The new toy

 

Chapter 1: The Heat

It was hot in Texas. The kind of heat that made the air shimmer and turn a man's thoughts to cold beer and shade. The temperature at 11 AM had already hit 99 degrees, and inside the barn it must have been pushing 120. Billy and Jake Benson had been mucking stalls and hauling feed for three hours, their shirts long since discarded and tossed over a fence post.

"Fuck this," Jake said, wiping sweat from his face with his bandanna. "I'm done. Beer time."

Billy grinned, his own bandanna tied around his neck already soaked through. "Thought you'd never say it."

They walked shirtless across the dusty yard toward the ranch house, their boots kicking up small clouds with each step. The sun beat down on their backs, turning their skin bronze and making the sweat run in rivers down their chests. They were close as brothers could be—people often mistook them for twins even though Jake was a year older. Same build, same walk, same way of finishing each other's sentences.

The house was empty. Sarah and Rebecca were in town shopping at the general store. Billy Jr. was out with Josh on fence repair. Tom and Pops had a meeting at the First (and only) National Bank of Kings County. Josh and Ray were doing inventory, looking to purchase feed for the consortium.

Perfect timing for a cold one.

Billy pushed through the screen door first, Jake right behind him. The cool air from inside hit them like a blessing.

"Thank Christ for—"

The rest of Jake's sentence died in his throat.

Three men stood in the living room. Strangers. Each one holding a gun.

"Don't move," the biggest one said. He had a gut that hung over his belt and eyes that were too close together. "Hands where I can see 'em."

Billy and Jake froze, their hands coming up slowly. The other two men moved fast—one was wiry and twitchy, the other built like a bull with a shaved head. They had rope in their hands. Ranch rope. Benson rope.

"Turn around," the big one ordered.

"Listen, you don't want to—" Billy started.

"Shut the fuck up and turn around!"

They turned. Billy felt hands grab his wrists and yank them behind his back. The rope bit into his skin as it was wrapped tight, then tighter. Three, four, five wraps. Then a knot pulled so hard he felt his shoulders strain. Beside him, Jake grunted as the same thing happened to him.

The wiry one grabbed Billy's bandanna from around his neck—still wet with his own sweat—and shoved it into his mouth, knotting it hard behind his head. The fabric tasted like salt and dirt. Another bandanna was tied over his eyes, plunging everything into darkness.

He heard Jake make a muffled sound of protest, then nothing but the same treatment being given to his brother.

"On your knees," the bull said, and hands shoved Billy down hard. His knees hit the wooden floor with a crack that sent pain shooting up his legs. He could hear Jake breathing hard through his nose beside him, could sense him close by.

For the next twenty minutes, they knelt there in darkness, listening to the three men ransack their home. Drawers being yanked open, contents dumped on the floor. Footsteps pounding through rooms. The crash of something breaking. The back kitchen door slamming open again and again as they carried things out.

Billy's hands were already going numb. The rope was too tight, cutting off circulation. Sweat dripped down his chest, his back, soaking into the waistband of his jeans. His jaw ached from the gag. Rage built in his chest like a wildfire—these sons of bitches were in his house, stealing from his family, and there wasn't a goddamn thing he could do about it.

He felt Jake shift beside him, testing his bonds. No good. They were tied tight.

Then footsteps came back. Someone crouched down in front of them. Billy heard the sound of a wallet being opened.

"Well, shit," the big one said slowly. "Lookee here. Driver's licenses. Benson boys. Brothers." A pause. "These two must be worth a fuckin' lot of cash."

Billy's blood ran cold.

"Let's steal them too!" the wiry one said, and Billy could hear the grin in his voice.

"Now that's smart thinking," the bull agreed.

Billy tensed. Beside him, he felt Jake do the same. Fresh sweat—fear sweat now, different from the heat—started to drip down his chest, cutting trails through the dust and grime.

Hands grabbed his arms and hauled him up. His legs had gone half-numb from kneeling, and he stumbled. They dragged him—he could hear Jake being dragged too, could hear his brother's boots scraping against the floor—out through the back door and into the blinding sunlight he couldn't see.

Then he was lifted and thrown. He hit the metal bed of a truck hard, the air knocked out of his lungs. Jake landed beside him a second later with a grunt.

More rope. They grabbed his boots and tied them together, the rope so tight it felt like it would cut through the leather. Then his bound wrists were yanked up his back—pain exploded in his shoulders—and he felt rope looping around his neck. They tied his wrists to his neck, creating a chokehold. Any movement of his arms would tighten the noose.

