

Then, faintly, a voice: "Hello?"

His dad. That was his dad's voice.

"Mr. Benson," the boss said, his voice taking on a fake professional tone. "I have something that belongs to you."

Jr. struggled against the ropes again, trying to make noise through the gag, trying to let his dad know he was alive, that he was okay, that he was going to be okay.

But all that came out was a muffled grunt.

The boss laughed. "Yeah, he's right here. Very much alive. For now. You want to keep him that way, you're gonna listen very carefully to what I have to say..."

Chapter 5: The Hunt

"Mr. Benson," the voice on the speaker said, cold and mechanical. "I have something that belongs to you."

Josh's knuckles went white around the phone. The entire kitchen held its breath.

"Who is this?" Josh's voice was deadly calm.

"Someone who has your son. And if you want him back in one piece, you're going to—"

"Let me talk to him," Josh interrupted. "Let me hear his voice."

A pause. Then a muffled sound—angry, defiant, but unmistakably Jr.

Rebecca's hand flew to her mouth. Pops slammed his fist on the table, making the laptops jump.

"He's alive," the voice said. "For now. You want him to stay that way, you'll have half a million dollars ready in twelve hours. I'll call back with instructions. And Sheriff—" the voice took on a mocking tone, "—we know you're listening. No cops. No FBI. No heroes. Or the boy dies."

The line went dead.

For three seconds, nobody moved.

Then Pops exploded. "Half a million?! Those worthless sons of bitches think they can—I'll rip their goddamn throats out! I'll—"

"Pops!" Tom grabbed the old man's arm. "Not helping!"

Billy Renzo's phone chimed. "Photo incoming. Unknown number."

Everyone crowded around as the image loaded on the screens. Then it populated across all twelve iPads simultaneously.

Jr. Hogtied on a concrete floor. His wifebeater dirty and soaked with sweat. Ropes wrapped around his wrists, elbows, biceps, ankles. But it was his eyes that hit everyone the hardest—pure rage, defiant, unbroken.

Rebecca made a sound that wasn't quite a sob. Sarah pulled her close. Anna turned away, crying.

"That's my boy," Josh said quietly. "Still fighting."

Jake punched the wall. "We're getting him back. Now."

"Already on it," Billy Renzo said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "Ryan, you got the metadata from that photo?"

"Pulling it now," Ryan said, fingers dancing across his screen. "Stripped, but there's always something. Daniel, run the background analysis."

"On it," Daniel said. "Looking for architectural markers, light angles, anything we can use."

Wade watched the three boys work, impressed despite himself. "Can you actually track where that photo came from?"

"Not directly," Billy Renzo said, not looking up. "But we've got Jr.'s phone. If it's still on him—"

"It is," Ryan interrupted. "Signal's weak but it's there. He's—" Ryan's eyes widened. "Wait. I've got movement. Vehicle movement about forty minutes ago, heading—" He zoomed in on his map. "Northeast. Toward the old industrial district."

"That's thirty square miles," Jake said. "We can't search all of that."

"We don't have to," Celab said from the doorway. "Drones are prepped. Six of them. We get a general area, we can cover it in an hour."

"Can those things really—" Mr. Mattern started.

"Eight-K cameras, thermal imaging, GPS tracking," Celab rattled off. "We can spot a rabbit from five hundred feet."

Billy Renzo's laptop beeped. "Gotcha. Phone signal's stationary now. Triangulating—" He looked up, grinning fiercely. "I've got a location. Or close enough. Two-mile radius."

"That's still a lot of ground," Wade said.

"Not for the drones," Ryan said. "Daniel, sync the coordinates."

"Already pushing to all tablets," Daniel said. Every iPad in the room updated simultaneously, showing a map with a red circle marked on it.

"Jesus," Mr. Renzo muttered. "When did you boys learn all this?"

"YouTube," Billy Renzo said without irony. "And a lot of practice. Okay, I'm feeding the coordinates to Celab's drone controller."

"Wait," Ryan said, his eyes glued to another screen. "I'm pulling traffic camera feeds from the Nelson ranch network. There's three cameras on County Road 12. Let me scrub back to—" His fingers moved in a blur. "There. Noon-oh-five. White van, no plates, heading northeast. That's them."

"You hacked traffic cameras?" Wade asked.

