Chapter 1: The Storm
The sky had been growling all evening, that low rumble that made the horses pace in their stalls and the dogs whine at the back door. By eleven o'clock, the first serious lightning cracked across Kings County, turning the Benson Ranch white as noon for half a second before plunging it back into darkness.
In the frat house—the back bedroom where Billy, Jake, Celab, and Junior all bunked in a configuration that would've made a fire marshal weep—the lights flickered once, twice, then died completely.
"Shit," Jake muttered from the top bunk.
"Language," Billy called up from below, grinning in the dark.
"Oh, blow me, Billy."
"Both of you shut up," Celab said from across the room. He was already pulling on his boots. "Generator's about to kick—"
The house shuddered as the backup generator roared to life outside, and a few seconds later the lights came back on, dimmer than before but steady. The four of them sat up, listening. The wind was picking up now, rattling the windows, and the rain started coming down hard enough that it sounded like gravel hitting the roof.
Junior swung his legs off the bottom bunk opposite Billy's and reached for his phone. "You think this is gonna be bad?"
Before anyone could answer, they heard boots thundering down the hallway and then Pops' voice, loud and unapologetic: "Everyone to the goddamn basement! Now!"
Jake was already moving. "Tornado?"
"Don't wait to find out," Billy said, grabbing his jacket off the floor.
They piled into the hallway with the rest of the family—Tom and Sarah herding everyone toward the basement stairs, Josh and Rebecca right behind them with flashlights, Ray on his radio trying to raise the other consortium families. Pops stood at the top of the basement stairs like a drill sergeant, waving everyone down with a brandy glass still in his other hand.
"Move it, move it! Jake, get your ass down there! Junior, you too!"
"I'm coming, Pops!"
"And watch your damn mouth!"
"You just said 'goddamn' like ten seconds ago!"
"I'm seventy-six, I've earned it!"
They all crammed into the basement—Tom, Sarah, Pops, Josh, Rebecca, Ray, Billy, Jake, Celab, and Junior. The radio on the wall crackled to life—Wade Nelson's voice, calm and authoritative: "All stations, this is Nelson-1. Advise all personnel to shelter in place. Storm's got rotation. Repeat, possible tornado conditions."
Ray keyed the mic. "Copy, Nelson-1. Benson Ranch is sheltered."
One by one, the other families checked in. The Beaumonts. The Nelsons. The Renzos. The Matterns. The Rodriguezes. All accounted for.
The wind picked up outside, a freight-train roar that made the basement walls tremble.
"Jesus," Rebecca whispered, holding Junior close.
"We're good down here," Tom said, his voice steady. "This basement's been through worse."
Pops shuffled over to the far corner of the basement, kneeling down with a grunt beside an old metal shelf stacked with paint cans and rusty tools. He reached behind it and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels, still sealed, and a sleeve of paper cups.
"There she is," he said with satisfaction.
Sarah put her hands on her hips. "You've had a stash down here this whole time?"
"Emergency supplies," Pops said innocently, cracking the seal. "For morale purposes."
"Morale purposes," Tom repeated, trying not to smile.
"That's right." Pops started pouring. "Storm like this, a man needs a drink. Hell, everybody needs a drink." He handed cups to Tom, Josh, and Ray first, then Sarah and Rebecca. "Ladies included."
"I'm driving the tractor in four hours," Ray said, but he took the cup anyway.
"The tractor'll wait." Pops poured one for Billy, Jake, and Celab. "You boys are old enough."
"What about me?" Junior asked.
"You're sixteen."
"So's Ryan and he's drinking right now, I guarantee it."
Pops squinted at him, then poured half a cup. "Don't tell your mother."
"I'm right here," Rebecca said.
"Then I'm telling you don't tell her."
"I AM her!"
"Exactly. So we're in agreement." Pops raised his cup. "To the Benson Ranch. Still standing after a hundred and forty years, and not going anywhere tonight."
"Here, here," Tom said, and they all drank.
The whiskey burned going down, but it was warm and steadying. Junior coughed a little and Jake slapped him on the back. "Lightweight."
"Shut up, Jake."
Pops snorted. "Damn right. Been through three tornadoes in this hole. '74, '09, and that little spinner in '16 that didn't even knock over the mailbox."
"That wasn't a tornado, Pops," Ray said. "That was just wind."
"Still didn't knock over the mailbox."
Jake grinned at Junior. "Twenty bucks says Pops tells the '74 story before this is over."
"No bet," Junior said. "He's already warming up."
"I can hear you little shits," Pops said, raising his cup. "And for the record, in '74—"
"Here we go," Billy muttered.
"—the tornado took the entire north barn. Gone. Didn't even leave the foundation. And you know what your great-great-granddaddy did? Walked out the next morning, looked at the empty space, and said, 'Well, I guess we're building a new barn.'"
Sarah smiled despite herself. "And you helped him build it, didn't you?"
"Damn right I did. I was twenty-six years old and stronger than any three of you boys put together."
"Still are, Pops," Junior said.
"Don't patronize me, kid."
Something heavy slammed into the side of the house and everyone went quiet. Sarah grabbed Tom's arm. Rebecca pulled Junior closer. The generator stuttered, the lights dimmed, then came back on.
"We're okay," Josh said firmly. "House is solid."
Pops poured another round without asking. "See? Morale purposes."
Celab leaned over to Billy and Jake. "You guys got beer stashed down here too?"
"Under the workbench," Jake said. "Behind the paint cans."
"Of course you do."
Billy shrugged. "Storm protocol."
Junior pulled out his iPad, and within seconds Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez were all on a group video call, their faces illuminated by their screens.
"You guys good?" Junior asked.
"Yeah, we're in our basement," Billy Renzo said. "This is crazy."
"Drones are grounded," Ryan added. "Wind's too strong."
"Obviously," Junior said. "But the network's still up. All the sat phones are pinging."
Tom glanced over. "You boys got everyone accounted for?"
"Yes, sir," Junior said. "All six families are sheltered."
Tom nodded, satisfied. "Good work."
The storm hammered them for four hours.
At one point, Pops started snoring in his chair, empty cup balanced on his knee. Jake tried to take a picture, but Billy slapped his phone down. "Don't. He'll kill you."
"Worth it," Jake whispered.
Rebecca dozed against Josh's shoulder. Ray kept monitoring the radio. Tom and Sarah sat close, not saying much, just waiting it out. The frat house crew sprawled on the concrete floor, half-asleep, checking their devices every few minutes.
At 3:17 a.m., the wind finally died.
The rain kept coming for another twenty minutes, but the roar faded to a steady drumming, and then even that trailed off into silence. Everyone looked at each other, exhausted and wired at the same time.
Tom stood up first. "All right. Let's see what we've got."
They came up into a house that was still standing, which felt like a miracle. A few windows were blown out in the kitchen, glass all over the floor, and the back porch had lost most of its railing. But the bones were good. The generator hummed faithfully in the equipment shed.
"Barn?" Josh asked, already heading for the door.
"I'll check the horses," Ray said, pulling on his boots.
Billy, Jake, Celab, and Junior grabbed flashlights and followed the rest of the family outside. The air smelled like wet earth and ozone, and the yard was littered with branches and debris—shingles, pieces of fence, a lawn chair from God-knows-where. But the barn was intact. The horses were spooked but unharmed, stamping and snorting in their stalls. One of the equipment sheds had lost half its roof, but the tractors inside were fine.
Josh came back on the radio after twenty minutes. "All stations, Benson Ranch reports minor structural damage, no injuries. Livestock accounted for. We'll do a full property inspection at first light."
Wade's voice crackled back. "Copy that. Nelson Ranch is clear. Minor fence damage, one tree down. Beaumont, what's your status?"
One by one, the families checked in. A few broken windows. Some downed trees. Power lines out in a couple of places. But no injuries. No one missing.
By four a.m., they were all back in the house, soaked and exhausted. Sarah and Rebecca made coffee while Pops poured himself another brandy and declared the whole thing "not even in the top ten worst storms I've lived through."
Junior grinned at his great-grandfather. "You say that every time, Pops."
"Because it's true every damn time."
Josh clapped his hands once to get everyone's attention. "All right, folks. We got lucky tonight. Get some sleep. We'll do a full sweep of the property in the morning and see what needs fixing. Tom, Ray, and I will coordinate with the other families on repairs. Billy and Junior—you two take the north sector. Check the storage shed and the fence line up there."
Billy nodded. "Copy that."
Jake frowned. "What about me and Celab?"
"You two are on the south side with me," Josh said. "We'll check the irrigation system and the equipment barn."