Beside him, Jake made a strangled sound. They were doing the same to him.

A tarp was thrown over them, dropping them into hot, suffocating darkness. The truck engine roared to life.

And then they were moving.

The ride was hell. Every bump in the road sent them bouncing into the stolen goods piled around them, into each other, into the hard metal bed. Every jolt yanked at the rope around Billy's neck. He tried to stay still, tried to breathe slowly through his nose, but it was almost impossible. The heat under the tarp was unbearable. The rope burned. His shoulders screamed.

He could feel Jake beside him, their bodies pressed together when the truck took a corner. His brother's sweat mixing with his own. The sound of Jake's breathing, harsh and fast through his nose, the only thing that told Billy he wasn't alone.

They drove for two hours.

Billy lost track of time, lost track of everything except the pain and the heat and the desperate need to keep still so he wouldn't choke. His mind raced. Where were they going? What did these bastards want? Would anyone even know they were missing yet?

Finally—finally—the truck slowed. Stopped.

The engine cut off.

Footsteps. The tarp was yanked away, and even through the blindfold Billy could sense the change in light. Hands grabbed him and pulled him out. His feet hit the ground but his legs buckled. Someone caught him, held him up.

"Bring 'em inside," the big one said.

Billy was half-dragged, half-carried across uneven ground. He heard a door creak open. Smelled dust and rot and old wood. An abandoned building.

Then he was shoved down to his knees again. Hard. Jake hit the ground beside him—Billy could tell from the sound, from the presence of his brother so close.

And that's when things got worse.

Chapter 2: Discovery

Billy Jr. and Celeb pulled up to the ranch house ninety minutes after Billy and Jake had walked in for that cold beer. They'd been out checking the south fence line, looking for breaks after last week's storm. Jr. killed the engine and grabbed his radio from the dash.

"Hot as balls out here," Celeb said, wiping his face. "I need water."

"Beer sounds better," Jr. said, grinning. At sixteen, he wasn't supposed to have beer, but in the frat house with his uncles, rules got flexible. "Uncle Billy and Jake should be back by now. They were doing barn duty this morning."

They walked up to the back door. It was standing open.

Jr. stopped. "That's weird."

"Air conditioning's running full blast with the door open?" Celeb frowned. "Your grandpa would lose his shit."

Jr. pushed the door wider and stepped inside.

The kitchen was trashed. Drawers pulled out, contents dumped on the floor. Cabinets hanging open. A chair knocked over.

"What the fuck?" Jr. said, his hand automatically going to the radio on his belt.

They moved into the living room. It was worse. Couch cushions slashed open. The TV gone. Pops' gun cabinet—the display one, not the real safe—busted open and emptied. Papers everywhere. Picture frames smashed on the floor.

"Jesus Christ," Celeb breathed. "We got robbed."

Jr.'s heart was pounding. He unclipped his radio and hit the emergency button three times.

The mechanical voice activated immediately, broadcasting on all consortium frequencies: "911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior Benson."

Every radio, every satellite phone in the consortium network would be screaming that alert right now. The general store. The bank. All six ranch houses. Every truck. Every pocket.

Jr. pressed the talk button. "This is Billy Junior at the main house. We've been robbed. House is ransacked. I'm—"

He stopped.

His own voice was coming from the living room. Not an echo. A broadcast.

He looked at Celeb, who was already moving toward the sound. On the floor near the overturned coffee table were two radios. Uncle Billy's. Uncle Jake's. Still on, still broadcasting everything Jr. was saying.

And next to them: two wallets, open and empty of cash, driver's licenses still inside.

Jr.'s stomach dropped.

"Celeb," he said quietly. "Pick those up."

Celeb crouched down and grabbed the radios and wallets carefully, like they might explode. He looked at the licenses and his face went white.

"Billy and Jake."

"Their iPhones are gone," Jr. said, the realization hitting him. "The radios are here but the phones aren't."

Jr. turned and ran down the hallway to the frat house—the bedroom he shared with his uncles and Celeb. He shoved the door open.

Stripped. His desk was empty. The laptops—gone. His tablet—gone. The external drives, the backup equipment, all of it. Even the drawer where he kept the spare cables and the portable hotspot. Clean sweep.

"Fuck!" he shouted. "Celeb! They got all my equipment!"

Celeb appeared in the doorway, his face pale. "All of it?"

"Every goddamn thing." Jr. spun around, fury and panic mixing in his chest. "We've got nothing here."

