The new hand

 

Chapter 1: Before Dawn

The Texas sun hadn't cleared the horizon yet, but the Benson Ranch was already awake. Jake Benson came down the stairs two at a time, his gray tank top showing the build of a man who'd spent his twenty-two years doing hard work. His brother Billy was right behind him, nearly identical in frame and stride, close enough in age and spirit that most folks thought of them as twins.

"You're slower than molasses this morning," Jake said, hitting the kitchen first.

"I'm pacing myself, hothead. Some of us don't burn out by noon."

Their mother Sarah was already at the stove, coffee brewing strong enough to strip paint. She didn't turn around. "You boys wake up Louisiana and Junior?"

"Celeb's got them," Billy said, grabbing two mugs. "Whole frat house is moving."

From upstairs came the sound of boots on hardwood and teenage laughter. A moment later, Billy Junior appeared—sixteen years old and built like his uncles—followed by Colton, the seventeen-year-old cousin from Baton Rouge everyone called Louisiana. Celeb brought up the rear, grinning.

"Pops is already outside," Junior announced. "And he's in a mood."

"When isn't he?" Jake muttered.

Sarah shot him a look. "Your grandfather earned that mouth in Vietnam. You just inherited it for free."

The screen door banged open and Tom Benson walked in, followed by his father. Pops was seventy-six, lean and hard as fence wire, with a cigar already clamped between his teeth at five-thirty in the morning.

"Where the hell is Ray?" Pops barked. "We got business with the consortium at seven and that boy runs on goddamn banker's hours."

"He's the business manager, Pops," Tom said evenly. "He'll be here."

"Business manager," Pops snorted. "In my day we managed business by getting up before the damn sun."

Louisiana was trying not to laugh. In the month and a half since he'd arrived for summer, he'd become Pops' shadow, soaking up every war story and curse word like gospel. Junior elbowed him.

"Don't encourage him," Sarah said without looking. "Louisiana, you want eggs?"

"Yes ma'am, thank you."

Jake poured coffee, black and scalding, and leaned against the counter next to Billy. "What's on today?"

"North fence needs posts replaced," Billy said. "Josh has the crew on the east pasture rotation. And that irrigation pump on the south forty is acting up again."

Jake groaned. "That piece of shit. I'll take it."

"You want company?"

"Nah. Solo job. I'll have it done by noon."

Celeb came down with a duffel of tools. "I'm with Junior today on the ATV. We're checking the water tanks."

"Good," Tom said. "Ray's bringing the consortium report this morning. Beaumonts, Nelsons, Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes all want to coordinate buying for next month. Pops and I will handle it."

Pops stabbed his cigar toward the younger generation. "You boys keep this place running while we sit around talking money like a bunch of soft-handed politicians."

"Someone's gotta keep you in cigars and brandy," Jake shot back.

Pops grinned, showing teeth. "Damn right."

The kitchen filled up fast—Ray arrived with paperwork, Josh came in from the bunkhouse, and Rebecca showed up with fresh bandages for the medical kit. The Benson Ranch wasn't just a family operation anymore. With the consortium, it was six families running a third of Kings County together, bound by blood, land, and trust.

Billy and Jake finished their coffee in sync, rinsed the mugs, and headed for the door.

"You good on tools?" Billy asked.

"I'm good on everything except patience," Jake said. "That pump's been a pain in my ass for two weeks."

"Don't break it worse."

"Don't tell me how to fix shit."

They grinned at each other, that easy rivalry that came from spending twenty-two years in the same room, the same work, the same life. Billy clapped his brother on the shoulder.

"See you at lunch."

"Yeah," Jake said, grabbing his hat and heading for his truck. "See you at lunch."

He didn't know it would be the last normal thing he'd say for a long time.

Chapter 2: Six Families

By seven o'clock, the Benson Ranch house had transformed into something closer to a corporate headquarters. The dining room table that usually held breakfast plates was covered in spreadsheets, supply catalogs, and purchase orders.

Tom Benson sat at the head with Pops beside him, cigar smoke curling toward the ceiling fan. Across from them sat Robert Beaumont, a transplant from Louisiana who'd bought the neighboring property fourteen months ago and proven himself worth trusting. His wife Caroline was in the kitchen with Sarah, already part of the rhythm.

Sheriff Wade Nelson arrived next, his patrol truck kicking up dust in the driveway. He wasn't here as law enforcement—he was here as a rancher, same as his father and grandfather before him. His wife Mary came with him, carrying a casserole dish like she was headed to church instead of a business meeting.

"Wade, you old son of a bitch," Pops said by way of greeting. "You bring that worthless son of yours?"

"Horse is on patrol," Wade said, grinning. "Ryan's covering the north end of the county. Someone's gotta keep you law-abiding."

"Bullshit. Your boys spend half their time out here anyway."

The Renzos pulled up in a diesel truck that announced itself a quarter-mile out. Antonio Renzo and his wife Maria had three sons—the youngest, Billy Renzo, was sixteen and thick as thieves with Junior. The Matterns arrived right behind them in a convoy with the Rodriguezes, all three families traveling together like they'd planned it.

"We got coffee or we got speeches?" Antonio called out, his accent still carrying traces of his family's Sicilian roots three generations back.

"We got both," Tom said. "But coffee first."

Within twenty minutes, representatives from all six families were gathered—some in the dining room, others spilling into the living room and kitchen. It wasn't formal. It never was. But there was an understanding that ran deeper than contracts or handshakes.

Ray spread out the purchasing reports. "Cattle feed prices are up eight percent from last quarter. If we coordinate the buy through Mattern's supplier in Amarillo and split transport costs, we can cut that increase in half."

"How much are we talking?" Robert Beaumont asked.

"Hundred and sixty thousand, split six ways. About twenty-seven thousand per family."

"And we're locked in for how long?"

"Six months. Fixed rate."

Pops jabbed his cigar at the numbers. "We did this same goddamn dance last year and saved our asses when prices spiked in August. Anyone got a reason not to do it again?"

No one did.

Wade leaned back in his chair. "What about equipment sharing? Matterns got that new baler sitting idle half the season."

"We're open to rotation," James Mattern said. "Long as everyone keeps their shit maintained."

"My boys don't break equipment," Antonio said.

"Your boys break everything," Wade shot back, grinning. "But they fix it better than it was."

The room laughed. It was the kind of ribbing that only came from families who trusted each other with their livelihoods.

While the adults talked logistics, the younger generation had their own operation running upstairs. The room next to the frat house had been converted into what Junior called the Command Center. Eighteen high-tech satellite phones, encrypted and networked. Six drones with thermal and night vision capabilities. Sixteen iPads synced to a central server that Junior and his buddies—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—had built themselves over the past six months.

The consortium had dropped fifty grand on equipment, and the sixteen-year-olds had turned it into something that could rival a small military operation.

Junior sat at the main terminal with Louisiana beside him, both of them running diagnostics on the drone network. Celeb leaned against the doorframe, watching.

"You really think this shit works?" Celeb asked.

"Works better than your truck," Junior said without looking up. "We tested it last month when Billy Renzo's dad lost thirty head in a storm. Found them in four hours with thermals."

Louisiana tapped the screen. "Range is the only problem. Batteries cap us at about forty miles round trip."

"That's why we got six of them," Junior said. "Rotate them out, you can cover near the whole county if you stage right."

Celeb whistled low. "Y'all are nerds."