"Consortium has access," Daniel said. "Part of the security network Sheriff Nelson set up last year. We're just using what's there."

"How are you doing this so fast?" Caroline Beaumont asked, amazed.

Ryan didn't look up. "We've been building this system for two years. We just never had to use it for real."

"API integration," Billy Renzo muttered. "Cross-reference the geolocation with the timestamp differential and—"

"English, kid," Jake growled.

"We're finding him," Billy Renzo said simply.

Pops took a long pull from his whiskey bottle. "That's my great-great-grandson's friends. Smart as hell. All of them."

"Okay," Celab said, holding up his drone controller. "I've got the coordinates. Launching drones now."

Everyone moved to the windows. Outside, six drones lifted off from the porch table in perfect formation, their propellers whirring as they banked northeast and disappeared over the treeline.

Back inside, the boys had three screens showing the drone feeds. The iPads updated automatically, everyone watching the aerial views stream in real-time.

"Drone One, sector clear," Ryan called out.

"Drone Two, checking the old Fairfield warehouse," Billy Renzo said.

"Thermal imaging on Drone Three," Daniel added. "Looking for heat signatures."

The adults watched, fascinated and confused, as the boys spoke in rapid-fire technical jargon, their hands moving across keyboards and tablets like concert pianists.

"Got something," Ryan said suddenly. "Drone Four. Old grain silo, north side of the industrial park. White van parked outside. Thermal shows four— no, five heat signatures inside the building."

Every iPad zoomed in on the location simultaneously.

"Is that it?" Josh asked, his voice tight.

"Drone Five, confirm," Billy Renzo said. "I'm seeing the same van. Enhancing image—" The screen sharpened. "No plates. That's our vehicle."

"We need confirmation it's Jr.," Wade said.

"Working on it," Daniel said. "Bringing Drone Six lower for thermal detail. Looking for a signature that matches Jr.'s—" He paused. "There. Smaller heat signature, restricted movement, separated from the others. That's him."

Josh's jaw clenched. "Where exactly?"

Billy Renzo pulled up a detailed map on the main screen, pushing it to all tablets. "Old Hendricks Grain Processing Plant. Been abandoned for eight years. Single road in and out, chain-link fence, two buildings—main silo and processing shed."

"How many hostiles?" Ray asked.

"Four, maybe five," Ryan said. "One with Jr., the rest moving around the perimeter."

Jake was already grabbing his rifle. "Let's go get him."

"Wait," Wade said. "We do this smart. We have the element of surprise. They don't know we've found them."

Billy Sr. looked at the iPad in his hand, then at the three sixteen-year-olds who'd just performed a miracle. "How long did that take you? Twenty minutes?"

"Eighteen," Billy Renzo said, checking his watch.

Pops laughed, a harsh sound. "Those bastards grabbed the wrong kid. They have no idea what's coming for them."

Josh looked around the room—his family, his friends, the consortium that had dropped everything to help. "All right. Let's go bring my son home."

Chapter 6: The Rescue

The convoy moved out in military precision. Ten trucks, spaced fifty yards apart, lights off, radios on channel 7. Josh rode in the lead truck with Billy Sr. and Jake. Wade followed in his sheriff's vehicle with his deputies Wilson and Ryan Nelson.

Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez were split up—one in each of the first three trucks, laptops open, iPads synced, providing real-time intelligence from the drones circling overhead.

"Drone Four shows no movement outside the building," Billy Renzo reported from Josh's truck, his eyes glued to his screen. "All heat signatures still inside."

"Drone Two confirming," Ryan Mattern's voice came over the radio from Wade's vehicle. "Five hostiles, one friendly. Friendly signature still stationary, restricted movement."

The rest of the consortium spread out behind them—Mr. Renzo, Mr. Mattern, Mr. Rodriguez, Robert Beaumont, all following the GPS coordinates the boys were feeding them in real-time.

Back at the ranch house, Rebecca stood on the porch with Sarah, Mary Nelson, Mrs. Renzo, Mrs. Mattern, Mrs. Rodriguez, Caroline Beaumont, and Anna. The women clutched their iPads, watching everything streaming on their screens.

"They're two minutes out," the radio crackled.

Rebecca's knuckles were white where she gripped the porch railing. Sarah put a hand on her shoulder.