He grabbed his radio and hit the emergency button again. Three more times.

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

He pressed talk, and this time his voice was shaking. "Second emergency. Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake are missing. Their radios and wallets are on the floor. iPhones are gone. They're gone. Repeat—Billy and Jake are missing and whoever took them has their phones."

For three seconds, there was only static.

Then the radios exploded with voices.

"What?" That was his dad, Josh, shocked and sharp.

"Missing? What do you mean missing?" Ray, his other uncle.

"On our way." Wade Nelson, the sheriff, already moving.

"Billy Junior, you listen to me." That was Pops, his voice like gravel and fury. "You stay in that house. You hear me? Don't you fucking move until we get there."

"Yes sir," Jr. said. His hands were shaking. He looked at Celeb, who was back in the living room staring at the wallets and radios on the floor.

Jr. pressed talk again. "I'm calling Billy, Ryan, and Daniel. We need equipment. All hands."

He switched to the private frequency he shared with Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—the other three sixteen-year-olds who'd built this whole network with him. His voice was steadier now, focused.

"Billy. Ryan. Daniel. This is Junior. Emergency at my house. They cleaned out all my equipment—everything's gone. My uncles are missing and the kidnappers have their iPhones. Bring everything you've got—laptops, tablets, all of it. We need to trace them. Now."

"Jesus. On it." That was Billy, no questions asked.

"Five minutes," Ryan said.

"Bringing the whole setup," Daniel added. "Everything we've got."

Jr. looked around the destroyed living room. At his uncles' abandoned radios. At the evidence of violence and theft.

"They took them," he said quietly. "Those bastards robbed the house and took Billy and Jake."

Celeb's jaw was set hard, and Jr. could see the anger building in him. Celeb had only been part of this family for fourteen months, but Billy and Jake were his best friends. His roommates. His brothers now.

"We're gonna find them," Celeb said. "We've got their phones. We can trace them."

The radio crackled again. "Billy Junior, it's Josh. Your uncle Ray and I are ten minutes out. Don't touch anything else. We need to preserve the scene."

"The wiz kids are coming with their equipment," Jr. said into the radio. "Mine's all gone—they cleaned out the frat house too. But if those assholes use the phones, we can find them."

"Good boy," Pops said, and Jr. could hear a car engine roaring in the background. "Those cocksuckers picked the wrong goddamn family to fuck with."

Jr. looked at Celeb. They both knew what was coming.

The consortium was about to go to war.

Outside, they heard the first truck pulling up fast, gravel spraying. Uncle Ray's diesel. Then another engine. Then sirens—Wade, coming in hot with lights flashing.

Jr. set his radio on the counter and took a breath. His uncles were out there somewhere. Taken. Maybe hurt.

But they had the whole network activating. Six families. Half of Kings County. And four sixteen-year-old tech geniuses who were about to turn every piece of surveillance, every drone, every satellite phone into a weapon.

And the kidnappers had made one critical mistake: they'd taken the iPhones.

The screen door slammed open and Josh and Ray came through, both of them taking in the destruction with hard faces.

Wade was right behind them, hand on his service weapon, sheriff's training taking over. "Nobody else inside?"

"No sir," Jr. said. "Just us. We found it like this."

Wade moved through the house quickly, clearing rooms, then came back. His face was grim. "How long were they alone here?"

"We left about two hours ago," Celeb said. "They were doing barn work."

"So they came in, walked into an ambush," Ray said, picking up Jake's radio carefully. "And these assholes took them. But they left the radios and took the phones."

"That's our opening," Jr. said. "When they use those phones, we've got them."

The sound of more vehicles. Billy, Ryan, and Daniel were arriving, and Jr. could hear his mom's voice outside, high and scared. His grandmother Sarah. Rebecca.

This was about to get loud and chaotic.

But Jr. had a job to do. He looked at his friends coming through the door, arms full of equipment, faces set with determination.

"Set up in the dining room," he said. "We're finding them."

Chapter 3: Mobilization

The consortium was converging on the Benson ranch like a storm rolling in across the plains.

Tom Benson and Pops came roaring up the driveway from the bank, Tom's knuckles white on the steering wheel, Pops already on the radio barking orders to anyone who would listen. Sarah and Rebecca pulled in seconds later from the general store, both women's faces pale with shock.

Inside, the dining room had been transformed into a command center. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez had spread their equipment across the long table—three laptops, two tablets, external drives, a portable router, and a tangle of cables that somehow made sense to them. They worked with the focused intensity of surgeons, fingers flying across keyboards.