"Y'all are cowboys," Junior shot back. "And we're the nerds who'll find your ass when you get lost."

"Fair."

The 911 system was Junior's pride and joy. A single button on any of the eighteen phones triggered a mechanical voice—"911 Emergency" followed by the name of whoever hit it—broadcast three times across the encrypted network. Everyone in the consortium could hear it. Everyone could respond.

They called it overkill.

Junior called it insurance.

Downstairs, the meeting was wrapping up. Handshakes all around, promises to coordinate shipments and share resources. The Rodriguezes were hosting the next meeting in two weeks. The Matterns were bringing brisket.

As the families filtered out, Tom caught Wade by the door.

"Everything good on your end?" Tom asked quietly.

Wade nodded. "County's quiet. Usual bullshit—kids racing on back roads, couple domestic calls. Nothing we can't handle."

"Good."

Tom didn't say what he was really asking, and Wade didn't need him to. The consortium had made enemies—smaller ranchers who couldn't compete, developers who wanted land that wasn't for sale, people who resented six families controlling a third of Kings County.

So far, it had been nothing but talk.

But both men knew talk didn't always stay talk.

Pops appeared on the porch, cigar glowing in the early light. "Wade, you sticking around for lunch or you got crime to fight?"

"I got crime," Wade said, grinning. "But I'll be back for supper if Sarah's cooking."

"She's always cooking, you mooch."

Wade climbed into his patrol truck, and the Benson Ranch settled back into its daily rhythm. The consortium meeting was over. The work went on.

In the south forty, Jake Benson was on his knees beside an irrigation pump, wrench in hand, sweat already soaking through his shirt.

He didn't see the two men watching him from the tree line.

He didn't know they'd been waiting for this moment all morning.

Chapter 3: South Forty

The irrigation pump sat in a shallow depression about forty yards from the fence line, surrounded by scrub brush and mesquite. Jake had been working on it for nearly two hours, and the bastard still wouldn't cooperate.

He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of grease across his temple. The sun was climbing fast, already turning the air thick and heavy. His truck sat twenty feet away, tailgate down, tools scattered across the bed.

"Come on, you son of a bitch," Jake muttered, wrestling with a seized bolt. The wrench slipped, and he barked his knuckles against the metal housing. "Fuck!"

He sat back on his heels, sucking on his scraped knuckles and glaring at the pump like it had personally insulted him. This was supposed to be a quick fix—clean the filter, check the pressure valve, maybe replace a gasket. But the whole assembly was older than he was, and every bolt was rusted tight.

Billy would've told him to call for help. Ray would've told him to order a new pump. Josh would've told him to take a break.

Jake told them all to go to hell in his head and grabbed a bigger wrench.

He didn't hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late.

"Jake Benson?"

Jake spun, wrench still in hand, and found himself staring at two men. Both wore jeans and work shirts, nothing unusual for ranch country. But something about them was wrong—the way they stood too still, the way their eyes didn't match their casual postures.

"Who's asking?" Jake said, his grip tightening on the wrench.

The taller one smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "We got a business proposition for your family. Thought we'd talk to you first."

"We don't do business with people I don't know." Jake took a step back toward his truck. "You want to talk business, you go through Ray. He's the business manager."

"See, that's the thing," the second man said, pulling a pistol from behind his back. "We don't want to talk to Ray."

Jake's muscles coiled. The wrench was still in his hand. The truck was ten feet away. He could—

"Don't," the tall one said, drawing his own weapon. "We're not here to hurt you. But we will if you make us."

Jake's jaw clenched. Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to charge them, to do something. But two guns against a wrench were bad odds, even for a hothead.

"What do you want?"

"Your cooperation," the tall one said. "Nice and easy. Get in the truck. Your truck. We're going for a ride."

"Like hell I am."

The second man raised his pistol, pointing it directly at Jake's chest. "You can get in the truck walking, or we can drag you. Your choice."

Jake looked between them, calculating. He was fast, strong, and angry enough to try something stupid. But Billy's voice echoed in his head—Don't burn out by noon, hothead.

He dropped the wrench.

"Smart," the tall one said. "Now walk to your truck. Slow."

Jake moved toward the vehicle, his mind racing. They wanted him in his truck, which meant they needed to move him somewhere. That meant time. Time meant opportunity.

He just had to stay alive long enough to find it.

"Keys in the ignition?" the tall one asked.

"Yeah."

"Good. You're driving. We'll be right behind you with these." He gestured with the pistol. "You try anything—run, swerve, signal someone—we put bullets in you. Understood?"

Jake didn't answer.

"I said, understood?"

"Yeah," Jake spat. "I understand."

"Good boy."

Jake climbed into the driver's seat, his hands shaking with barely contained rage. The tall one got in the passenger side, gun resting casually on his thigh. The second man climbed into the bed of the truck, crouching low but visible in the rearview mirror.

"Drive," the tall one said. "Head south on the access road. We'll tell you where to turn."

Jake started the engine and pulled away from the irrigation pump, leaving his tools scattered in the dirt. His radio was clipped to his belt, but with the gun six inches from his ribs, reaching for it was suicide.

He drove.

The access road was rough, barely more than two tire tracks through scrub brush. They passed no one. Saw nothing but empty land stretching to the horizon.

"You boys are making a mistake," Jake said, his voice tight. "You know who my family is?"

"We know exactly who your family is," the tall one said. "That's why we're here."

"Then you know they're going to come for me."

"We're counting on it."

They drove for nearly an hour, winding deeper into the empty country south of Kings County. The land here was worthless—too rocky for cattle, too dry for crops. No one came out here unless they wanted to disappear.

Finally, the tall one pointed. "There. Turn left."

An old dirt road, barely visible through the brush. Jake turned, and two hundred yards later, a barn appeared—weather-beaten, half-collapsed, forgotten.

"Park inside," the tall one ordered.

Jake pulled the truck into the barn. The roof had holes big enough to see sky through, and the walls leaned at dangerous angles. But it was shelter. It was hidden.

It was a goddamn trap.

"Out," the tall one said. "Slow."

Jake climbed out of the truck, and the second man was already there, gun trained on him. The tall one walked around, surveying the barn like he owned it.

"This'll do," he said. "Bring the chair."

The second man dragged an old wooden chair from the corner—solid oak, high back, rungs worn smooth with age. He set it in the middle of the barn floor.

Jake's stomach dropped.

"Sit," the tall one ordered.

"Fuck you."

The punch came out of nowhere, catching Jake in the kidney. He doubled over, gasping, and hands shoved him down into the chair.

"I said sit."

They had rope. Lots of it.

Jake fought—he thrashed, cursed, threw elbows—but two men with guns had the advantage. They forced his arms behind the chair, lashing his wrists together and tying them to the lower rung. Then they wrapped rope around his biceps, circling from shoulder to elbow and pulling tight.

"Jesus Christ," Jake hissed as the rope bit deep into his arms.

They frapped it—twisting the rope between the loops, tightening it until his muscles screamed. His biceps bulged against the pressure, veins standing out under the strain.

His neck came next. They looped rope around his throat and the top rung of the chair, forcing his head back at an awkward angle.

"Can't... breathe..." Jake gasped.

"You can breathe fine," the tall one said. "You just can't move."

They pulled his legs together, tied his ankles, then dragged them backward under the chair. The final rope connected his ankles to his wrists, pulling everything tight in a bastardized hogtie that left him immobilized and in pain.

The tall one stepped back, admiring their work. "That'll hold."