"Why does Billy get to go with Junior?" Jake asked.
"Because I said so. And because you two together are a liability when I need actual work done."
Billy grinned. "He's not wrong."
"Shut up, Billy," Jake muttered, but he was smiling.
Tom looked around the room, his face tired but relieved. "Good work, everyone. We'll get through this like we always do. Now get some rest."
The frat house crew trudged back to their room, peeling off wet clothes and collapsing into their bunks without bothering to turn off the lights. Within minutes, the room was filled with the sound of deep, exhausted breathing.
Outside, the sky was starting to lighten in the east.
The storm had passed.
Everything was going to be fine.
Chapter 2: The North Shed
Billy's alarm went off at seven-thirty, which felt like about fifteen minutes after he'd fallen asleep. He groaned and reached up to slap Jake's bunk above him.
"Get up, asshole."
"You get up," Jake mumbled without opening his eyes.
"I have to. I got north sector with Junior."
"Sucks to be you."
Billy rolled out of bed and pulled on his jeans and boots, trying not to wake Celab across the room. Junior was already up, sitting on the edge of his bunk lacing his boots with the kind of focus that came from being raised by Josh Benson.
"You ready?" Junior asked quietly.
"As I'll ever be," Billy said, grabbing his jacket. "Let's get some coffee first."
They found Sarah and Rebecca already in the kitchen, cleaning up broken glass from the blown-out window. The smell of fresh coffee filled the room, and Billy poured two large mugs without asking.
"You boys eat something before you go," Sarah said, not looking up from her broom.
"Yes, ma'am," Billy said, grabbing a handful of biscuits from the basket on the counter.
Josh came in through the back door, his boots caked with mud. "North shed's gonna be bad. Roof collapsed completely. Just do a damage assessment and take pictures. Don't try to move anything heavy until we get more hands up there."
"Copy that," Junior said.
"And take your radios. Check in every thirty minutes."
Billy held up his radio. "Already got it."
"Good. Be careful up there. Storm debris everywhere."
They loaded into Billy's truck—a Ford F-250 that was only two years old and had every piece of tech Billy could afford bolted onto it. GPS tracking, satellite radio, upgraded suspension. Jake liked to joke that Billy loved the truck more than his girlfriend Edna, which wasn't entirely untrue.
The drive to the north sector took about fifteen minutes, winding through muddy ranch roads that hadn't been graded in years. Tree branches littered the path, and twice they had to stop to move debris out of the way. The sun was fully up now, bright and merciless, making the destruction from the storm look even worse in the harsh morning light.
"Jesus," Junior said as they crested the hill and saw the storage shed. "Uncle Billy, it's a total loss."
He wasn't wrong. The entire roof had collapsed inward, and one wall had buckled completely. Equipment and supplies were scattered across fifty yards—tarps, fencing materials, bags of feed torn open and ruined. It looked like a bomb had gone off.
Billy keyed his radio. "Josh, this is Billy. We're at the north shed. It's... yeah, it's gone."
Josh's voice crackled back. "Copy that. Get your pictures and head back. We'll deal with cleanup later."
"Will do." Billy clipped the radio back to his belt and pulled out his phone to start taking photos.
Junior was already walking the perimeter, making notes on his iPad. "Fence line's intact. Gate's still standing. But all this equipment's gonna need to be replaced."
"Insurance is gonna love this," Billy muttered, snapping pictures from every angle.
They worked in silence for about ten minutes, documenting everything. Billy was crouched down inspecting a damaged generator when Junior called out from the far side of the collapsed shed.
"Uncle Billy, check this out. Tire tracks over here. Fresh ones."
Billy straightened up and walked over. Junior was right—there were deep tire marks in the mud, leading away from the shed toward the tree line. They definitely weren't from any Benson Ranch vehicle.
"Storm chasers?" Junior suggested.
"Maybe," Billy said, frowning. "Or looters checking to see what they could grab."
"Out here? In the middle of the storm?"
"People are stupid." Billy pulled out his phone to take a picture of the tracks. "Let's finish up and—"
"Don't move."
The voice came from behind them. Billy spun around and found himself staring at four men emerging from the tree line. All of them had bandannas covering their faces. Two of them were holding rifles pointed directly at Billy and Junior.
"Hands up," the older one said. He was maybe forty, with a beer gut and mean eyes visible above the bandanna. "Nice and slow."
Billy's heart slammed into his throat. Next to him, Junior had gone completely still.
"Easy," Billy said, raising his hands. "We don't want any trouble."
"Too late for that," the big one said. He had a length of rope coiled over his shoulder. "Phones. Radios. On the ground. Now."
"Listen—" Junior started.
"Shut up, kid." The one with the shotgun gestured with the barrel. "Do what you're told and maybe nobody gets hurt."
Billy pulled his phone and radio from his pockets and dropped them in the dirt. Junior did the same, his hands shaking.
"Keys to the truck," the older one said.
Billy fished them out and tossed them at the man's feet.
"Good. Now turn around. Hands behind your backs."
"Wait," Billy said. "You don't have to—"
"Turn around!"
They turned around. The big one moved in fast, grabbing Billy's wrists and binding them together with rope. He worked quickly, looping it around Billy's elbows too, pulling everything tight until Billy's shoulders screamed. Then he did the same to Junior.
"What the hell is this?" Billy said, trying to keep his voice steady. "You want the truck? Take it. Just let us go."
"Change of plans," the older one said. He walked around to face them, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You boys look like you come from money. Nice truck. Nice gear. I'm thinking your family might pay to get you back."
Billy's blood ran cold. "You're making a mistake. You have no idea who—"
The older one shoved a bandanna in Billy's mouth before he could finish, then slapped duct tape over it. He did the same to Junior, who was breathing hard through his nose, eyes wide with fear.
"Ankles," the older one said.
They forced Billy and Junior to the ground and tied their ankles together with more rope. Billy tried to struggle, but with his arms bound behind him he had no leverage. Junior was making muffled sounds behind the gag, trying to say something.
"Load 'em in the truck," the older one said. "We'll ditch ours and take theirs. GPS in this thing?"
"Probably," one of the younger ones said. "These rich boys got everything."
"We'll deal with it later. Move."
They dragged Billy and Junior to the truck bed and threw them in. Billy's shoulder slammed into the metal bed and pain shot down his arm. Next to him, Junior was shaking, his face pale above the duct tape.
The engine started. The truck lurched forward.
And just like that, they were gone.
Chapter 3: The Discovery
Josh was walking the south irrigation line with Jake and Celab when he realized he hadn't heard from Billy in over an hour.
He pulled out his radio. "Billy, this is Josh. You copy?"
Static.
"Billy, Junior—you guys done up there? Check in."
Nothing.
Josh frowned and tried Billy's cell phone. It rang four times and went to voicemail. He tried Junior's. Same thing.
"That's weird," Jake said, noticing Josh's expression.
"When did they leave?" Josh asked.
"Seven-thirty, maybe? They should've been back by now." Jake pulled out his own phone and tried Billy's number. Voicemail. "Probably no signal out there."
"Maybe," Josh said, but his gut was telling him something different. "Let's finish up here and head back. If they're not at the house in twenty minutes, we'll go check on them."
But twenty minutes later, Billy's truck wasn't in the driveway. Tom was in the kitchen drinking coffee with Ray, and neither of them had seen the boys.
"You try their radios?" Tom asked.
"Three times," Josh said. "Nothing."
"Cell phones?"
"Straight to voicemail."
Tom set down his coffee cup. "Jake, Celab—take the Ranger and head up to the north shed. See what's taking them so long."
"Yes, sir," Jake said, already heading for the door.
The drive to the north shed took Jake and Celab twelve minutes, and Jake's foot was heavy on the gas the whole way. Something didn't feel right. Billy always answered his radio. Always.
When they crested the hill and saw the collapsed storage shed—but no truck—Jake's stomach dropped.
"Where the hell is the truck?" Celab said.
Jake was already out of the Ranger before it fully stopped, scanning the ground. He spotted Billy's radio first, lying in the mud near a pile of collapsed lumber. Then Junior's phone, screen cracked but still on.
"Josh, this is Jake," he said into his radio, his voice tight. "We're at the north shed. Billy's truck is gone. We found their phones and radios on the ground."
There was a pause. Then Josh's voice, sharp and controlled: "Say again?"
"Their phones and radios are here. The truck's not. There are—" Jake crouched down, looking at the ground more carefully. "There are fresh tire tracks. And..." He picked up a piece of cut rope, the ends frayed. "Rope. Cut rope. And duct tape."