Billy Jr. stood behind them, arms crossed, watching the screens. Celeb was next to him, radiating barely contained fury.

"We got access to the security cameras at the Hendersons' place," Billy said, not looking up. "Their driveway cam faces this direction. Pulling footage now."

"Time stamp it to about three hours ago," Jr. said. "That's when they would've left."

"Daniel, start distributing the iPads," Billy added without looking up. "Sync them all to my master screen. Everyone needs to see this."

Daniel grabbed the duffel bag they'd brought and started pulling out iPads. Eighteen of them, all identical, all part of the network the wiz kids had built. He moved through the house, handing them out.

One to Wade Nelson, who stood near the doorway, hand on his radio, jaw working. His sons Wilson and Ryan—the deputies, not to be confused with Ryan Mattern—were with him, both in uniform, both armed. Wade's face was a mask of professional calm, but his eyes gave him away. These were his neighbors. His family.

One each to Josh and Ray Benson, who hovered near the table. Neither brother spoke. They didn't need to. The rage was written all over them.

One to Tom. One to Celeb. One to Robert Beaumont, who'd just arrived with his wife Caroline.

Then Pops came through the door.

At seventy-six, he still moved like a soldier. Vietnam had put steel in his spine and fire in his blood, and neither had diminished with age. He carried a tumbler of brandy in one hand and had a cigar clamped between his teeth. His face was a thundercloud.

"Somebody tell me what the fuck we know," he said.

Daniel handed him an iPad. "Everything we're seeing, you'll see on this, Pops."

"Goddamn right I will." Pops took the iPad and immediately looked at the screen, which was mirroring Billy Renzo's master laptop.

"House was hit about three hours ago," Wade said, eyes on his own iPad now. "Billy and Jake walked in on it. Kidnappers took them along with the robbery haul."

"And my goddamn great-grandsons are gonna find them." Pops pointed at the wiz kids with his tumbler. "You boys got something yet?"

"Working on it, Pops," Daniel said, his accent thick—his family was originally from Mexico, third generation in Kings County. "We're pulling all the surveillance we can access."

"Got it!" Billy Renzo's voice cut through the tension. "Henderson cam. Look."

On every iPad in the house, the image appeared simultaneously. Grainy footage of a dusty white pickup truck passing by. It was moving fast, headed east on the county road.

"Can you get the plate?" Jr. asked.

Billy's fingers worked. On all eighteen screens, the image enhanced, pixelated, then cleared slightly. "Partial. Texas plate. BK7... can't make out the rest. Mud on it."

"Run it anyway," Wade said, already pulling out his phone to call it in to the station.

"Wait," Ryan Mattern said, leaning closer to his screen. "I'm into the ranch's perimeter system. We've got our own footage."

He pulled up another window. On every iPad, the view switched. The back of the Benson house. The timestamp read 11:47 AM.

Throughout the house, people gathered around their screens. Sarah and Rebecca came back from the kitchen, looking at Rebecca's iPad.

They all watched as three men came into frame, carrying boxes and electronics toward a white pickup. Then two more trips. Loading stolen goods.

"Cocksuckers," Pops muttered, taking a long pull from his brandy.

On the fourth trip, two of the men came out dragging something.

Not something. Someone.

Billy and Jake. Shirtless, hands bound behind their backs, blindfolded, gagged. Being hauled like sacks of feed and thrown into the truck bed.

Sarah made a small sound. On eighteen screens, the horror played out.

"Those fucking animals," Josh said, his voice deadly quiet.

The men threw a tarp over the truck bed. The camera caught a clear shot of the driver's face as he walked around to get in—big guy, gut hanging over his belt, close-set eyes.

"Freeze that," Wade said, looking at his iPad. "I want a screenshot of his face. I'm running him through the system."

"Already on it," Daniel said. The frozen image appeared on all the screens, the driver's face crystal clear.

"They're headed east," Ray said, studying his iPad. "That road goes toward the county line. Then it's either Highway 83 or the back roads toward—"

Tom's phone buzzed.

Everyone froze.

Tom pulled it out, looked at the screen, and his face went white. "It's from Jake's phone."

"Don't open it yet," Jr. said quickly. "Billy, can you trace it?"

"If he opens it, yeah. We've got the tracking software synced to the network." Billy's fingers were already moving. "Ryan, pull up the trace protocol."

"Ready," Ryan said.

Tom looked at Wade, who nodded. Then he opened the message.

The image loaded on Tom's phone first. Then Billy pushed it to all eighteen iPads.