Jake glared at him, chest heaving, sweat running down his face. "My family's going to kill you."

"Maybe," the tall one said. "But first, they're going to pay us."

He pulled out Jake's radio and took a picture—Jake bound to the chair, face twisted in rage and pain, helpless.

Then he smiled.

"Say cheese, Jake. It's time to call Daddy."

Chapter 4: The Message

Billy was in the barn with Louisiana, showing him how to splice a frayed rope when the radio crackled to life.

Not his radio. Jake's.

The voice that came through was unfamiliar, flat and cold. "Tom Benson. You listening?"

Billy froze, rope forgotten in his hands. Louisiana looked up, confused.

"This is a one-time message," the voice continued. "We have your son Jake. You want him back, it's going to cost you two million dollars. Cash. Small bills. We'll send instructions in six hours."

Billy's blood turned to ice.

"You call the cops, Jake dies. You try to find us, Jake dies. You fuck with us in any way, we start cutting pieces off him and sending them back."

The radio went silent for three seconds. Then it beeped—a photo incoming.

Billy's hands shook as he pulled the radio from his belt and opened the image.

Jake. Tied to a chair in some abandoned structure. Rope wrapped around his arms, his neck, his whole body immobilized. His face was twisted in fury and pain, sweat soaking through his shirt. But he was alive.

"Oh shit," Louisiana breathed. "Oh shit, Billy—"

Billy was already running.

He burst out of the barn and sprinted toward the house, Louisiana right behind him. His hand went to his satellite phone, hitting the 911 button without breaking stride.

The mechanical voice broadcast three times across the encrypted network:

"911 Emergency. Billy Junior. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior."

Billy slammed through the kitchen door. Sarah was at the sink. Ray was at the table with paperwork. Tom and Pops were in the living room.

"Jake's been kidnapped!" Billy shouted. "They got Jake!"

The kitchen erupted.

Tom was on his feet instantly. "What? When?"

"Just now—they sent a message on his radio. Photo too." Billy thrust the radio toward his father. "Two million dollars. They said they'll kill him if we call the cops."

Tom grabbed the radio, his face going white as he looked at the photo. Pops appeared behind him, cigar clenched between his teeth.

"Let me see that."

Tom handed him the radio. Pops stared at the image for five seconds, then his jaw tightened.

"Those motherfuckers."

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

"I'm forwarding this to everyone," Billy said, fingers already flying across his phone. "Whole consortium needs to see it."

Within thirty seconds, the photo went out to all eighteen satellite phones. The responses came back immediately:

Robert Beaumont: On our way. Armed.

Wade Nelson: Ten minutes out. Do NOT engage until I get there.

Antonio Renzo: Motherfuckers. We're coming.

James Mattern: Loading up now.

Miguel Rodriguez: Five minutes.

Ray was already moving. "I'll call the bank. We need to start pulling cash, even if it's fake—"

"Do it," Tom said. "But we're not paying shit until we know where he is."

Celeb came running down from upstairs, phone in hand. "Junior just activated the Command Center. He's already trying to trace Jake's truck GPS."

"Good," Pops said. "Get up there and help him. Louisiana, you too."

Both boys bolted for the stairs.

Tom turned to Billy. "When did you last see him?"

"This morning. Breakfast. He left around six to fix that irrigation pump on the south forty."

"Alone?"

"Yeah. He said it was a solo job."

Tom cursed under his breath. "They've been watching us. They knew he'd be alone."

The sound of trucks pulling up outside announced the first arrivals. Wade Nelson came through the door first, still in his sheriff's uniform, his service weapon on his hip and a rifle slung over his shoulder.

"Show me the photo."

Tom handed him the radio. Wade studied it, his face hardening.

"This is a kidnapping for ransom. By law, I should call the FBI right now."

"By law," Pops said, stepping forward. "But what are you going to do, Wade?"

Wade looked at the old man, then at Tom, then at Billy standing there with fury radiating off him like heat.

"I'm going to help you find your son," Wade said quietly. "But we do this smart. No cowboy bullshit. Understood?"

"Understood," Tom said.

The Beaumonts arrived next, Robert and Caroline both carrying rifles. Antonio Renzo pulled up with his three sons, all of them armed. The Matterns and Rodriguezes came in a convoy, trucks loaded with weapons and gear.

Within fifteen minutes, the Benson Ranch house was full of armed men and women from all six families. The dining room became a war room. Maps spread across the table. Radios crackling. Phones buzzing.

Upstairs, Junior had the Command Center fully operational. All six drones were prepped and ready. The iPad network was live, showing real-time GPS data from every phone and vehicle in the consortium.

Louisiana was at the secondary terminal, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I got Jake's truck! GPS is still active!"

"Where?" Junior demanded.

"South of here. About fifty-three miles. Signal's stationary—hasn't moved in twenty minutes."

Celeb leaned over his shoulder. "Can you get coordinates?"

"Already got them." Louisiana scribbled numbers on a notepad and bolted for the stairs. "Tom! We got him!"

The room fell silent as Louisiana burst in and handed Tom the coordinates.

Wade pulled out his county map and plotted the location. "That's empty country. Old ranch land, abandoned years ago. Nothing out there but scrub and maybe a few derelict buildings."

"That's where they're holding him," Tom said.

"Or where they left his truck," Wade cautioned. "Could be a decoy."

Pops stabbed his cigar toward the map. "Then we go find out."

"We can't just roll in there with twenty armed men," Wade said. "We need recon first. Eyes on target."

Junior appeared at the top of the stairs. "Drones. We send the drones."

"Range?" Tom asked.

"Fifty miles round trip on battery. We'd need to stage closer—maybe twenty miles out—and run operations from there."

"Then that's what we do," Tom said. "We load up. Move the Command Center into my truck. Stage twenty miles from the coordinates and deploy drones for recon."

Wade nodded. "That works. But I'm coming with you. And so are Horse and Ryan."

"Whole consortium's coming," Antonio said. "This is one of ours."

Robert Beaumont chambered a round into his rifle. "We find those sons of bitches, what's the play?"

Pops grinned, showing teeth. "We make them wish they'd never heard the name Benson."

Sarah appeared from the kitchen, her face pale but her voice steady. "You bring my boy home. You hear me? You bring Jake home."

Tom kissed her forehead. "We will."

Billy stood by the door, checking his rifle, his jaw set and his hands steady despite the rage boiling inside him.

Jake was his twin in everything but name. His best friend. His brother.

And someone had just made the worst mistake of their lives.

"Let's move," Tom said.

The convoy formed up outside—ten trucks, twenty-three armed men and women, enough firepower to start a small war.

And somewhere fifty miles south, Jake Benson was tied to a chair, waiting.

Chapter 5: Bound

Jake had stopped struggling.

Not because he'd given up—giving up wasn't in his DNA—but because every movement made the ropes bite deeper. The frapping around his biceps was cutting off circulation, turning his hands numb. The rope around his neck meant he had to keep his head tilted back at an unnatural angle or choke himself.

His shoulders screamed. His wrists ached. His legs were cramping from being pulled back under the chair.

But his mind was clear.

And his anger was ice-cold.

The two men were sitting near the barn entrance, twenty feet away, smoking cigarettes and talking in low voices. The tall one—Jake had started thinking of him as Scarface because of a thin line running down his left cheek—kept checking his watch. The other one, shorter and stockier, was the muscle. Less talk, more violence.