Another pause, longer this time.
"Stay there," Josh said. "We're on our way."
Celab was walking the perimeter, his face pale. "Jake. Over here."
Jake jogged over. Celab was pointing at the mud—clear bootprints, multiple sets, all leading to and from the tree line. And next to them, drag marks.
"Shit," Jake whispered.
He keyed his radio again, his hand shaking. "Josh—I think they've been taken. There are bootprints. Drag marks. Signs of a struggle."
For a moment, there was only static.
Then Josh's voice came back, cold and precise: "Hit the emergency button. Now."
Jake pulled the small transmitter from his belt—the one Junior and Billy had built for exactly this kind of situation—and pressed the red button three times.
Immediately, a mechanical voice echoed across every radio in the consortium: "911 Emergency. JakeB. 911 Emergency. JakeB. 911 Emergency. JakeB."
Within seconds, the radio frequency lit up.
"Jake, this is Wade. What's your status?" Sheriff Nelson's voice, calm but urgent.
"North sector, Benson Ranch," Jake said, forcing himself to stay steady. "Billy and Junior are missing. We found their phones and radios. Evidence of a struggle. Their truck is gone. I think—" He swallowed hard. "I think they've been abducted."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Wade's voice, sharp as a knife: "All stations, this is Nelson-1. Code Red. Two individuals taken from Benson Ranch, north sector. All families report to Benson main house immediately. This is not a drill."
The radio exploded with voices—Tom, Ray, Robert Beaumont, the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. Ten voices talking over each other, asking questions, confirming locations.
Jake stood there in the mud, staring at Billy's phone in his hand, and felt his blood turn to ice.
This wasn't a robbery.
This was a kidnapping.
And Billy and Junior were gone.
Chapter 4: The Mobilization
By the time Jake and Celab got back to the main house, the driveway was already filling up with trucks.
Wade Nelson's Sheriff cruiser pulled in first, followed by Robert and Caroline Beaumont in their Ford. The Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes weren't far behind. Within fifteen minutes, all six consortium families were gathered in the Benson kitchen and spilling out into the hallway.
Tom stood at the head of the table, his face like stone. Josh was beside him, jaw clenched, radio in hand. Ray was on his phone, coordinating with the other properties. Sarah and Rebecca stood together near the counter, Rebecca's face pale, her arms wrapped around herself.
Pops sat in his chair by the window, a glass of brandy untouched in front of him. His eyes were hard and cold in a way Jake had never seen before.
"All right," Wade said, taking command of the room. "Here's what we know. Billy and Junior went to inspect the north storage shed at approximately oh-seven-forty-five. Josh lost radio contact around oh-nine-hundred. Jake and Celab found evidence of abduction at oh-nine-thirty—phones, radios, rope, duct tape, tire tracks, drag marks. Billy's truck is missing. No witnesses. No ransom demand yet."
"How many?" Tom asked, his voice flat.
"Bootprints suggest four, maybe five individuals," Jake said. "Not local. The tire tracks don't match any consortium vehicles."
"They took Billy's truck," Celab added.
Billy Renzo stepped forward, Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez right behind him. All three sixteen-year-olds had their iPads out, fingers already moving across screens. "Sir, Billy's truck has full GPS tracking. Satellite uplink. We can find it."
Wade turned to look at the boys. "You can access that?"
"Yes, sir. Junior and Billy set up the whole system. We all have admin access." Billy Renzo was already pulling up a screen. "Give us two minutes and we'll have exact coordinates."
"Do it," Tom said.
The three boys spread out across the kitchen table, pulling out more iPads from their backpacks—sixteen in total, all synced to the same network Junior had built. Billy Renzo started handing them out.
"Here," he said, passing one to Tom, then Wade, then Josh. "Everyone can see what we're seeing. Real-time feed."
Ryan handed iPads to Ray, Pops, and Robert Beaumont. Daniel distributed the rest to Sarah, Rebecca, Jake, and the other family heads. Within thirty seconds, everyone in the room was holding a device showing the same synchronized display.
"Okay," Billy Renzo said, his voice calm and focused. "Ryan, pull up GPS tracking. Daniel, bring the drone network online. I'll coordinate."
Ryan's fingers flew across his screen. "GPS interface is live. Searching for Billy's truck signature now..."
On every iPad in the room, a map of Kings County appeared, zooming and scanning.
"Got it," Ryan said. A blinking red dot appeared on all sixteen screens simultaneously. "There. Billy's truck. Twelve miles out, heading northeast toward the old highway. They're moving slow. Back roads."
Everyone stared at their screens, watching the red dot creep across the map.
"Smart," Wade muttered. "They're avoiding main routes."
"Or they're just stupid," Pops said quietly, his eyes locked on the iPad in his weathered hands.
Tom leaned over his screen. "That area's mostly abandoned farmland. Old trailers, foreclosed properties."
Billy Renzo looked up at Wade. "Sir, do you want us to launch drones? We can get eyes on them in under three minutes."
Wade looked at Tom, then at Josh, then back at the boys. "How high can you fly without them spotting you?"
"Four hundred feet, easy," Billy Renzo said. "Thermal and night vision cameras. They won't even hear us."
"Launch two drones," Wade said. "Keep them high. I want to know where they're going and what we're dealing with. Do not—and I mean do not—let them see those drones. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," all three boys said in unison.
Billy Renzo nodded to the others. "Ryan, you're on Drone One. Daniel, Drone Two. I'll coordinate tracking and relay to Sheriff Nelson."
"Drone bay is hot," Daniel said. "Launching in three... two... one..."
Through the kitchen window, everyone could see two drones lifting off from the backyard, their rotors barely audible as they climbed into the morning sky.
On every iPad, a new window opened—two live video feeds from the drones, split-screen with the GPS tracker.
"Drone One airborne," Ryan said.
"Drone Two airborne," Daniel confirmed.
"Both drones en route to target," Billy Renzo said. "ETA ninety seconds."
The room had gone completely silent. Everyone was staring at their iPads, watching the drone feeds show countryside rushing past below, watching the GPS dot continue its slow movement northeast.
Rebecca was gripping her iPad so hard her knuckles were white. Sarah stood next to her, one hand on her shoulder, eyes fixed on the screen. Jake couldn't stop staring at the red dot that represented his brother.
"Drone One has visual," Ryan said suddenly.
On every screen in the room, the image shifted—Billy's Ford F-250 appeared from above, moving along a dirt road, kicking up dust behind it.
"There it is," Tom said quietly.
Pops leaned forward in his chair, squinting at his iPad. "Can you see inside? Can you see my boys?"
"Not from this altitude, sir," Ryan said. "But we can track wherever they're going."
"They're slowing down," Billy Renzo said, watching the GPS. "Turning onto... looks like Old Route 47."
Everyone watched their screens as the truck turned onto a smaller side road.
"There's nothing out there," Tom said. "Just the old Morrison place. Been abandoned for three years."
"That's where they're headed," Wade said.
"Truck just stopped," Daniel said. On every iPad, the video feed showed the truck pulling behind a dilapidated farmhouse and disappearing from view. "They're parking behind a structure. Looks like an old farmhouse. Single story. Barn out back, partially collapsed."
Billy Renzo tapped his screen, marking the location. The coordinates appeared on everyone's display. "Confirmed location: Morrison property, Old Route 47. I'm locking the drones in a holding pattern. Four hundred feet, thermal imaging active."
Wade pulled out his phone. "I need to call this in. Get state police on standby—"
"How long will that take?" Josh interrupted.
"An hour. Maybe two."
"Two hours?" Rebecca's voice cracked, her eyes still on the iPad showing the farmhouse where her son was being held. "They could hurt them. They could—"
"Rebecca," Tom said gently.
Pops stood up, his chair scraping loudly, his iPad still in his hand. "Two hours is too damn long."
"Pops, we have to do this right," Wade said. "We need backup. We need a tactical team—"
"We've got a tactical team right here," Pops said, gesturing around the room at all the people holding iPads, all watching the same feeds. "Six families. Three of us are law enforcement. These boys just tracked them with goddamn flying cameras in under five minutes. What the hell else do we need?"
Wade looked at Tom. Tom looked at Josh. The whole room was holding its breath, everyone's eyes flicking between their iPads and the Sheriff.
Billy Renzo spoke up quietly. "Sheriff Nelson? We can keep eyes on them. Full surveillance. Thermal imaging will show us heat signatures—we'll know exactly where Billy and Junior are inside that building. If anything changes—if they move them, if they hurt them—we'll know immediately. Everyone will see it."