For three seconds, nobody breathed.

On every screen in the house, Billy and Jake stood chest to chest, lashed together so tightly they looked like one person. Their arms were pulled behind them, elbows bound, forcing their shoulders back at an unnatural angle. Their torsos were wrapped in rope. Another rope led up from somewhere behind them—no, around their necks—to the rafters of what looked like an abandoned building. Both were still blindfolded, still gagged with their own bandannas.

And both were covered in sweat and rope burns.

Below the image was a text: $500,000 or they hang. Will call with instructions.

"Jesus Christ," Wade breathed.

Sarah's iPad clattered to the floor. Rebecca caught her as her knees buckled.

Pops drained his brandy in one gulp and slammed the glass down on the table. "I'm gonna kill every single one of those rat-fucking sons of bitches."

"Got it!" Billy shouted. "Signal traced. The phone pinged off a tower thirty-one miles east-southeast. Rural area. Not many structures out there."

"Pulling up satellite imagery now," Daniel said. On all the iPads, the view switched to a map. "There's... maybe six or seven buildings in that radius. Most of them abandoned."

"We've got drones," Jr. said. "We can search them all."

"Do it," Wade said. Then he looked at his radio. "I'm calling this in. We need backup."

"Backup's gonna take an hour," Pops said, staring at the image on his iPad—his grandsons, strung up like animals. "Maybe more. You're gonna wait that long?"

Wade's jaw tightened. "I'm the sheriff, Pops. I have to do this right."

"Fuck doing it right," Pops shot back. "Those are my grandsons strung up like animals."

"Pops." Tom's voice was strained but firm. "Wade's right. We do this legal."

"Legal?" Pops turned on his son. "You see that picture? You see what they did to your brothers?"

"I saw it." Tom's voice broke slightly. "But we're not vigilantes. We're—"

"We're family!" Pops roared. "And family doesn't wait for paperwork while—"

"Pops! Dad!" Jr.'s voice cut through. "Arguing isn't helping. Billy, Ryan, Daniel—get those drones in the air. Now. Wade, make your calls. The rest of you, gear up. We're gonna need vehicles, weapons, medical supplies."

For a sixteen-year-old, Jr.'s command presence was startling. Even Pops shut his mouth.

"You heard him," Josh said quietly. "Move."

The room exploded into coordinated chaos.

The wiz kids launched the drones from their controllers. On all eighteen iPads, the screens split into six feeds as the thermal-imaging drones lifted off from the yard and screamed east at top speed.

Wade stepped outside, radio to his ear, calling for county backup, highway patrol, anyone who could respond.

Ray and Josh headed for the gun safe with Pops. The old man opened it with shaking hands, revealing an arsenal that would make a National Guard unit jealous. Rifles. Shotguns. Pistols. Ammunition boxes.

"Take what you need," Pops said, already grabbing a rifle. "We're bringing my boys home."

Jr. watched the drone feeds on his iPad, his jaw set. Celeb stood beside him, one hand on his sidearm—all the ranch hands carried them, standard practice in Kings County. His own iPad showed the same six drone views.

"We're gonna find them," Celeb said quietly.

"Damn right we are," Jr. said.

Throughout the house, people stared at their iPads. Watching. Waiting. All seeing exactly what Billy Renzo saw on his master laptop.

The drones swept over empty land, searching.

And thirty-one miles away, Billy and Jake stood in the darkness, feeling each other's labored breathing, trying not to move, trying not to fall, trying not to choke.

Chapter 4: The Abandoned House

The rope around Billy's neck was cutting off his air.

Not completely—just enough to make every breath a conscious effort. Just enough to remind him that one wrong move, one stumble, and he'd be choking himself and Jake both.

They'd been dragged inside what smelled like an old barn or house that hadn't been lived in for years. Dust and rot and the stale smell of abandonment. The kidnappers had shoved them down to their knees again—Billy's knees were already screaming from the first time—and then things had gotten worse.

Much worse.

Hands grabbed his arms and yanked them behind his back, pulling until his elbows touched. Billy grunted through the gag as new rope wrapped around his elbows, cinching them together. The pressure on his shoulders was immediate and excruciating, forcing his chest forward, his shoulder blades back in a way they weren't meant to go.

Beside him, he heard Jake make a strangled sound of pain. They were doing the same to him.

Then someone grabbed Billy by the ropes and hauled him to his feet. His legs were shaking—from kneeling, from the truck ride, from fear and exhaustion. Jake was pulled up next to him, and then Billy felt his brother's bare chest pressed against his own.