Jake called him Grunt in his head.

"How long we wait?" Grunt asked, flicking ash onto the dirt floor.

"Six hours," Scarface said. "Let them sweat. Let them think about what happens if they don't pay."

"What if they call the cops?"

"Then we kill him and disappear. Simple."

Grunt glanced over at Jake. "He's been quiet. Too quiet."

"He's got a rope around his neck," Scarface said. "What's he gonna do, yell for help? We're fifty miles from nowhere."

Jake said nothing. He'd learned in the first ten minutes that talking only got him hit. So he stayed silent, breathing carefully through his nose, conserving energy.

And thinking.

They'd taken his radio after sending the message. That was smart. But they hadn't searched him thoroughly. His knife was still clipped inside his boot—not that he could reach it with his hands tied behind the chair and his ankles pulled back.

His truck was parked fifteen feet away, visible through the barn's open door. Keys still in the ignition. They hadn't moved it, which meant they were either stupid or confident.

Jake was betting on stupid.

The GPS in his truck was always on. Billy knew that. Junior knew that. If they were smart—and they were—they'd already be tracking it.

The question was how long it would take them to get here.

And whether Jake would still be alive when they did.

Scarface stood up, stretching. "I'm gonna make another call in an hour. Remind them what happens if they're late."

"You think they'll pay?"

"They're ranchers. Land-rich, cash-poor. But the Bensons run that consortium—six families pooling resources. They can pull two million if they want their golden boy back."

"And if they can't?"

Scarface walked over to Jake, looking down at him with dead eyes. "Then we make an example out of him."

Jake glared back, refusing to flinch.

"You got something to say, cowboy?" Scarface asked.

Jake said nothing.

Scarface backhanded him across the face. Jake's head snapped to the side, the rope around his neck pulling tight for a second before he could adjust. Blood filled his mouth where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek.

"That's what I thought," Scarface said, walking back to his spot.

Jake spat blood onto the dirt floor and breathed through the pain. His cheek throbbed. His neck burned from the rope. But the anger kept him focused.

Stay alive. Stay alert. Wait for your chance.

Time crawled.

The sun moved across the sky, visible through the holes in the barn roof. Jake's legs went from cramping to numb. His arms felt like dead weight behind him. Sweat soaked through his tank top, and flies buzzed around his face.

He counted seconds. Then minutes. Then gave up counting and just focused on breathing.

Scarface checked his watch. "All right. Time for another message."

He picked up Jake's radio and took another photo—this time from a different angle, showing more of the barn's interior.

"Smile, Jake. Let Daddy know you're still breathing."

Jake glared at the camera, and Scarface snapped the shot.

"Perfect. Now let's remind them what happens if they drag their feet."

Scarface pulled a knife from his belt—a tactical folder, black handle, wicked edge.

Jake's heart rate kicked up.

"Hold him," Scarface said.

Grunt moved behind the chair, grabbing Jake's head and holding it still. Jake tried to jerk away, but the rope around his neck and Grunt's grip made it impossible.

Scarface knelt in front of him, knife in hand.

"This is just a preview," he said. "Your family needs motivation."

He grabbed the front of Jake's tank top and cut it straight down the middle, pulling the fabric away to expose Jake's chest and abs.

Then he pressed the knife against Jake's left pectoral, just below the collarbone.

"Don't fucking move."

Jake gritted his teeth as the blade bit into his skin. Scarface cut slowly, deliberately—a shallow slice about three inches long. Blood welled up immediately, running down Jake's chest.

Jake hissed through his teeth but didn't scream. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

Scarface wiped the bloody knife on Jake's jeans and stepped back. "There. Now they know we're serious."

He took another photo—Jake with his shirt cut open, blood running down his chest, face twisted in pain but still defiant.

"Send that one," Scarface said to Grunt. "Tell them the next cut goes deeper."

Grunt picked up the radio and sent the message.

Jake's breath came hard and fast, the pain sharp and immediate. The cut wasn't deep enough to be life-threatening, but it hurt like hell and bled freely.

And it told him everything he needed to know.

These men would kill him without hesitation.

Which meant when his chance came, he couldn't hesitate either.

Scarface lit another cigarette, watching Jake with casual cruelty. "How you doing, cowboy? Still think your family's coming for you?"

Jake met his eyes, blood running down his torso, and spoke for the first time in hours.

"Yeah," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. "And when they do, you're a dead man."

Scarface laughed. "Big talk from a guy tied to a chair."

"Won't be tied forever."

"You will if you don't shut the fuck up."

Jake shut up. But the promise in his eyes didn't waver.

Somewhere fifty miles north, his family was mobilizing. Junior and Louisiana were tracking his truck. Billy was coming for him.

And Jake Benson was going to survive long enough to make these bastards pay.

He just had to stay alive.

And wait for the storm.

Chapter 6: 911

Billy was in the barn with Louisiana, showing him how to splice a frayed rope when Jake's radio crackled to life.

Not his radio. Jake's.

The voice that came through was unfamiliar, flat and cold. "Tom Benson. You listening?"

Billy froze, rope forgotten in his hands. Louisiana looked up, confused.

"This is a one-time message," the voice continued. "We have your son Jake. You want him back, it's going to cost you two million dollars. Cash. Small bills. We'll send instructions in six hours."

Billy's blood turned to ice.

"You call the cops, Jake dies. You try to find us, Jake dies. You fuck with us in any way, we start cutting pieces off him and sending them back."

The radio went silent for three seconds. Then it beeped—a photo incoming.

Billy's hands shook as he pulled his satellite phone from his belt. The photo had been forwarded automatically through the network Junior had built.

Jake. Tied to a chair in some abandoned structure. Rope wrapped around his arms, his neck, his whole body immobilized. His face was twisted in fury and pain, sweat soaking through his shirt. But he was alive.

"Oh shit," Louisiana breathed. "Oh shit, Billy—"

Billy's thumb hit the 911 button.

The mechanical voice broadcast three times across the encrypted network:

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

Billy was already running.

He burst out of the barn and sprinted toward the house, Louisiana right behind him. Within seconds, responses started flooding in:

Tom Benson: What's wrong?

Wade Nelson: Billy, talk to me.

Robert Beaumont: On standby.

Billy slammed through the kitchen door. Sarah was at the sink. Ray was at the table with paperwork. Tom and Pops were in the living room.

"Jake's been kidnapped!" Billy shouted. "They got Jake!"

The kitchen erupted.

Tom was on his feet instantly. "What? When?"

"Just now—they sent a message on his radio. Photo too." Billy was already forwarding the image to every phone in the consortium. "Two million dollars. They said they'll kill him if we call the cops."

Tom's phone buzzed. He opened the photo and his face went white.

Pops appeared behind him, cigar clenched between his teeth. "Let me see that."

Tom handed him the phone. Pops stared at the image for five seconds, then his jaw tightened.

"Those motherfuckers."

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

The responses were already coming in:

Wade Nelson: Do NOT call anyone else. I'm coming now.

Antonio Renzo: Armed and rolling.

Robert Beaumont: Two minutes out.

James Mattern: Loading weapons.

Miguel Rodriguez: On our way.

Billy was moving toward the stairs. "Junior! Command Center! Now!"

Footsteps thundered from upstairs. Junior appeared at the top of the stairs, Celeb and Louisiana right behind him.

"I heard the 911," Junior said. "What happened?"

"Jake's been kidnapped. We need to find him. Get everything online—GPS tracking, drones, the whole system."