He gestured to all the iPads around the room.
Wade studied the sixteen-year-old for a long moment, then looked down at his own iPad, at the live feed from four hundred feet above the Morrison farmhouse. Then he nodded. "All right. Keep your drones on station. Continuous surveillance. Thermal imaging—I want to know how many people are in that building and where Billy and Junior are at all times. If they so much as sneeze wrong, you tell me. Everyone keeps their iPads on. We all stay informed. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Billy Renzo said. "Switching to thermal now."
Every screen in the room shifted to a thermal view. The old farmhouse glowed in shades of blue and red. Four heat signatures clustered in what looked like the main room. Two more signatures—smaller, stationary—in a back corner.
"There," Daniel said quietly. "Those two in the back. That's got to be them."
Rebecca made a small sound and covered her mouth with her hand. Sarah squeezed her shoulder.
Jake stared at the two motionless heat signatures on his screen. Billy and Junior. Tied up. Alone. Scared.
Wade turned to the room. "Everyone else, we wait. We watch. And when the time is right, we move. Nobody does anything stupid. Keep your iPads on you at all times. Clear?"
There were nods all around, but Jake could see it in everyone's faces—the barely restrained fury, the fear, the readiness to do violence if it came to that.
Pops sat back down and finally took a sip of his brandy, his iPad propped in front of him, never taking his eyes off those two heat signatures. "They better hope the cops get there first," he muttered.
Jake stared at his screen, at the thermal image of his brother and his nephew lying motionless in that abandoned farmhouse.
Hold on, Billy, he thought. We're coming. Just hold on.
Chapter 5: In the Truck
Billy's world had narrowed to pain and fear and the suffocating darkness of the duct tape over his eyes.
His wrists screamed where the rope cut into them, bound tight behind his back with his elbows pulled together in a way that made his shoulders feel like they were being torn apart. His ankles were tied just as tight, the circulation already gone from his feet. The bandanna shoved in his mouth tasted like oil and dirt, and the duct tape over it made every breath a struggle through his nose.
The truck bed was metal and unforgiving. Every bump in the road sent jolts of pain through his body. Next to him, he could hear Junior's muffled breathing, fast and panicked.
Billy tried to move closer, tried to make contact with his nephew. His shoulder bumped against Junior's, and he felt the kid flinch, then press back. It was the only communication they had—we're still here, we're still alive, we're together.
The truck bounced over another rut and Billy's head cracked against the wheel well. Stars exploded behind the duct tape and he bit down on the gag to keep from making a sound. He couldn't let them know he was hurt. Couldn't show weakness.
Think, he told himself. Think.
His hands were behind his back, wrists crossed and bound, elbows tied together. But rope stretched. Rope had give. If he could just—
He started working his wrists, slow and methodical, trying to create any space between them and the rope. The pain was immediate and intense, the rope cutting deeper into his skin, but he kept going. Junior seemed to sense what he was doing because he pressed closer, offering what little support he could.
The truck slowed, then stopped. Billy froze. He heard doors opening, boots hitting the ground. Voices, low and arguing.
"—just supposed to grab equipment, Ray. Not kidnap two kids."
"They're not kids, Travis. Look at that truck. Look at their gear. These boys come from money."
"Yeah, and money means people looking for them. Means cops. This is—"
"This is a score," the older voice—Ray—cut in. "We get fifty grand each, maybe a hundred, and we're gone. Easy."
"If it's so easy, why are you nervous?"
"I'm not nervous. I'm being smart. Get that tarp. Cover the truck. We don't need anyone seeing it from the road."
Billy's heart hammered in his chest. They were stopped. Somewhere remote. This was happening.
He felt hands grab his legs, drag him toward the tailgate. He tried to kick but with his ankles bound there was nothing he could do. They dropped him on the ground and he landed hard on his shoulder, unable to break his fall with his arms tied behind him.
Junior landed next to him with a muffled grunt.
"Get 'em inside," Ray said. "Back room. And take a picture for the ransom demand. Make sure their faces are clear."
Billy felt himself being dragged across dirt and gravel, then dumped on a floor that smelled like rot and mildew. Junior was dropped beside him. Billy immediately rolled toward him, trying to get back-to-back, trying to make contact.
Their bound hands found each other in the darkness.
And then, slowly, carefully, Billy started working at the knots.
Outside the farmhouse, Travis lit a cigarette and looked up at the sky, trying to calm his nerves.
This whole thing was spiraling. They were supposed to hit the equipment barn during the storm, grab some chainsaws and generators, fence them in the next county. Easy money. But the storm had wrecked the shed they were hiding near, and then these two showed up in a truck worth more than Travis made in a year.
Ray saw dollar signs. Travis saw prison time.
He took a long drag and squinted at something in the sky. A bird? No. Too steady. Too... mechanical.
"Hey," he called toward the house. "Y'all see that?"
Ray came out, phone in his hand. "See what?"
Travis pointed. "Up there. That a drone?"
Ray looked up, shielding his eyes. "Where?"
"Right there. Like... four o'clock position. You see it?"
Ray stared for a moment, then laughed. "Yeah. Probably some kid flying it. Or a surveyor. There's nothing out here."
Travis wasn't convinced, but he also didn't want to sound paranoid. He waved up at it, a big exaggerated gesture. "Hey there, drone! How's it going?"
Ray snorted. "You're an idiot."
"Just being friendly."
Inside the farmhouse, Ray pulled up the camera on his phone and walked to the back room where Billy and Junior lay on the floor, bound and blindfolded, exactly where they'd left them.
"All right, boys," Ray said. "Smile for the camera. Time to let your family know you're still breathing."
He snapped three pictures—close-ups showing the tape, the ropes, the fear.
Then he pulled out the burner phone and started typing.
We have your boys. $550K cash. Instructions to follow. No cops or they die.
He attached the photos and hit send to the number he'd pulled from Junior's phone before ditching it.
"Done," he said, walking back out. "Now we wait."
Back at the Benson Ranch, Josh's personal phone buzzed.
Unknown number. Three photo attachments. And a message that made his blood run cold.
"Wade," he said, his voice tight. "We've got contact."
Everyone's heads snapped toward him. Josh turned his phone around so they could all see the screen.
The photos loaded one by one. Billy on the floor, wrists and elbows bound behind him, ankles tied, duct tape over his eyes and mouth. Junior beside him, bound the same way. Both of them lying on a filthy floor in an abandoned building.
Rebecca's hand flew to her mouth. Sarah grabbed Tom's arm.
And then, on every iPad in the room simultaneously, Daniel's voice came through: "Uh, Sheriff? One of them just came outside. He's... he's waving at the drone."
On every screen, the thermal image switched to regular camera view. A man standing in front of the Morrison farmhouse, cigarette in hand, looking directly up at the drone four hundred feet above him.
And waving. Big, exaggerated, friendly waves.
For a moment, nobody in the Benson kitchen said a word.
Then Pops muttered, "Did that dumb son of a bitch just wave at the drone?"
Wade stared at his iPad, then at the ransom photo on Josh's phone, then back at his iPad.
"Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, he did."
Jake let out a sound that was half laugh, half disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"Language," Sarah said automatically, but even she was staring at the screen in amazement.
Billy Renzo spoke up, his voice carefully neutral. "Sheriff Nelson? Should we... wave back?"
Despite everything—the fear, the anger, the tension—someone in the room laughed. And then someone else. And suddenly the whole room was caught between fury and disbelief at the sheer stupidity of what they were watching.
"These are the dumbest criminals I have ever seen in my life," Wade said, shaking his head.
Pops took a long sip of his brandy, his eyes never leaving the iPad screen. "My boys are gonna be fine," he said. "Because these idiots don't have a goddamn clue what they're doing."
On the screen, the man finished his cigarette, waved one more time at the drone, and went back inside.
Wade looked at Tom. "We're not waiting for state police."
"No," Tom agreed. "We're not."
Chapter 6: The Turnaround
Billy lay on the filthy floor of the back room, listening to the kidnappers argue in the front, and tried to assess his situation.
His wrists were tied behind his back. His elbows too. Ankles bound. Bandanna gag, duct tape over his mouth and eyes. It should have been terrifying—and it was—but there was something else nagging at him.
The rope felt... loose.
Not loose enough to slip out of immediately, but loose. Like whoever tied it had seen it done in movies but never actually practiced. Billy tested it carefully, twisting his wrists, and felt way more give than there should have been.
These idiots don't even know how to tie somebody up, he thought.
Next to him, Junior made a muffled sound—not panic, but something else. Billy felt his nephew's shoulder press against his, and then Junior's bound hands found his. Junior squeezed once, twice, three times.