"Approaching perimeter now," Billy Renzo said quietly from Josh's truck. "Thermal shows all five hostiles still inside. No external security. These guys are amateurs."

"One minute," Ryan Mattern reported. "Drones holding position. We've got full visual."

The convoy slowed, spreading out in a wide circle around the old grain processing plant. Engines cut. Doors opened silently. Men moved into position with practiced efficiency.

"North side secure," Billy Sr. whispered into his radio.

"South side locked down," Robert Beaumont confirmed.

"East perimeter set," Mr. Mattern reported.

Wade's voice was calm and professional. "West side in position. We have the building surrounded. Billy, what's the drone show?"

"No change," Billy Renzo replied. "All hostiles still inside. Wait—movement. Two of them heading toward the front entrance."

"Hold positions," Wade ordered. "Let's see what they do."

On the porch, the women watched their iPad screens, barely breathing.

The door to the grain silo opened. Two men stepped out, rifles in hand, looking around nervously.

"They know something's wrong," Jake muttered.

One of the men raised his rifle, scanning the darkness. Then he saw something—movement, a shadow.

He fired.

The shot echoed across the industrial park. Muzzle flash lit up the night.

"Shots fired! Shots fired!" Wade's voice barked. "Return fire! Engage!"

All hell broke loose.

The consortium responded instantly. Rifles cracked from every direction. The two men at the door went down in seconds.

"Two hostiles down!" Billy Sr. reported.

"Third one at the east window—he's shooting!" Ryan Mattern called out. "Engaging!"

More gunfire. Glass shattered.

"Got him!" Mr. Beaumont's voice.

"Fourth hostile, south side, trying to run!" Mr. Rodriguez shouted into his radio. "He's heading for the van!"

"I see him," Jake said. The crack of his rifle. "Down!"

"Building breach in three... two... one!" Wade ordered.

Josh, Billy Sr., Jake, and Wade converged on the main entrance, weapons ready. Inside, they could hear shouting. One last hostile.

"Sheriff's department! Drop your weapon!" Wade's voice echoed through the building.

A wild shot. Then another. The man was panicking, firing blindly.

Josh moved like lightning, flanking left while Billy went right. The kidnapper never had a chance. Billy's shot was precise, professional.

"Building secure!" Wade called. "All hostiles down. Friendly located!"

Back at the ranch, Rebecca's legs nearly gave out. Sarah caught her, both women crying. The other mothers gathered around—Mrs. Renzo, Mrs. Mattern, Mrs. Rodriguez, all of them crying with relief.

Inside the grain silo, Josh, Billy, and Jake found Jr. in a back room, still hogtied on the concrete floor. His wifebeater was filthy and soaked with sweat, his face red from exertion, but his eyes were blazing with fury and relief.

Billy Sr. was already cutting the ropes. "Easy, nephew. We've got you."

The second the gag came out, Jr. coughed, spit, and then grinned. "Took you long enough."

"Smart ass," Jake muttered, but he was grinning too, his eyes wet.

The ropes fell away. Josh pulled his son into a crushing hug. "You okay? Did they hurt you?"

"I'm fine, Dad. Pissed off, but fine." Jr. rolled his shoulders, wincing as blood flow returned to his arms. His wrists were raw and red from the ropes. "My phone still in my back pocket?"

Billy Sr. checked and laughed, pulling out the phone. "Still there. Billy Renzo's gonna be insufferable about this."

"Good. That's how you found me, right? The phone?"

"And the drones, and traffic cameras, and about six different things those boys did that I still don't understand," Josh said, helping Jr. to his feet.

Jr. swayed slightly, his legs cramping from hours of being hogtied, but he steadied himself. Then his face got serious. "I need to talk to Anna. And Mom. Now."

Billy Sr. pulled out his iPad, the one synced to the system. He tapped the screen, establishing a video call. Within seconds, Rebecca's tear-stained face filled the screen, Anna right beside her.

"Jr.!" Rebecca sobbed. "Oh my God, baby, are you okay?"

"I'm okay, Mom. I'm okay." Jr.'s voice cracked slightly. "Anna—I'm sorry. I'm so sorry about our date."

Anna was crying and laughing at the same time. "You idiot! I don't care about the date! Are you hurt?"