Junior's face went pale, but he didn't hesitate. "Command Center. Go."

All four of them disappeared upstairs.

Tom turned to Ray. "Call the bank. We need cash—two million or something that looks like it. Work with the manager."

"On it." Ray was already dialing.

Pops grabbed his rifle from the gun cabinet. "We're getting armed."

"Pops—"

"Don't argue with me, boy. Someone took one of ours. We're going to get him back and we're going to put these sons of bitches in the ground."

The sound of trucks pulling up outside announced the first arrivals. Wade Nelson came through the door first, still in his sheriff's uniform, his service weapon on his hip and a rifle slung over his shoulder.

"Show me everything."

Tom handed him the phone with the photo. Wade studied it, his face hardening.

"How long ago?"

"Five minutes. Maybe less."

"Any other communication?"

"No. They said they'd send instructions in six hours."

Wade looked at Billy. "When did you last see Jake?"

"This morning. Breakfast. He left around six to fix that irrigation pump on the south forty."

"Alone?"

"Yeah."

Wade cursed. "They've been watching you. They knew he'd be out there solo."

The Beaumonts arrived next, Robert and Caroline both carrying rifles. Antonio Renzo pulled up with his three sons, all of them armed. The Matterns and Rodriguezes came in a convoy, trucks loaded with weapons and gear.

Within fifteen minutes, the Benson Ranch house was full of armed men and women from all six families. The dining room became a war room. The living room filled with voices and weapons being checked.

Upstairs in the Command Center, Junior had every system online. All six drones prepped. The eighteen satellite phones networked. The iPad display showing GPS positions for every consortium member.

Louisiana was at the keyboard, fingers flying. "I'm searching for Jake's truck GPS!"

"His phone?" Celeb asked.

"They probably ditched it. But his truck—Jake never turns off the GPS. It's always running."

Junior was coordinating the network. "Everyone's checking in. All six families armed and ready."

"There!" Louisiana pointed at the screen. "Got it! Jake's truck GPS is active!"

"Where?"

"South of here. About fifty-three miles. Signal's stationary—hasn't moved in ten minutes."

Junior scribbled coordinates and ran downstairs. The Command Center room was directly above the kitchen, and he could hear the voices below—Pops cursing, Wade giving orders, the women organizing supplies.

"Tom! We got Jake's truck location!"

The room fell silent as Junior burst in and handed his father the coordinates.

Wade pulled out his county map and plotted the location. "That's empty country. Old ranch land, abandoned years ago. Nothing out there but scrub and maybe a few derelict buildings."

"That's where they took him," Tom said.

"Or where they left his truck," Wade cautioned. "Could be a decoy."

"Either way, that's where we start," Pops said.

Wade looked around the room at twenty-three armed people ready to move. "All right. Here's the play. We can't just roll up on them—if they see us coming, Jake dies. We need recon first. Eyes on target."

"Drones," Junior said from the doorway. "We send the drones."

"What's the range?" Tom asked.

"Fifty miles round trip on battery. We'd need to stage closer—maybe twenty miles out—and run operations from there. But even then, we're looking at a twenty-mile radius to search. Could take hours to cover it all."

Tom nodded. "Then that's what we do. We convoy down, stage twenty miles from those coordinates, set up mobile command, and deploy drones for reconnaissance."

"I'm coming," Wade said. "And so are Horse and Ryan."

"Whole goddamn consortium is coming," Antonio said. "This is one of ours."

Within ten minutes, they were loading up. Weapons, ammunition, the drone equipment, laptops, the relay antenna. Junior, Louisiana, and Celeb packed everything into Tom's truck, converting the bed into a mobile Command Center.

Sarah grabbed Rebecca. "Medical supplies. Bandages, antiseptic, everything."

"I'm bringing my kit," Rebecca said. She was a practical nurse—she knew what might be needed.

The women gathered food, water, thermoses of coffee. This might take hours.

Billy stood by Tom's truck, checking his rifle for the third time. His hands were steady but his eyes were wild.

Celeb came up beside him. "He's tough. He'll hold out."

"I know." Billy's voice was flat. "But they hurt him, Celeb. They fucking hurt him."

"Then we hurt them back."

The convoy formed up—ten trucks, twenty-three people, enough firepower to start a war.

Tom climbed into the driver's seat. Pops rode shotgun. Junior set up in the back with the equipment.

"Let's move," Tom said.

They rolled out in formation, heading south on Highway 77. The sun was climbing toward noon, the sky clear and blue.

For now.

Thirty miles south, they saw the clouds.

Dark. Massive. Building on the horizon like a wall.

"Shit," Junior said from the back seat. "That's a storm system."

Pops looked at the sky. "Big one too. We got maybe an hour before it hits."

Tom pushed the accelerator. "Then we move fast."

They drove hard, the convoy staying tight. Twenty miles from the coordinates, they pulled off onto a dirt access road and stopped.

The storm was visible now—black clouds roiling, lightning flickering in the distance. The wind had picked up, hot and gusty. Thunder rumbled, deep and continuous.

Junior set up the mobile Command Center in Tom's truck bed, but he was looking at the sky with worry. "That storm's moving fast. We're not getting drones up in that."

Wade came over, looking at the approaching wall of weather. "How long before it hits?"

"Ten minutes. Maybe less."

"Can the drones fly in it?"

Junior shook his head. "Lightning will fry the electronics. Wind gusts will slam them into the ground. We launch in that, we lose them all."

"So we wait," Tom said, his voice tight.

"We wait," Junior confirmed.

The first drops started falling. Then the wind hit—a gust that rocked the trucks and sent dust swirling.

Within two minutes, the storm was on them.

Rain came down in sheets, pounding on metal roofs. Wind howled through the convoy. Lightning cracked across the sky, brilliant and terrifying, followed by thunder that shook the ground.

The consortium took shelter in the trucks. Windows fogged. The temperature dropped.

Billy sat in the back of the second truck with Celeb and Louisiana, staring out at the storm, jaw clenched. His rifle was across his lap. His hands kept clenching and unclenching.

"Storm won't last forever," Louisiana said quietly.

"Jake doesn't have forever," Billy shot back.

In Tom's truck, Junior had the laptop open, monitoring Jake's truck GPS. "Signal's still there. Still stationary."

"They're hunkered down same as us," Wade said from the passenger seat.

"Or they're torturing him while we sit here doing nothing," Pops growled from the back.

Tom said nothing. He stared out at the rain hammering the windshield, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

The storm raged. Minutes felt like hours.

Junior checked the weather radar on his laptop. "It's a severe thunderstorm. Moving slow. We could be stuck here for an hour. Maybe more."

"We don't have an hour," Billy's voice came through the satellite phone network. "They said six hours before they send instructions. That was forty minutes ago. We're losing time."

"Can't fly drones in lightning, Billy," Junior said. "We'd lose them all and then we'd have nothing."

Antonio Renzo's voice came through the network. "So what's the plan? We sit here with our thumbs up our asses while those bastards have Jake?"

"We wait for the storm to pass," Wade said. "Then we launch every drone we've got and we search that whole goddamn twenty-mile radius until we find him."

"And if the storm doesn't pass?" That was Robert Beaumont.

"Then we go in blind," Pops said. "Fuck the drones. Fuck the recon. We roll up on those coordinates and we find my great-grandson."

"Pops, if we do that, Jake dies," Tom said quietly. "They'll see us coming. They'll kill him."