"Hold 'em together," the big one said.

Hands shoved them closer. Billy could feel Jake's sweat mixing with his own, could feel his brother's rapid heartbeat against his chest. Their faces were inches apart, blindfolds touching.

Then the rope came.

Around and around their torsos, binding them together so tight Billy couldn't tell where he ended and Jake began. His arms were trapped behind him, elbows still pulled together, wrists still bound. Jake's arms were in the same position. They were being lashed together like a single unit.

The rope wrapped around their chests, their stomachs, their lower backs. Each loop pulled tighter than the last. Billy tried to shift his weight and felt Jake respond immediately, adjusting to keep them both balanced.

"Can't... breathe..." Jake's muffled voice came through his gag.

Billy couldn't respond. The rope around their torsos was so tight it restricted their breathing. He could feel Jake's chest trying to expand against his own and failing.

Then hands grabbed at their necks.

Billy felt the rope loop around his throat once, twice, then pull up. He rose onto his toes automatically, trying to ease the pressure. Jake did the same. They were being pulled upward by their necks, forced to stand perfectly straight, perfectly still.

He heard the rope being tied off somewhere above them. The rafters. They were being strung up.

When the hands let go, Billy felt the full weight of the situation. If his legs gave out, the rope would tighten around both their necks. If Jake's legs gave out, same result. They had to stand perfectly still, perfectly balanced, supporting each other's weight.

Billy's shoulders were on fire from the elbow tie. His wrists were numb. The rope around their torsos made breathing difficult. And now they had to stay standing, indefinitely, or choke themselves and each other.

He felt Jake's breath against his face, quick and panicked through his nose.

Billy tried to slow his own breathing, tried to find some kind of rhythm. Tried to send a message to his brother through the only thing they had left—the press of their bodies, the shared sweat, the desperate need to stay upright.

"Perfect," the big one said. "Get a picture. We're gonna be rich, boys."

Billy heard a phone camera click. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then footsteps. The door opening. Voices fading.

The door slammed shut.

And they were alone.

Billy's legs were already shaking. The heat was unbearable—even blindfolded, he could tell they were in direct sunlight coming through broken windows. Sweat poured down his face, his chest, stinging the rope burns on his wrists and arms.

Jake made a sound. Not words. Just a sound that meant I'm here. I'm with you.

Billy pressed his forehead against Jake's blindfold, the only gesture he could make. I know. We're gonna make it.

The minutes stretched out like hours.

Billy's calves were cramping. His thighs were burning. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets. Every breath was work. Every second of staying upright was a battle.

He could feel Jake struggling too. His brother's body trembling against his own. His breathing getting more labored.

They'd been standing like this for maybe ten minutes when Billy felt Jake's knees start to buckle.

The rope around their necks tightened immediately. Billy gasped through his nose, rising higher on his toes to take the pressure off. He shifted his weight forward, pressing harder against Jake, trying to help support him.

Jake got his legs back under him. The rope loosened slightly.

Billy's heart was pounding so hard he was sure Jake could feel it. That was close. Too close.

Time became meaningless. There was only pain and heat and the desperate need to stay standing. The rope burns on Billy's wrists were bleeding now—he could feel the warm trickle down his hands. His shoulders had gone past pain into some kind of numb agony.

Jake's sweat was in his mouth, mixing with the taste of his own bandanna. Their chests moved together, restricted by the ropes, fighting for air in tandem.

Billy tried to focus on something, anything, besides the pain. He thought about the ranch. About Celeb and Jr. in the frat house. About the beers hidden under the floorboards. About Pops cursing at the dinner table while Grandma Sarah swatted at him with a dish towel.

About how Jr. would've found them missing by now. About how the whole consortium would be mobilizing.

They just had to stay alive long enough to be found.

Jake made another sound. This one different. Not panic. Something else.

Billy realized what it was: Jake was working his jaw against the gag. Trying to loosen it.

Billy started doing the same. The bandanna was soaked with sweat, which made it slippery. He worked his tongue against it, pushed with his jaw, felt it start to shift.

Jake got his loose first. Billy heard him spit it out, heard him gasp for real air.

"Billy," Jake's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "You still with me?"

Billy kept working his own gag. Finally, it slipped down around his neck. He sucked in a breath and immediately started coughing. The movement made the neck rope tighten and he forced himself to be still.

"Yeah," Billy croaked. "I'm here."