"Just some rope burns. Nothing serious." Jr. looked at his mother through the screen. "Mom, I'm gonna need you to check me out when I get home. You know, nurse stuff."

Rebecca nodded, wiping her eyes. "I'll be ready. We're all ready."

In the background of the video call, they could hear Pops's voice, rough and loud over the consortium radio. "Is that my boy? Let me see my great-great-grandson!"

Pops appeared on the porch, pushing his way to the front. "You okay, kid?"

"I'm okay, Pops."

"Good. 'Cause when you get home, we're throwing you a proper goddamn Sweet 16 party. You hear me? Nobody kidnaps a Benson and ruins his birthday!"

The video call ended, but Pops wasn't done. He turned to the women on the porch, gesturing with his cigar. "Ladies! We got work to do. That boy deserves a party, and by God, we're gonna give him one!"

Rebecca wiped her eyes and straightened her shoulders. The relief transformed instantly into purpose. "Sarah, Mary—start making calls. Every neighbor, every family in the consortium."

"I'll get the word out," Mary Nelson said, already pulling out her phone.

"We've got leftovers in every freezer on this ranch," Sarah added. "Ribs, brisket, chicken—"

"Same at our place," Mrs. Renzo said. "I'll bring everything we've got."

"We've got three cakes in our freezer from last month," Mrs. Mattern added. "I'll thaw them out."

"I'll handle the tables and decorations," Caroline Beaumont said. "We can have the yard set up in an hour."

Mrs. Rodriguez was already on her phone. "I'm calling my sisters. We'll have tamales, rice, beans—enough to feed a hundred people."

Anna grabbed Rebecca's hand. "I'll help with whatever you need."

The women moved like a well-oiled machine, each one knowing exactly what to do. Ranch life had taught them how to throw together a gathering at a moment's notice—weddings, funerals, celebrations. This was what they did.

Within minutes, phones were ringing all over Kings County. Neighbors were loading up trucks. Freezers were being raided. The Benson ranch was about to host the surprise party of the century.

The convoy reformed, this time with Jr. riding in the lead truck between his father and Billy Sr., Jake driving. Billy Renzo was in the back with his laptop, already documenting everything for the sheriff's report.

Behind them, Wade and his deputies were securing the scene, photographing everything, documenting the evidence. The kidnappers had fired first—it was clean, legal, justified.

The trucks rolled through the night, headlights on now, moving as one unified force back toward the Benson ranch.

As they crested the final hill that led to the ranch house, Jr. could see lights blazing in every window. Trucks were already arriving—neighbors, friends, the entire community responding to the word that had spread like wildfire.

The yard was transforming before his eyes. Tables going up. Lights stringing across the porch. People everywhere.

Billy Benson Junior was home.

And the party was just beginning.

Chapter 7: Sweet 16

The convoy rolled into the Benson ranch yard like a victory parade. Before Jr. could even climb out of the truck, Billy and Jake had him by the arms, hoisting him up onto their shoulders. Celab grabbed his legs from behind for support.

"Here he is!" Billy Sr. hollered. "The birthday boy!"

A cheer erupted from the gathered families—the Bensons, the Nelsons, the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes, the Beaumonts. The consortium, all together, all celebrating.

Anna pushed through, her face streaked with tears and mascara, but smiling so wide it looked like her face might split. She grabbed Jr.'s hand as his uncles carried him like a trophy toward the house.

"You scared me half to death!" she said, squeezing his hand.

"Sorry," Jr. grinned down at her. "Wasn't exactly my plan."

They deposited Jr. on the front porch steps, where Pops was waiting. The old man had set up what could only be described as a full bar on one of the picnic tables—bottles of whiskey, vodka, beer on ice, mixers, the works.

"My great-great-grandson!" Pops grabbed Jr. in a bear hug that smelled like cigar smoke and Old Spice. "You gave us a hell of a scare, boy."

"Sorry, Pops."

"Don't be sorry. Be thirsty." Pops reached into the ice chest and pulled out a beer, cracking it open and shoving it into Jr.'s hand. "You're sixteen now. You earned this."

Rebecca opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. Josh just shook his head, smiling.

Pops leaned close to Jr. and whispered loud enough for half the porch to hear, "Don't think I don't know about those floorboards in the frat house, kid. This one's just legal."