"They might kill him anyway!"

The truck went silent except for the hammering rain.

Tom's voice was steady but strained. "We do this smart. We wait for the storm. We launch drones. We find him. And then we get him back."

"And if they hurt him while we're waiting?" Billy's voice, raw with fury.

Tom didn't answer. Because he didn't have an answer.

Somewhere in that storm, two miles south, Jake was tied to a chair. Bleeding. Waiting.

And twenty-three armed people sat in trucks, helpless, watching lightning split the sky.

The wait was agony.

Chapter 7: Breaking Free

Jake had been working the ropes for over an hour.

Every time Scarface and Grunt looked away, he flexed against the bindings. Tested them. Felt for weakness. The frapping around his biceps was tight, but the chair itself was old—ancient oak that had spent decades in an abandoned barn.

Wood dried out. Wood cracked. Wood broke.

Jake just had to find the breaking point.

The storm had rolled in twenty minutes ago, rain hammering the barn roof, wind howling through gaps in the walls. Thunder crashed overhead, constant and deafening. Scarface and Grunt had moved closer to the barn entrance, trying to stay dry and watch for anyone approaching through the downpour.

That gave Jake room to work.

He rocked the chair slightly, testing the legs. The right rear leg had a crack in it—he could feel the wood flex when he shifted his weight. If he could break that leg, the whole structure would collapse, and maybe—just maybe—he could slip free.

Thunder crashed, shaking the barn.

Now.

Jake threw his weight to the right, hard. The chair tipped, then slammed back down. The cracked leg splintered but didn't break.

He waited. Listened. Scarface and Grunt were talking at the entrance, their voices barely audible over the storm.

Another crack of thunder, so close it rattled the walls.

Jake threw his weight again, harder this time.

The chair leg snapped.

The chair collapsed sideways, and Jake hit the dirt floor hard. The impact jarred his shoulder, sent pain shooting through his arms, but the chair frame bent and twisted. The rope around his neck loosened as the top rung shifted.

He could breathe.

He worked frantically, wiggling his hands behind his back, feeling the rope around his wrists. His fingers were numb, but he found the knot and started working it. The rope around his biceps was still tight, cutting deep, but with the chair broken he had leverage.

Thunder boomed. Lightning flickered through the roof.

The knot loosened. Just a fraction.

Jake pulled, twisted, ignored the pain as the rope burned his wrists. His right hand slipped through. Then his left.

His hands were free.

He rolled onto his side, unwrapping the rope from his neck, gasping as he could finally breathe fully. His legs were still tied, ankles bound and pulled back where they'd been connected to his wrists.

He worked the knots, fingers clumsy but desperate. The rope came loose.

He was free.

Jake looked toward the barn entrance. Scarface and Grunt were still there, backs to him, watching the storm.

He had seconds. Maybe less.

His radio. They'd left it on the workbench near his truck—he could see it from here, ten feet away.

He crawled, staying low, every muscle screaming. The cut on his chest burned. His wrists were raw and bleeding. But he reached the bench, grabbed his radio, and clipped it to his belt.

Then he looked at his truck. Keys still in the ignition.

No. Too risky. They'd hear the engine, even over the storm.

He needed to run.

Jake slipped out through a gap in the barn's back wall—a space where the wood had rotted away, just wide enough for a man to squeeze through. The rain hit him like a fist, cold and hard. He was shirtless, bleeding, barefoot.

But he was free.

He ran.

The storm covered his footsteps, his breathing, everything. He ran south, away from the barn, into the scrub brush and darkness. Lightning flashed, illuminating the landscape in brief, stark bursts.

He ran until his lungs burned. Until his legs threatened to give out. Until he was far enough that even if they heard him, they'd never catch him.

Then he collapsed behind a cluster of mesquite, gasping, shaking.

He pulled the radio from his belt and keyed the mic.

"Billy. Tom. Anyone. This is Jake. I escaped. I'm on foot, hands were tied but I got free. I'm maybe half a mile south of the barn. Come get me."

Static. Then Junior's voice, crackling through: "Jake! Holy shit! Keep transmitting! We're triangulating your signal!"

"I'm on foot. No landmarks. It's dark and I can't see shit in this storm."

"Keep talking! We need to lock your position!"

Jake kept the mic keyed. "I'm about two miles south of where my truck is. Old barn, half-collapsed. Two hostiles there—they'll probably run when they find me gone."

Tom's voice cut in. "We're moving now. Stay on the radio. Don't stop transmitting."

"Copy that."

Jake stayed low, watching the direction of the barn. In the distance, he saw lights—flashlights, sweeping through the rain.

They'd found him gone.

He heard shouting, barely audible over the storm. Then an engine starting.

His truck.

"They're taking my truck!" Jake said into the radio. "They just started it up!"

Junior's voice came back immediately. "I got it! Your truck GPS is moving! They're heading north!"

Billy's voice, fierce and cold: "We'll get the truck. Jake, we're coming for you. Junior's got your radio signal locked. Two minutes out."

Jake waited, shivering in the rain, watching the taillights of his truck disappear into the storm.

Then he saw headlights coming toward him. Multiple trucks, pushing through the storm.

Tom's truck pulled up first. The door flew open and Billy jumped out, rifle in hand, scanning the area.

"Jake!"

"Here!" Jake stood up from behind the mesquite, raising his hands so Billy wouldn't shoot him by accident.

Billy ran to him, grabbed him in a crushing hug. "You stupid bastard. You scared the shit out of us."

"Yeah, well. I wasn't gonna sit there and wait for you."

Tom was there, wrapping a blanket around Jake's shoulders. "You're bleeding. You okay?"

"I'm fine. Cold. Pissed off. But fine."

Pops appeared with a thermos of coffee. "Drink this before you freeze to death, boy."

Jake took the thermos, hands shaking. The coffee was scalding and perfect.

"Where are they?" Jake asked.

"Junior's tracking your truck," Tom said. "They're heading north on the access road. Wade's already moving to intercept with Antonio and Robert."

"I want to be there when you catch them."

"You need a hospital—"

"I need to see those sons of bitches pay," Jake said. "Then I'll think about a hospital."

Billy grinned. "That's my brother."

They loaded Jake into Tom's truck. Junior was in the back seat with the laptop, tracking the GPS signal. "They're slowing down. Looks like they're hitting rough terrain."

Tom keyed his radio. "Wade, you got visual?"

Wade's voice came back. "Affirmative. We got eyes on the truck. They're stuck in a wash. Antonio's blocking the north exit. Robert's got the south. They're boxed in."

"We're five minutes out," Tom said. "Wade—give us some time before you move in."

There was a pause. Then Wade's voice, careful: "My radio's acting up. Might take me ten, fifteen minutes to get there. You copy?"

"Copy that," Tom said.

They pushed the trucks hard, bouncing over rough terrain. When they arrived, Jake's truck was stuck in a dry wash, wheels spinning in the mud. Scarface and Grunt were trying to push it out, covered in mud and rain.

Antonio's truck blocked the north exit, headlights blazing. Robert's blocked the south.

Tom's truck pulled up, and the consortium poured out. Armed. Ready.

Scarface saw them and froze. Then he ran.

Billy raised his rifle. "Don't."

Scarface stopped.

Grunt put his hands up. "We didn't mean—we were just—"

"Shut up," Pops said, walking forward with his rifle. "You kidnapped my great-grandson. Tied him up like an animal. Cut him. Tortured him."