Their old signal from when they were kids. I've got an idea.
Billy squeezed back. Go for it.
Junior started working his wrists, and Billy could actually hear the rope sliding. Whoever had tied them had just wrapped rope around and around without understanding tension or proper knots. Within two minutes—two minutes—Billy felt Junior's hands come free.
Junior immediately pulled the duct tape off his own mouth, yanked out the gag, then peeled off the blindfold. He looked at Billy in the dim light, eyes wide, and held up the rope that had been around his wrists. It was basically just looped around a few times and tucked in. A child could have escaped from it.
Junior got to work on Billy's ropes, and they came undone even faster with two hands working them. Billy pulled off his own gag and blindfold, blinking in the dim light.
"Are you kidding me?" Billy whispered, staring at the rope in his hands. "I've seen Jake tie better knots when he's drunk."
"They have no idea what they're doing," Junior whispered back, working on his ankle ropes. They came loose in seconds.
From the front room, they could hear the ongoing argument:
"—just need to wait for them to pay—"
"And if they don't? What if they call the cops?"
"They won't. We said no cops. They'll pay."
Billy and Junior got their ankles free and stood up slowly, carefully. Billy's eyes had adjusted now, and he could see the whole back room. And there, leaning against the wall in the corner like a gift from God—two rifles. The kidnappers had just... left them there. Not even locked up. Not even in another room.
Billy caught Junior's eye and pointed. Junior's jaw dropped.
Billy picked up one rifle and checked it. Loaded. He handed the other to Junior, who checked it too. Also loaded.
They looked at each other for a long moment. Billy could see his own disbelief reflected in his nephew's face.
"These are the dumbest criminals in history," Billy whispered.
"Should we just... walk out there?" Junior whispered back.
"I mean... yeah. I think so."
They moved to the doorway. The four kidnappers were in the front room, backs to them, still arguing about the ransom.
Billy raised the rifle. "Hands up!"
All four men spun around, faces going from confusion to shock to absolute terror.
"What the—how did you—"
"On the floor!" Junior's voice was steady, the rifle aimed dead center. "Now!"
"You little—"
Billy fired a shot into the ceiling. The sound was deafening. Plaster rained down. "I said get on the floor!"
They hit the floor fast, all four of them, hands over their heads.
"Face down," Billy said. "Hands behind your backs."
They complied, and Junior found their rope and duct tape—the same stuff they'd used on Billy and Junior. "Should I tie them up?"
"Please do," Billy said, keeping his rifle trained on them. "And Junior?"
"Yeah?"
"Tie it tight. You know. Like an actual knot."
Junior grinned and went to work. Unlike these idiots, Junior had been raised on a ranch. He knew how to tie rope. Within five minutes, all four kidnappers were properly bound—wrists, elbows, and ankles—with knots that would actually hold. Junior even added the duct tape over their mouths for good measure.
"There," Junior said, standing back to admire his work. "That's how you tie somebody up."
Ray—the older one—was making angry muffled sounds behind his gag.
"Yeah, you're welcome for the lesson," Billy said. "You might want to practice that before your next kidnapping. Oh wait, you're going to prison. Never mind."
Junior checked his work one more time, then looked at Billy. "We should signal the drones."
"The what?"
"The drones," Junior said, like it was obvious. "You know they launched drones. Dad and the guys. They've been watching this whole time."
Billy blinked. "Seriously?"
"Obviously. Come on."
They stepped outside into the bright Texas sun, rifles slung over their shoulders, and looked up. It took a moment, but then Billy spotted it—a small dark shape hovering high above.
Junior started waving, big exaggerated movements, a huge grin on his face. "Hey! We're good! We got 'em!"
Billy started laughing. He couldn't help it. The fear, the escape, the sheer stupidity of the kidnappers—it all hit him at once. He joined in, waving both arms over his head.
"You think they see us?" he asked.
"Oh, they definitely see us," Junior said, still grinning and waving.
Back at the Benson Ranch, Sarah, Rebecca, and the other consortium women stood in the kitchen, all holding iPads, all staring at the same image: Billy and Junior standing outside the Morrison farmhouse, waving up at the drone, rifles over their shoulders, grinning like they'd just won the lottery.
For three seconds, nobody moved.
Then Rebecca burst into tears. Sarah grabbed her in a hug, both of them crying and laughing at the same time.
"They're okay," Sarah whispered. "Oh God, they're okay."
"They're waving," Rebecca said through her tears, staring at her iPad. "Look at them. They're just... waving."
Caroline Beaumont let out a shaky laugh. "And they've got the kidnappers' guns."
"Of course they do," Sarah said, wiping her eyes.
Meanwhile, the convoy of trucks was already halfway to the Morrison farmhouse.
Tom was driving the lead truck with Jake riding shotgun and Pops in the back. Wade's cruiser was right behind them, followed by Josh, Ray, Celab, and Robert Beaumont in a line of pickups that looked more like a military convoy than a rescue party.
Every man in every truck had an iPad propped on the dashboard or in their lap, all of them watching the same live feed.
"There they are!" Jake shouted, pointing at his iPad screen. "They're outside! They're waving!"
Tom glanced down at his own iPad and felt his chest tighten with relief. "Look at them. Just standing there like nothing happened."
In the back seat, Pops was squinting at his iPad, a grin spreading across his weathered face. "Are they waving at the drone? Those crazy sons of bitches are waving?"
"They sure are," Tom said, unable to keep from smiling.
In Josh's truck right behind them, Josh had his iPad wedged against the steering wheel, his eyes flicking between the road and the screen showing his son. "There's my boy," he said quietly. "Standing there with a rifle like he does this every day."
Ray, in the passenger seat, was grinning. "Look at them. They got the kidnappers' guns and they're just... waving."
"That's a Benson for you," Ray said, shaking his head in amazement.
In the third truck, Celab was driving with Robert Beaumont watching the iPad. "They look fine," Robert said. "More than fine. They look like they're having a good time."
"Because they probably are," Celab said, laughing. "Those two are insane."
Wade's voice came over every radio simultaneously: "All units, hostages are safe and have secured the suspects. I repeat, hostages have secured the suspects. Maintain speed. ETA three minutes."
"Copy that," Tom said into his radio, but he was still watching his iPad, still watching Billy wave at the drone with that big grin on his face.
Jake let out a whoop. "Did you see that? Billy just gave the drone a thumbs up!"
Pops was laughing in the back seat, slapping his knee. "That's my boys! That's my goddamn boys!"
They came over the last hill and there it was—the Morrison farmhouse. And standing in front of it, exactly like they'd seen on the iPads, were Billy and Junior. Waving. Grinning. Rifles slung casually over their shoulders like they'd just finished target practice.
"Holy shit," Jake breathed. "They're really okay."
"Of course they're okay," Pops said. "They're Bensons."
The convoy pulled up in a cloud of dust, and before the trucks even fully stopped, Josh was out and running.
"Junior!"
Junior turned, still grinning, and barely had time to brace himself before his father reached him. Josh grabbed him in a hug that lifted him off his feet, then held him at arm's length, checking him over frantically.
"Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?"
"I'm fine, Dad," Junior said, still smiling. "We're both fine."
Tom had Billy in a bear hug, then stepped back, his hands on Billy's shoulders. "You hurt?"
"Little rope burn," Billy said, holding up his wrists to show the red marks. "But honestly, Dad, these guys couldn't tie a knot to save their lives. We were out in like five minutes."
"Five minutes?" Jake said, coming up behind them. He grabbed Billy in a headlock. "You escaped in five minutes?"
"Maybe less," Billy said, laughing and trying to get free. "They just wrapped rope around. No actual knots. It was pathetic."
Celab was shaking his head in disbelief. "You're telling me you got kidnapped by people who don't know how to tie rope?"
"Or leave guns out of reach," Junior added. "They just left their rifles in the corner. Like we wouldn't notice."
Pops came up the steps slower than the others, but when he reached Billy and Junior, his eyes were wet. He looked at them both for a long moment, then pulled them each into a hug.
"Scared the hell out of us, boys," he said quietly.
"Sorry, Pops," Junior said.
"Don't be sorry." Pops stepped back and grinned. "You did good. Real good. Now where are these dumb bastards?"
"Inside," Billy said. "Tied up proper this time."
"I want to see this," Pops said.
Wade was already in the farmhouse with his deputies. The four kidnappers were on the floor, properly hogtied with knots that actually held, looking significantly less confident than they had two hours ago.