Jr. turned red. Jake and Billy burst out laughing.

"Told you he knew," Billy said.

The food started appearing like magic—platters of ribs, brisket, chicken from the Benson and Nelson freezers, bowls of potato salad and beans, Mrs. Rodriguez's tamales and rice, three different cakes from the Mattern family, Mrs. Renzo's famous coleslaw. The picnic tables groaned under the weight of it all.

The families filled plates, grabbed drinks from Pops's makeshift bar, and the yard filled with the sounds of laughter and conversation. Jr. moved through the group, accepting hugs from Sarah and Tom, backslaps from Ray, a fierce hug from Rebecca who whispered, "I'm checking those rope burns in five minutes, young man."

Then Billy Sr.—probably half-drunk already—started the chant.

"KISS! KISS! KISS!"

Jake and Celab picked it up immediately. "KISS! KISS! KISS!"

Jr.'s face went scarlet. Anna giggled, covering her mouth with her free hand.

"Oh God," Jr. muttered.

"Come on, birthday boy!" Jake yelled.

Billy Sr. grabbed Edna around the waist and pulled her close. "Like this, nephew!" He planted a kiss on her that made everyone whistle and holler. When he came up for air, Edna was blushing but laughing.

"Your turn!" Jake shouted at Jr.

The chant grew louder. "KISS! KISS! KISS!"

Even the parents were grinning now. Wade Nelson was trying to look stern but failing. Josh just shook his head, laughing.

Anna was still giggling, but she stepped closer, her eyes sparkling in the porch lights.

"We don't have to—" Jr. started.

"Oh, shut up," Anna said, and kissed him.

For a sixteen-year-old kid's first real public kiss, it was pretty damn good. The crowd went absolutely wild—hooting, hollering, whistling like idiots. Rebecca covered her eyes but was smiling. Sarah was laughing so hard she had tears running down her face. Josh was shaking his head but grinning like a fool.

When they finally broke apart, both kids were beet red.

"THAT'S MY GREAT-GREAT-GRANDSON!" Pops bellowed, raising his whiskey bottle. "The boy's got game!"

Jake jogged to his truck and cranked up the stereo. Country music poured out across the yard—the kind of songs about small towns and summer nights and falling in love.

Tom pulled Sarah close for a slow dance. Mr. and Mrs. Renzo joined them. Robert and Caroline Beaumont moved together under the string lights Rebecca had hung between the porch posts. Wade finally gave in and danced with Mary, both of them laughing.

Josh found Rebecca and pulled her into his arms. "We got him back," he said quietly.

"We did," Rebecca whispered, tears streaming down her face again. "We really did."

Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez sat on the porch steps with their laptops finally closed, watching the party, exhausted but grinning. Celab brought them each a beer—didn't check their IDs either. Pops saw it and just winked.

"We did good," Billy Renzo said.

"Damn right we did," Ryan agreed.

Jr. and Anna found a quiet spot near the edge of the yard, away from the main group but still in the glow of the lights. They sat on a hay bale, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist.

"Happy birthday," Anna said softly.

Jr. laughed. "Yeah. Hell of a birthday."

"At least you got your kiss."

"Best part of the whole day," Jr. said, and meant it.

The party rolled on into the Texas night. Music playing, people dancing, Pops's bar doing steady business, plates of food being passed around. Stories were already being told and retold—how Billy Renzo tracked the phone, how the drones found him, how the kidnappers made the fatal mistake of shooting first.

Jake danced with Billy Sr.'s girlfriend Edna just to annoy his brother, then got shoved off laughing. Billy kept her close after that. Celab tried to teach Mrs. Rodriguez a two-step and nearly got kicked in the shin.

And on the porch, Pops sat in his rocking chair with his whiskey and his cigar, watching his family and the consortium families—the people who'd dropped everything, who'd come running when the call went out, who'd helped bring his great-great-grandson home.

"Not a bad party," Tom said, sitting down beside his father.

"Damn right," Pops said. "That's how you do a Sweet 16."

The music played on. The stars came out. And somewhere in Kings County, Texas, the word was already spreading among those who needed to know: Don't mess with the Bensons. Don't mess with the consortium.

And sure as hell don't mess with Billy Benson Junior on his birthday.