Tom's voice was ice. "On your knees. Both of you."

They dropped to their knees in the mud.

Jake climbed out of Tom's truck, still wrapped in the blanket, barefoot and bloody but standing tall.

Scarface saw him and his face went white. "How the fuck—"

"Surprise," Jake said.

Rebecca appeared with her medical kit. "Jake, let me—"

"In a minute," Jake said. "I got something to do first."

He walked up to Scarface, standing over him. "You wanted two million dollars. You're not getting it."

Jake's fist came down, catching Scarface square in the jaw. The man's head snapped back.

Billy was next. Then Celeb. Then Pops, who kicked Scarface in the ribs hard enough to make him gasp.

Antonio grabbed Grunt by the shirt and dragged him to his feet. "You cut him. You tortured one of ours."

Antonio's punch broke Grunt's nose. Robert followed with a kick that dropped him back to the ground.

They worked methodically. Not killing them. Not maiming them. Just pain. Pure, deliberate pain.

Jake stood over Scarface, breathing hard. "You tell everyone. Everyone in prison. You don't touch a Benson. You don't touch this consortium."

He leaned down close.

"Or next time, we won't stop."

They tied Scarface and Grunt to a fence post with their own rope—wrists behind their backs, just like they'd done to Jake.

Tom keyed his radio. "Wade, we're clear. They're all yours."

"Copy that. On my way."

The consortium loaded back into their trucks. Rebecca finally got to Jake, cleaning his wounds and wrapping fresh bandages while he sat in the truck bed.

"You need stitches," she said.

"Later."

"Jake—"

"I said later, Rebecca. I'm going home first."

Wade's truck pulled up as they were finishing. He looked at Scarface and Grunt tied to the fence post, both men battered and bloody.

"They resist arrest?" Wade asked.

"They resisted," Tom said.

Wade nodded slowly. "Looks like they fell a few times too."

"Rough terrain," Pops said.

"Right." Wade walked over to the two men and cut them loose, cuffing them properly. "You're under arrest for kidnapping, extortion, assault, and being dumb enough to fuck with the Benson family."

Horse and Ryan loaded them into the patrol truck.

Wade walked back to Tom. "Jake okay?"

"He will be."

"Good." Wade looked at the consortium, all of them standing there armed and dangerous. "This didn't happen the way I'll write it in my report. You understand?"

"We understand," Tom said.

Wade climbed into his truck and drove off with his prisoners.

The convoy reformed and headed back to the ranch. Jake rode in Tom's truck, wrapped in blankets, drinking coffee, with Billy beside him.

"You really broke that chair and ran barefoot through a storm?" Billy asked.

"Damn right I did."

"Badass."

Chapter 8: Family

By the time the convoy rolled back into the Benson Ranch, it was past ten o'clock. The storm was still raging—rain coming down in sheets, thunder rolling across the sky, lightning flickering in the distance.

But the ranch was ablaze with light.

Sarah and the consortium women had thrown together whatever they could while the men were gone. The dining room table was covered with sandwiches—cold cuts, bread, cheese, pickles. Chips. Potato salad from the fridge. Leftover cornbread. Anything that didn't need cooking. Nobody had been able to think about meals while Jake was tied up somewhere bleeding.

The consortium families were already there, trucks pulling up one after another, people running through the rain into the house.

Jake climbed out of Tom's truck, still wrapped in blankets, his chest and wrists freshly bandaged by Rebecca. She'd cleaned him up in the back of the truck on the ride home, muttering the whole time about stubborn Benson men who refused hospitals.

"You're getting stitches tomorrow," Rebecca said firmly. "I don't care what you say."

"Yes ma'am," Jake said, grinning.

Billy stayed close to his brother, not saying much, just staying within arm's reach. Celeb and Junior flanked Jake's other side as they walked toward the house through the rain.

The consortium erupted when they saw Jake come through the door.

Antonio Renzo grabbed him in a bear hug. "Toughest son of a bitch in Texas!"

Maria Renzo was right behind him, tears in her eyes. "You scared us all half to death, mijo."

Robert Beaumont clapped Jake on the shoulder. "Hell of a thing you did, breaking out like that."

Caroline Beaumont brought him a plate with sandwiches piled high. "Sit. Eat. You look half-starved."

Jake sat at the head of the dining room table—Pops insisted on it—with Billy on one side and Tom on the other. Sarah brought him coffee, kissed his forehead, and didn't say a word. She didn't need to. The relief in her eyes said everything.

Pops disappeared into his room and came back with three bottles of Jack Daniels from his private stash. He set them on the table with a thud and started passing out glasses—tumblers, coffee mugs, whatever he could find.

"Tonight we drink," Pops announced. "Beer's for amateurs. This calls for the good stuff."

He poured generous shots into every glass, including the frat house boys'. Junior, Billy, Celeb, and Louisiana looked at each other, grinning. Pops had never poured them Jack before.

"You boys earned it today," Pops said, reading their faces. "You used your brains, your tech, and you brought Jake home. That's worth a drink."

Sarah opened her mouth like she might protest, then closed it. Tom just nodded. Tonight wasn't a night for rules.

The food was passed around. Plates filled. Beer bottles were opened alongside the Jack Daniels. Rain hammered against the windows, but inside it was warm and crowded and alive.

Pops stood up, cigar clamped between his teeth, glass of Jack Daniels raised high. "To Jake Benson. Who proved today that you don't fuck with this family. You don't fuck with this consortium. And you sure as hell don't tie up a Benson and expect him to stay tied."

"To Jake!" everyone shouted, raising their glasses—beer bottles, Jack Daniels, whatever they had.

Jake raised his own glass of Jack, grinning despite the pain in his chest. "To family. All of you. Thank you."

They drank. The Jack burned going down, but it was good. Real good.

Junior coughed after his first sip. Louisiana's eyes watered. Billy Renzo made a face but kept drinking. Celeb knocked his back like a pro.

"That's Pops' private reserve," Billy whispered to Jake. "He only breaks that out for special occasions."

"Getting kidnapped counts as special?" Jake asked.

"Getting yourself un-kidnapped counts as special," Billy said.

They ate. The tension of the day slowly gave way to laughter and stories. Pops poured second rounds for the adults, smaller pours for the frat house boys. Rain continued to pour outside, lightning flashing, thunder rumbling.

Billy Renzo—the sixteen-year-old—was sitting with Junior at the far end of the table, both of them rehashing the drone tracking and GPS triangulation like it was a military operation. Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez were with them, all four boys animated and talking over each other.

"We locked his signal in under two minutes," Junior said, his words coming a little faster thanks to the Jack. "Louisiana was running the secondary terminal—"

"I had the truck GPS up the whole time," Louisiana added, feeling the warmth of the whiskey in his chest. "Soon as they started moving, we knew exactly where they were going."

"That shit was incredible," Billy Renzo said. "Like something out of a movie."

Louisiana was sitting across from them, grinning, soaking it all in. But as the dinner went on, his smile faded. He got quieter. Pushed food around his plate.

Junior noticed first. "You okay, Colt?"

Louisiana looked up. Everyone at the frat house end of the table called him by his real name sometimes, when it was just them. "Yeah. I'm good."

"You don't look good," Celeb said.

Louisiana set down his sandwich. "I just... I got one more week. Then I gotta go back to Baton Rouge."

The table went quiet.

"School starts?" Junior asked.