"My legs are going," Jake said. "I don't know how much longer—"

"Don't talk like that." Billy's voice was stronger than he felt. "We're getting out of this."

"How?"

"I don't know yet. But we are."

They stood in silence for another few minutes. Billy's mind was racing now that he could talk, could think more clearly without the gag.

"Can you move your hands at all?" Billy asked.

"Barely. Elbows are tied too tight."

"Same. But if we can turn around somehow... get back to back..."

"The neck rope—"

"I know. But if we're careful. Real careful. We might be able to reach each other's wrists."

It was a long shot. Maybe impossible. But it was something.

"Okay," Jake said. "On three?"

"Wait. Let me think this through." Billy tried to visualize it. They were tied chest to chest. The rope around their necks went up to the rafters. If they tried to turn, they'd have to move in perfect sync, and the rope would twist. But if they could just get positioned back to back instead...

"We go slow," Billy said. "Real slow. Small steps. You go left, I go right. We turn together, like we're dancing."

Under any other circumstances, that would've been funny. Right now, it might save their lives.

"Ready?" Jake asked.

"Ready."

"One... two... three."

They started to move.

Chapter 5: The Trace

The convoy was forming in the Benson driveway like a military operation.

Wade Nelson stood at the center, his phone pressed to his ear, frustration written across his face. His deputies—his sons Wilson and Ryan—flanked him, both looking grim.

"What do you mean five hours?" Wade said into the phone. "I've got two kidnapping victims and three armed suspects... I understand that, but... Yes, I know about the situation in Maverick County, but..."

He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it like it had personally betrayed him.

"Well?" Pops demanded. He'd traded his brandy for a shotgun and had a Colt .45 strapped to his hip. "What'd they say?"

"State police are tied up with a multi-vehicle pileup and chemical spill in Maverick County," Wade said, his voice tight. "They've got fatalities, evacuations, the whole nine yards. They can't break anyone loose for at least five hours."

"Five hours?" Tom's voice was deadly quiet. "My brothers don't have five hours."

"Highway patrol is the same story," Wade continued. "They're all responding to the spill. Roads are closed. It's a goddamn disaster over there."

"Then we go ourselves," Josh said, loading ammunition into his truck. "Right now."

Wade looked at him, then at Pops, then at the assembled convoy. Six trucks, three SUVs. Eighteen people armed and angry. His jurisdiction. His rules. His call.

"Fuck it," Wade said finally. "We do it ourselves."

Pops grinned around his cigar. "Now you're talking sense, Wade."

"But we do it right," Wade added, his sheriff's voice taking over. "Nobody goes off half-cocked. We coordinate, we communicate, and we bring those boys home safe. Understood?"

"Understood," came the chorus of replies.

Inside, the wiz kids were locked in.

"Drone three has something," Ryan Mattern said suddenly, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "Structure at the edge of the search radius. Thirty-two miles east-southeast."

On all eighteen iPads throughout the house, the view switched to an aerial shot of an old farmhouse, weathered and isolated.

"GPS coordinates locked," Billy Renzo said, already pulling them up. "Property records show it belonged to... Marcus Hendricks. Deceased 2019. No current owner."

"That's it," Wade said, looking at his iPad. "That's where the phone pinged from."

"How long to get there?" Pops demanded.

Daniel pulled up the route. "Back roads. Ninety minutes, maybe more. The main highway would be faster but—"

"But we'd be spotted," Ray finished. "Back roads it is."

The convoy assembled. The wiz kids loaded their equipment into Tom's extended cab—laptops, tablets, the iPads still synced to Billy Renzo's master screen.

Jr. climbed into the passenger seat next to his dad, his iPad in his lap showing the drone feed. Celeb was in the back with Billy Renzo and Ryan Mattern, all four of them watching the screens.

"Keep those drones on that building," Jr. said into his radio. "I want eyes the whole way there."

"Roger that," Daniel's voice came back. He was in Robert Beaumont's truck with his own laptop running the drone network.

Sarah and Rebecca stood on the porch, holding each other. Both women had iPads in their hands, watching the same feeds everyone else was seeing.

"Bring them home," Sarah said quietly.

Tom nodded, his face set. Then the convoy rolled out.

The drive was tense. Every bump in the road felt like a delay. Every turn felt too slow. The back roads were dusty and rough, forcing them to keep their speed down or risk damaging the vehicles.

"Talk to me," Josh's voice crackled over the radio. He was leading the convoy in his own truck. "What are we seeing?"

"Drones are circling the structure," Daniel said. "White pickup is still there. No movement outside."