"Well, well," Wade said, crouching down next to Ray. "Ray Murphy. Got warrants in three counties. Just added kidnapping to your list."
Pops walked in, arms crossed, shaking his head slowly. "You dumb sons of bitches waved at the drone. You know that? While we were tracking you. With thermal imaging. With GPS. With six drones in the air. And you waved. Like you were saying hello to a neighbor."
Travis made a sound of pure misery behind his gag.
"And then," Pops continued, clearly enjoying this, "you can't even tie rope. You grabbed two ranch boys—two boys who've been tying knots since they could walk—and you tied them with loose loops like you learned it from watching cartoons. What the hell did you think was gonna happen?"
Jake was leaning in the doorway, grinning. "And they left loaded rifles in the same room. Can't forget that part."
"Jesus," Wade muttered, shaking his head. "These might be the dumbest criminals I've ever seen."
"Might be?" Pops said. "Sheriff, these are definitely the dumbest criminals you've ever seen."
Outside, Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel had arrived in their parents' trucks and came running up with their iPads.
"That was insane!" Billy Renzo said. "We saw the whole thing!"
"Thermal showed you getting free," Ryan added. "Then you just grabbed the rifles and walked out there like nothing happened!"
"You got it all recorded?" Junior asked, grinning.
"Every single second," Billy Renzo said, holding up his iPad. "This is going to be legendary."
Wade came back outside, two of his deputies escorting the hogtied kidnappers to the cruisers. "All right, folks. Let's get these idiots processed. Billy, Junior—you two need to come give statements. But first, the EMTs need to check you out."
"We're fine," Billy protested.
"EMTs first," Wade said firmly. "Then statements. Then you can go home."
As the EMTs looked over Billy and Junior's rope burns and checked for injuries, Junior pulled out his phone. "I need to call Mom. Let her know I'm really okay."
"Good idea," Josh said.
Junior dialed, and Rebecca picked up on the first ring. "Junior?"
"Hey, Mom," Junior said, grinning. "I'm fine. We're both fine. Are you still making pot roast for dinner?"
There was a sound that was half laugh, half sob on the other end. "Yes, baby. I'm still making pot roast."
"Good," Junior said. "Because I'm starving. Also, it's gonna be a bigger dinner. Whole consortium's coming over."
"I know," Rebecca said. "We're already getting it ready."
Tom was on his phone with Sarah, having a similar conversation. When he hung up, he looked at Pops. "Sarah says she's breaking out all the good liquor."
"Damn right," Pops said, throwing his arm around Junior's shoulder. "This calls for a celebration. We're breaking out the good whiskey, and you boys are getting a full glass this time."
"Pops, he's sixteen," Josh started.
"Josh, your son escaped from kidnappers, tied up four grown men with knots they can't undo, and took their guns," Pops said. "He's earned a damn drink."
Tom looked at the farmhouse, then at Billy and Junior, and shook his head with a smile. "You two are something else, you know that?"
"They're Bensons," Pops said proudly. "What'd you expect?"
Billy looked up one more time at the drone still hovering overhead and gave it a final salute. Next to him, Junior was doing the same, both of them grinning.
This was definitely going to be one hell of a story.
Chapter 7: The Celebration
By the time Billy and Junior finished giving their statements at the Sheriff's office and got cleared by the EMTs, it was nearly six o'clock. The sun was starting to sink toward the horizon, painting the Texas sky in shades of orange and red.
Tom drove them home with Jake and Pops, the truck quiet for the first few miles. Billy sat in the passenger seat, watching the familiar landscape roll by, still trying to process everything that had happened.
"You know," Pops said from the back seat, breaking the silence, "when I was in Vietnam, I saw men handle combat situations with less composure than you two showed today."
Billy turned around. "Pops—"
"I'm serious." Pops met his eyes. "You kept your heads. You didn't panic. You waited for your moment and you took it. That's what matters."
"We just got lucky," Junior said quietly. "Those guys were idiots."
"Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity," Tom said. "You boys have been training your whole lives on this ranch. You knew how to handle rope, how to handle weapons, how to think under pressure. That's not luck. That's skill."
Jake reached back and punched Junior's shoulder lightly. "Plus, you got to hogtie four grown men. That's pretty badass."
Junior grinned. "It felt pretty good, not gonna lie."
"Wait until Edna hears about this," Jake said to Billy. "Your girlfriend's gonna lose her mind."
"She already texted me like fifty times," Billy said, pulling out his phone. "Her dad told her what happened."
"What'd you tell her?"
"That I'm fine and I'll call her after dinner." Billy scrolled through the messages. "She wants to come over tomorrow."
"Bet she does," Jake said, grinning. "Hero boyfriend and all."
"Shut up, Jake."
As they pulled into the driveway, Billy could see that every truck in the consortium was already there. The yard was full of vehicles, and through the kitchen windows he could see people moving around, setting up for what was clearly going to be a massive dinner.
"Here we go," Tom said, parking the truck. "You boys ready?"
"Ready for what?" Billy asked.
"To be the center of attention for the next four hours," Pops said. "Everyone's gonna want to hear the story. Multiple times. From both of you."
He wasn't wrong.
The moment Billy and Junior walked through the door, the kitchen erupted. Sarah grabbed Billy first, holding him tight and not letting go for a long moment. Rebecca had Junior in a similar grip, tears streaming down her face again.
"I'm okay, Mom," Junior kept saying. "Really. I'm okay."
"I know," Rebecca said, not letting go. "I know. I just—"
"I know."
The rest of the consortium families crowded around—the Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes—everyone wanting to hug them, clap them on the back, make sure they were really, truly okay.
Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel pushed through the crowd, all three of them grinning.
"Dude, you're famous," Billy Renzo said. "The footage is insane."
"We edited together a highlights reel," Ryan added. "Want to see?"
"After dinner," Josh said firmly. "Right now, these boys need to eat."
The dining room table had been extended with two extra folding tables to accommodate everyone—all six consortium families crammed into the Benson house, with plates and bowls covering every available surface. Sarah and Rebecca had outdone themselves: pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, cornbread, salad, and three different pies cooling on the counter.
Pops stood at the head of the table, a glass of whiskey in his hand. "All right, everyone shut up for a minute."
The room quieted down.
"Today could've ended a hell of a lot worse than it did," Pops said. "But it didn't. Because these two boys—" he gestured to Billy and Junior "—kept their heads and did what needed doing. And because this consortium—all of us—came together like we always do. We look out for each other. We protect each other. That's what family does."
He raised his glass. "To Billy and Junior. And to the dumbest criminals in Texas history."
Everyone laughed and raised their glasses. "To Billy and Junior!"
They drank, and then Pops poured two glasses of whiskey—full glasses, not the half-measure from the basement—and handed them to Billy and Junior.
"Pops," Rebecca started.
"Rebecca, I love you like a daughter, but tonight I'm pulling rank," Pops said. "These boys earned this."
Josh looked at his son, then at the whiskey, then back at his son. "One glass. And you sip it."
"Yes, sir," Junior said, trying not to grin.
The meal was loud and chaotic, with multiple conversations happening at once and plates being passed in every direction. Billy found himself telling the story three different times—once to the Beaumonts, once to Mr. Renzo, and once to a group that included Jake, Celab, and half the teenagers.
"So the rope was just... loose?" Mr. Mattern asked, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Completely," Junior said. "They wrapped it around a bunch of times but didn't actually tie knots. I had my hands free in like two minutes."
"And they left guns in the room with you?"
"Leaning against the wall," Billy confirmed. "Like they forgot they were there."
"Jesus," Wade muttered. He was off-duty now, sitting at the table with a beer and a plate of pot roast. "In thirty years of law enforcement, I've never seen anything like it. Even the district attorney was laughing when I called him."
"Are they gonna do serious time?" Tom asked.
"Oh yeah. Kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, multiple outstanding warrants. Ray Murphy's looking at fifteen to twenty, easy. The others probably ten to twelve."
"Good," Pops said flatly.
As dinner wound down and people started on pie, the teenagers migrated to the living room with their iPads. Billy Renzo pulled up the edited footage—a split-screen showing the thermal imaging of Billy and Junior escaping, intercut with the regular camera view of them walking out with the rifles, ending with both of them waving at the drone.
"This is incredible," Daniel said. "We could submit this to news stations."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Josh said, but he was watching the footage with something like pride on his face.
By nine o'clock, people were starting to head home. The Beaumonts left first, followed by the Matterns and Rodriguezes. The Renzos lingered a bit longer, Billy Renzo showing Junior some updates he wanted to make to the drone network based on today's experience.