"Nah. I graduated in May. But my mom expects me home. I'm supposed to start looking for work down there."

Billy leaned forward. "You don't want to go back."

It wasn't a question.

Louisiana shook his head. "This summer... this place... you guys... it's been the best time of my life. I don't want it to end."

Pops, who'd been listening from down the table, pulled the cigar from his mouth. "Then don't let it end, boy."

Louisiana looked at him. "Sir?"

"You graduated. You're eighteen. You're a grown man. You want to stay, you stay."

"I can't just—my mom—"

"Your mama loves you, but you're old enough to make your own decisions." Pops looked at Tom. "We could use another hand around here. Especially one who knows his way around the ranch and can keep up with these knuckleheads."

Tom nodded slowly. "Josh, what do you think?"

Josh, who'd been sitting with Rebecca, looked down the table at Louisiana. "Kid works harder than half my crew. Doesn't complain. Takes instruction. Yeah, we could use him."

Robert Beaumont spoke up. "He could live with us. We got the space."

"Like hell," Junior said immediately. "He's staying in the frat house."

"There's no room," Sarah said. "You've got four boys in there already with two bunk beds."

"We'll make room," Billy said. "Put a mattress on the floor between the beds. Louisiana's one of us."

Louisiana's eyes were wide. "You guys serious? You'd let me stay?"

"Let you?" Jake said, grinning. "We're telling you to stay, Colt. You're family now."

Pops stood up. "Hold on. This needs to be official." He looked at Tom, Josh, and Robert. "Command Center. Now. We got business to discuss."

Tom, Josh, Pops, and Robert stood up and headed upstairs. Junior started to follow, but Pops waved him off. "This is grown-up talk, boy. Stay put."

Louisiana sat frozen, staring after them. "What's happening?"

"They're deciding if they're gonna hire you," Celeb said. "But trust me, it's already decided. Pops doesn't ask questions he doesn't already know the answer to."

The four men climbed the stairs to the Command Center. Pops closed the door behind them and turned to the others.

"All right. Real talk. Can we afford another full-time hand?"

Josh nodded. "We're coming into fall roundup. I could use the extra help. And the kid's good—really good. Works like he's got something to prove."

"He does," Robert said. "He's trying to earn his place here. Been doing it all summer."

Tom leaned against the table. "What about housing? Sarah's right—that room's barely big enough for four, let alone five."

"They'll figure it out," Pops said, grinning. "Hell, I shared a room with six guys in the service. They got two bunk beds and a floor. They'll manage."

"What about pay?" Josh asked.

"Same as the other hands," Tom said. "He does the work, he gets paid for it. No charity. He earns his keep."

Robert nodded. "He won't take charity anyway. Kid's got too much pride."

Pops stabbed his cigar toward Tom. "So we're agreed? We hire him? Full-time?"

Tom looked at Josh, then Robert, then back at Pops. "We're agreed."

"Good," Pops said. "Now let's go make that boy's day."

They came back downstairs. The whole consortium had gone quiet, watching. Rain continued to hammer against the windows.

Tom stood at the head of the table. "Louisiana—Colton—we had a discussion. Josh says he could use another full-time hand. Pops says you've earned your place here. Robert offered to house you, but the frat house boys made it clear that's not happening."

Louisiana stood up, nervous. "I'd work hard. I swear. You wouldn't regret—"

"We know," Tom said, smiling. "That's why we're offering you a job. Full-time ranch hand. Same pay as the other hands. Room and board included—which apparently means a mattress on the floor in the frat house."

Louisiana's jaw dropped. "You serious?"

Josh stepped forward. "Dead serious. We need a good cowboy. A good rancher. And you're both. You want the job?"

"Yes sir!" Louisiana's voice cracked. "Hell yes, I want the job!"

The table erupted. Junior and Billy grabbed Louisiana and lifted him off his feet. Celeb and Billy Renzo joined in. Jake stood up—slower, wincing—but he was grinning.

"What are you doing?" Louisiana yelled, laughing.

"Initiation!" Junior shouted.

They carried him toward the front door.

"Wait—no—it's pouring—" Louisiana started.

They threw the door open and tossed him out into the storm.

Louisiana hit the mud in the front yard, rain instantly soaking him from head to toe. He came up sputtering, laughing, covered in mud and water.

"Welcome to the family, Louisiana!" Billy shouted from the doorway.

Then Junior ran out and tackled him back into the mud. Celeb followed. Billy was right behind. Even Billy Renzo and the other sixteen-year-olds joined in, all of them diving into the rain and mud like crazy teenagers.

Jake stood at the door, watching, holding his bandaged chest. He wanted to join them. God, he wanted to.

"Don't even think about it," Rebecca said from behind him. "You're still bleeding through those bandages."

Jake sighed. "Killjoy."

But he was grinning as he watched his brothers—blood and chosen—wrestle in the mud and rain, laughing like maniacs.

The consortium watched from the doorway and windows, shaking their heads and smiling. Sarah was laughing. Tom had his arm around her. Pops was smoking his cigar, pouring himself another Jack, looking satisfied.

After five minutes of absolute chaos, the boys came back inside, soaking wet, covered in mud, shivering and laughing.

"You're all insane," Louisiana said, grinning from ear to ear.

"Yeah," Junior said. "But now you're one of us."

Sarah pointed toward the stairs. "All of you. Upstairs. Showers. Now. And leave those muddy clothes in the hallway."

"Yes ma'am," they chorused.

The dinner wound down slowly. The consortium families filtered out one by one, trucks pulling away into the storm. Promises to check in tomorrow. Offers to help with anything the Bensons needed.

Wade stopped by before leaving, pulling Tom aside. "I'll need statements from Jake tomorrow. But for tonight, let him rest."

"Appreciated, Wade."

"Those two we arrested? They're not talking yet. But they will." Wade looked toward the muddy boys trooping upstairs. "You got a good family, Tom."

"I know."

By midnight, the storm was finally letting up. The house was cleaned up, leftovers put away, and everything finally quiet.

Except for the frat house.

Jake, Billy, Celeb, Junior, and Louisiana climbed the stairs together, freshly showered but still damp. Jake moved slower than the others, his chest aching, but he refused help.

They filed into the room—two bunk beds along opposite walls, a narrow space between them. Junior dragged a mattress from the hallway and dropped it on the floor in the middle.

"Home sweet home," Junior said.

Louisiana stood in the doorway, looking at the cramped space, the bunks, the stolen beers hidden under the floorboards that Junior was already pulling out.

"This is really happening," Louisiana said quietly. "I'm really staying."

"You're really staying," Billy said, handing him a beer. "Welcome to the frat house, Colt."

They sat on the bunks and the mattress, bottles clinking together. Jake winced as he leaned back against the wall, but he was smiling.

"Five guys in here now," Celeb said, looking around. "This room just got a lot smaller."

"We'll manage," Junior said.

"Barely," Billy added.

"Worth it," Jake said, raising his beer. "To Louisiana. Officially a Benson now."

"To Louisiana," they echoed.

Louisiana shook his head, grinning. "Y'all are crazy."

"Yeah," Jake said. "But you fit right in."

They drank their stolen beers, traded stories from the day, argued about who did what and when. The banter was easy, the laughter genuine.

Outside, the storm was finally passing. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

And in the frat house, five brothers—blood and chosen—settled in for the night.

The room was cramped. The mattress on the floor was barely big enough. The beer was warm.

But none of them would have changed a thing.