"We should add more redundancy," Billy Renzo was saying. "And maybe increase the altitude ceiling—"
"Tomorrow," Josh said. "You boys can talk tech tomorrow. Right now, Junior needs sleep."
"Yes, sir."
By ten o'clock, it was just the Bensons again—Tom, Sarah, Pops, Josh, Rebecca, Ray, Billy, Jake, Celab, and Junior. The kitchen was a disaster of dirty dishes and empty serving bowls, but nobody seemed to care.
"We'll clean up tomorrow," Sarah said, looking at the mess. "I'm too tired to deal with it tonight."
"Agreed," Rebecca said.
Pops poured himself one more brandy and settled into his chair. "Hell of a day."
"Hell of a day," Tom agreed.
Josh looked at Junior. "You good?"
"Yeah, Dad. I'm good."
"Really good? Not just saying it?"
Junior met his father's eyes. "Really good. We handled it. It's over. We're okay."
Josh nodded slowly, then pulled his son into one more hug. "All right. Get some sleep. We'll deal with everything else tomorrow."
The frat house crew—Billy, Jake, Celab, and Junior—trudged down the hallway to their room. Jake flopped onto his top bunk without bothering to undress. Celab pulled off his boots and collapsed onto his bed.
Billy and Junior moved slower, both of them still feeling the day's events in their bones.
"You really okay?" Billy asked quietly as they changed into sleep clothes.
"Yeah," Junior said. "You?"
"Yeah." Billy rubbed his wrists where the rope had cut into them. "It was scary as hell, though."
"Yeah, it was."
"But we did it."
"Yeah, we did."
Jake's voice came from the top bunk, muffled and half-asleep: "You guys are heroes. Now shut up and go to sleep."
"Shut up, Jake," Billy said automatically.
Junior climbed into his bunk and lay there in the darkness, listening to the familiar sounds of the frat house—Jake's breathing, Celab shifting around, the old house settling.
"Hey, Billy?" Junior said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for keeping your head in there. For not panicking."
"You too, kid. You did good."
"We both did."
"Yeah. We did."
Within minutes, the room was filled with the sound of deep, exhausted breathing. Outside, the stars were out over Kings County, bright and clear in the Texas sky.
Tomorrow would bring more questions, more attention, probably more people wanting to hear the story. But tonight, they were home. They were safe. They were together.
And in the frat house, that was all that mattered.
Chapter 8: The Courtroom
One month later, the Kings County Courthouse was packed.
Billy and Junior sat in the front row with Tom, Sarah, Josh, Rebecca, and Pops. Wade Nelson was there in full uniform, along with his deputies. The rest of the consortium families filled the benches behind them—the Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes all turned out to see justice served.
The four kidnappers sat at the defense table looking significantly less confident than they had that day at the Morrison farmhouse. Ray Murphy kept his eyes down. Travis looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. The other two just stared straight ahead, resigned to their fate.
"All rise," the bailiff called. "The Honorable Judge Patricia Henderson presiding."
Everyone stood as Judge Henderson entered—a no-nonsense woman in her sixties who'd been on the bench for twenty years and had a reputation for running a tight courtroom.
"Please be seated," she said, settling into her chair. "We're here for the trial of Ray Murphy, Travis Cole, Dennis Webb, and Michael Foster, charged with kidnapping, assault, unlawful restraint, and possession of stolen property. Is the prosecution ready?"
The assistant district attorney stood. "Yes, Your Honor."
"Defense?"
The public defender—a tired-looking man who clearly knew he had no case—stood. "Yes, Your Honor."
"Then let's proceed."
The prosecution laid out the case methodically. The evidence of the abduction. The ransom demand. The photographs sent to Josh's phone. Billy and Junior's testimony about being grabbed at gunpoint, tied up, and thrown in the back of the truck.
Billy took the stand first, walking through the events calmly and clearly. When the prosecutor asked him to describe how he escaped, Billy held up the rope that had been entered into evidence.
"They wrapped it around my wrists a bunch of times," Billy said. "But they didn't actually tie knots. Not real ones. Junior and I both got free in under five minutes."
There was a ripple of laughter through the courtroom. Judge Henderson banged her gavel once. "Order."
Junior's testimony was similar. He was composed, articulate, and when asked how he secured the suspects, he demonstrated the knots he'd used—proper rancher's knots that the kidnappers had been unable to escape from.
"So you tied them up with their own rope and duct tape?" the prosecutor asked.
"Yes, sir," Junior said. "It seemed appropriate."
More laughter. Another gavel bang.
Then came the drone footage.
"Your Honor," the prosecutor said, "the prosecution would like to enter into evidence video surveillance from the incident."
"Proceed."
Billy Renzo had done the editing himself, and it was masterful. The video started with the GPS tracking showing Billy's truck moving toward the Morrison property. Then the thermal imaging showing the four kidnappers inside the farmhouse with Billy and Junior bound in the back room.
And then—the moment that made the entire courtroom lose it.
The video showed one of the kidnappers—Travis—walking outside, looking up at the drone, and waving. Big, exaggerated, friendly waves directly at the camera recording him.
The jury started laughing. One woman actually snorted. A man in the back row let out a "You gotta be kidding me."
Judge Henderson banged her gavel. "Order! Order in this court!"
But even she was struggling not to smile.
The defense attorney stood. "Objection, Your Honor. The prosecution is trying to—"
"Overruled," Judge Henderson said. "The video is evidence. Continue."
The footage continued. The thermal imaging showed Billy and Junior getting free, securing the suspects, then walking outside. The final shot was both of them standing in front of the farmhouse, waving up at the drone with huge grins on their faces, rifles slung over their shoulders.
The courtroom erupted again. The jury was openly laughing now. Several people were wiping tears from their eyes. Even the court reporter was shaking with suppressed laughter.
"ORDER!" Judge Henderson slammed her gavel down hard. "I will clear this courtroom if you cannot maintain decorum!"
It took a full minute for everyone to settle down.
Pops leaned over to Junior and whispered, "Best damn video I've ever seen."
"Pops, we're in court," Rebecca hissed.
"I know where we are."
The defense attorney tried his best. He argued that his clients were desperate men who'd made a mistake. That they hadn't actually hurt anyone. That they'd panicked after the storm destroyed their opportunity to steal equipment.
But there was no getting around the facts. The kidnapping. The ransom demand. The photographs of Billy and Junior bound and blindfolded on that filthy floor.
And there was especially no getting around the video of Travis waving at the drone.
The jury deliberated for twenty-three minutes.
When they came back, the foreman—a rancher in his fifties who looked like he could've been part of the consortium himself—stood to deliver the verdict.
"On the charge of kidnapping, how do you find?"
"Guilty, Your Honor."
"On the charge of assault?"
"Guilty."
"On the charge of unlawful restraint?"
"Guilty."
All four counts. All four defendants. Guilty on every single charge.
Judge Henderson accepted the verdict and set sentencing for two weeks out. "Gentlemen," she said, looking at the four defendants, "you have been found guilty by a jury of your peers. I'll be honest with you—in my twenty years on this bench, I have never seen a more incompetent attempted crime. You kidnapped two young men who escaped in under ten minutes, tied you up with your own equipment, and then stood guard over you until law enforcement arrived. And you waved at the surveillance drone that was recording your every move."
She shook her head. "I don't know whether to be angry or embarrassed on behalf of the criminal justice system. Bailiff, remand the defendants. We're adjourned."
The gavel came down one final time.
Outside the courthouse, the consortium families gathered on the steps. News crews had gotten wind of the story—"Kidnap Victims Escape and Capture Their Abductors"—and cameras were already setting up.
"Should we talk to them?" Jake asked.
"Absolutely not," Tom said. "We're going home."
But one reporter pushed through—a young woman from the local station. "Excuse me, are you the victims? Billy and Junior Benson?"
Wade stepped in front of them. "No comment at this time."
"Just one question—is it true you escaped in under ten minutes?"
Billy grinned. "Five minutes, actually. They didn't know how to tie knots."
The reporter's eyes lit up. "And is it true one of them waved at your surveillance drone?"
"You saw the video," Junior said. "Yeah, he waved."
"How did that make you feel?"
Billy and Junior looked at each other, then back at the reporter.
"Like we were gonna be fine," Billy said. "Because these were the dumbest criminals in Texas."
The reporter laughed and signaled her cameraman. "Can we get that on camera?"
"No," Wade said firmly, steering Billy and Junior toward the trucks. "No more questions. Have a good day."
As they loaded into the vehicles, Pops threw his arms around both boys' shoulders. "You two just made that woman's career. This is gonna be on the news tonight."
"Great," Rebecca said. "Just what we need."
"Oh, come on, Rebecca," Pops said. "It's a good story. America needs a good story."
Tom started the truck and pulled out of the courthouse parking lot. Through the rearview mirror, he could see the news crews still filming, probably doing stand-ups about "the laughing jury" and "the kidnappers who waved at the drone."
"This is gonna get bigger, isn't it?" Billy asked.
"Probably," Tom said. "You boys okay with that?"
Billy looked at Junior. Junior shrugged.
"Yeah," Billy said. "We're okay with it."
Because the truth was, it was a good story. A feel-good story in a world that needed more of them. Two ranch kids who kept their heads, escaped from kidnappers, and came home safe.
And yeah, the kidnappers waved at the drone.
You couldn't make this stuff up.
Chapter 9: The Interview
Two weeks after the verdict, a CNN production crew arrived at the Benson Ranch at four o'clock in the afternoon.
They set up in the kitchen—lights, cameras, microphones, the works. Sarah had cleaned the whole house twice, and Rebecca had stress-baked enough cookies to feed an army. The crew assured them it would only take about ten minutes of actual airtime, but the setup took nearly two hours.
Billy and Junior sat at the kitchen table with Pops between them. Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel were squeezed in on the other side, all four boys in clean shirts that their mothers had insisted on. The adults—Tom, Sarah, Josh, Rebecca, Ray, and Jake—stood just off camera, watching nervously.
"You boys ready?" the producer asked, adjusting Billy's collar mic.
"Yes, ma'am," Junior said.
"Just be yourselves. Jake's going to ask you questions from the studio in DC. Answer naturally, don't overthink it. And try not to say anything you wouldn't want your grandmother to hear."
Pops snorted. "My great-grandsons know better than that."
"Most of the time," Jake muttered from the side.
The producer counted down. "We're live in five... four... three..." She pointed.
On the monitor they'd set up, Jake Tapper appeared, sitting at his desk in the CNN studio, looking directly into the camera.
"Good evening. Tonight we have a story that's been making headlines across the country—a story that, frankly, sounds almost too incredible to be true. One month ago, two young men from Kings County, Texas were kidnapped at gunpoint and held for ransom. But what happened next turned what could have been a tragedy into what a jury called 'the most incompetent crime in Texas history.'"
The monitor cut to the drone footage—the GPS tracking, the thermal imaging, and then Travis waving at the camera. Even watching it again, Billy had to suppress a laugh.
Jake's voice continued over the footage. "The kidnappers demanded five hundred and fifty thousand dollars. They sent ransom photos. But they made several critical mistakes. They didn't know how to properly tie their victims. They left loaded weapons within reach. And—as you just saw—they waved at the surveillance drone that was tracking their every move."
The footage showed Billy and Junior walking out of the farmhouse, rifles over their shoulders, waving at the drone with huge grins.
"Joining us now from their family ranch in Texas are Billy and Junior Benson, the two young men who escaped, captured their kidnappers, and became an unlikely viral sensation. Also with them are Billy's great-grandfather, who's been part of this ranch for over seven decades, and the three teenagers who operated the drone surveillance system. Gentlemen, thank you for joining us."
The camera light on the kitchen rig went green.
"Thank you for having us, sir," Junior said.
Jake leaned forward on the monitor. "Billy, Junior—let me start with the obvious question. You were tied up, blindfolded, held in an abandoned farmhouse by four armed men. How did you escape in under ten minutes?"
Billy grinned. "Honestly, sir, they didn't know how to tie knots. They just wrapped rope around our wrists a bunch of times. No real knots. Junior got his hands free in about two minutes, then helped me. After that, we just... stood up."
"And they'd left their rifles in the same room where you were being held?"
"Yes, sir," Junior said. "Leaning against the wall in the corner. We couldn't believe it."
Jake shook his head, a smile tugging at his mouth. "And then you tied them up?"
"Properly," Junior said. "With actual knots."
The camera caught Pops grinning proudly.
"Now, I understand you're both from ranching families," Jake said. "Did that preparation—knowing how to work with rope, staying calm under pressure—did that save your lives?"
Billy and Junior exchanged a glance.
"Yes, sir," Billy said. "We've been tying knots since we were kids. And our family always taught us to keep our heads in bad situations. Don't panic. Think. Wait for your moment."
"And take it when it comes," Junior added.
Jake turned his attention to the younger boys. "Billy, Ryan, Daniel—you three operated the drone surveillance system that tracked the kidnappers. Can you explain how that worked?"
Billy Renzo sat up straighter. "Yes, sir. Billy's truck had GPS tracking built in. Once we knew they'd taken the truck, we pulled up the coordinates and launched drones to get visual confirmation. We kept them at four hundred feet so the kidnappers wouldn't hear them."
"But one of them saw the drone anyway," Jake said.
"Yes, sir," Ryan said, trying not to smile. "And he waved at it."
"Like he was saying hello to a neighbor," Daniel added.
Even Jake was laughing now. "I have to ask—what went through your minds when you saw that?"
"Honestly?" Billy Renzo said. "We knew Billy and Junior were going to be okay. Because these guys had no idea what they were doing."
Jake turned back to Billy and Junior. "When you walked out of that farmhouse with rifles and your kidnappers tied up on the floor, what was the first thing you did?"
Junior grinned. "Waved at the drone. We knew our families were watching."
"And we knew they'd been scared," Billy added, more serious now. "We wanted them to know we were okay."
Jake nodded, his expression softening. "Your families mobilized an entire consortium—six ranching families, local law enforcement, drone surveillance—all within minutes of discovering you were missing. What does that kind of support mean to you?"
Billy's throat tightened. "Everything, sir. We knew they were coming. We never doubted it."
"That's what family does," Pops spoke up, his gravelly voice clear. "You look out for each other. Always have, always will."
Jake looked at Pops. "Sir, you're Billy's great-grandfather. Your family has owned this ranch for how long?"
"Hundred and forty-two years," Pops said. "My great-grandfather started it. We've been through droughts, tornadoes, the Depression, and now this. We're still here."
"And these boys carried on that tradition."
"Damn right they did," Pops said, then caught himself. "Sorry. Yes, sir, they did."
Jake smiled. "No apology necessary. One final question—the jury deliberated for twenty-three minutes before returning guilty verdicts on all counts. The judge called it 'the most incompetent attempted crime' she'd seen in twenty years. How does it feel to know your story is giving people something to smile about?"
Billy and Junior looked at each other again.
"It feels good, sir," Junior said. "If our story can make people laugh, especially after everything else going on in the world, then I'm glad."
"We got lucky," Billy added. "Not everyone in this situation gets out okay. We know that. But yeah—if people can get a laugh out of these idiots waving at the drone, that's fine by us."
Jake nodded. "Well, on behalf of everyone watching, thank you for sharing your story. And thank you for reminding us that sometimes, even in scary situations, courage and a little bit of Texas common sense can win the day. Gentlemen, stay safe out there."
"Thank you, sir," they all said.
The camera light went dark.
For a moment, nobody in the kitchen moved. Then the producer said, "That was perfect. Great job, everyone."
Sarah let out a breath she'd been holding. Rebecca grabbed Junior and hugged him. Tom clapped Billy on the shoulder.
"That was good, boys," Josh said. "Really good."
Pops stood up, stretched, and looked at the CNN crew. "Y'all want some cookies? My granddaughter-in-law made about a thousand of them."
The crew laughed and started breaking down equipment. Outside, the sun was setting over Kings County, painting the sky orange and gold.
Billy looked out the window at the ranch—the barn, the fields, the endless Texas horizon. Home. Safe. Exactly where they belonged.
"Think we're done being famous now?" Junior asked.
"God, I hope so," Billy said.
Jake came over and threw an arm around both of them. "Are you kidding? This is going to follow you for the rest of your lives. 'Oh, you're the guys who got kidnapped by the idiots who waved at the drone.'"
"Shut up, Jake," Billy said, but he was grinning.
Because the truth was, it wasn't the worst thing to be known for.
They'd kept their heads. They'd come home safe. And yeah, they'd given America a good laugh along the way.
In the frat house that night, after the CNN crew had packed up and left, after the family had finished another big dinner, after all the excitement had finally died down, Billy and Junior lay in their bunks in the darkness.
"Hey, Billy?" Junior said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for having my back in there."
"Always, kid. Always."
And that, more than anything else—more than the viral video, more than Jake Tapper, more than being called heroes—that was what mattered.
Family. Ranch. Home.
The rest was just a hell of a story.
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