"Can we see inside?" Tom asked.

"Negative," Billy Renzo said. "Windows are too small and dirty. Can't get a clear view."

On every iPad in the convoy, people watched the farmhouse from multiple drone angles. Waiting. Watching.

"Sixty minutes out," Josh said.

Wade was three vehicles back, coordinating with his deputies. Without state police backup, this was all on him. His responsibility. His ass on the line if it went wrong.

But those were his neighbors in that building. His family.

"When we get there, I want half the convoy to approach from the north, half from the south," Wade said into the radio. "We box them in. Nobody shoots unless fired upon. These assholes are going to answer for what they did, but they're going to do it in a courtroom. Understood?"

"Understood," Tom said, but his voice was tight.

Nobody was making promises.

The convoy pushed on through the rough back roads. The sun was high now, beating down mercilessly. Inside the trucks, tension mounted with every mile.

"Forty-five minutes," Josh said.

On the iPads, the drones continued their surveillance. The white pickup hadn't moved. No one had come out of the building.

Jr. gripped his iPad, watching the screens. His uncles were in that building. Somewhere. They had to still be alive.

"Thirty minutes," Josh said.

The farmhouse sat silent on every screen. Desolate. Waiting.

Jr. stared at his iPad, willing something to happen. His uncles were in there. Somewhere. He could feel it.

"Twenty minutes," Josh said.

Still nothing. No movement. The white pickup sat in front like a gravestone.

"Fifteen minutes," Josh said, and the tension in every vehicle was suffocating.

Then—inside that abandoned farmhouse—Billy and Jake were working in the darkness.

They'd turned slowly, carefully, fighting the rope around their necks with every movement. Back to back now, their bound hands reaching for each other's wrists. Billy's fingers found the knot on Jake's ropes first.

"Got it," Billy whispered, his voice hoarse. "Hold still."

His fingers were numb, clumsy from the circulation being cut off. The knot was tight. Wet with sweat. He worked at it, picking, pulling, feeling it start to give.

"Come on, come on," Jake breathed.

The knot loosened. Then came free.

Jake's wrists separated and he gasped with relief and pain as blood rushed back into his hands. He flexed his fingers, getting feeling back, then reached for Billy's ropes.

"My turn," Jake said.

He worked faster, his fingers finding the pattern of the knot. Thirty seconds. The rope fell away.

They both reached up simultaneously and loosened the rope around their necks, lifting it over their heads. Free. They could breathe.

Billy ripped off his blindfold. The room came into focus—dusty, abandoned, sunlight streaming through broken windows. Jake tore his own blindfold off.

They looked at each other. Rope burns. Blood. Sweat. Exhaustion. But alive.

"Legs," Billy whispered.

They bent down and untied their ankles, fingers moving frantically now. The elbow ropes came next—the worst ones, the ones that had kept their shoulders screaming. As the ropes fell away, both brothers groaned with pain and relief.

"Back door," Jake said, looking around. "I saw it when they brought us in."

They moved as quietly as they could through the abandoned house, their bare feet silent on the dusty floor. Every step sent pain shooting through their shoulders, their legs, but they kept moving.

The back door was old, warped. Billy tried the handle. Unlocked.

"On three," he whispered. "We run. Don't stop."

Jake nodded.

"One... two... three."

Billy yanked the door open and they burst out into the sunlight, running for the treeline fifty yards away. Their legs were shaky, their balance off, but adrenaline drove them forward.

Behind them, inside the house, they heard nothing. The kidnappers hadn't heard them. Didn't know they were gone.

They hit the woods and kept running.

—

"Movement!" Daniel's voice cracked over the radio. "Back of the structure! Two figures!"

Every screen in the convoy switched to drone six's feed. Two people bursting out the back door, running into the woods. Shirtless. Stumbling but moving fast.

"That's them!" Jr. shouted. "That's Billy and Jake!"

"They got out," Celeb said, staring at his screen. "Holy shit, they got themselves out!"

"Keep the drones on them!" Wade ordered. "And get eyes on that building. Where are the kidnappers?"

Drone three repositioned to the front of the structure. The white pickup truck was still there. No movement from the front door.

"Kidnappers don't know they're gone yet," Daniel said.

"Split the convoy," Wade commanded. "Josh, Ray, Robert, Celeb—you're with me. We take the building. Tom, Pops, Wilson, Ryan—you go get Billy and Jake. Now!"

The convoy split at the next intersection. Half headed toward the farmhouse. Half followed the drone feed tracking Billy and Jake through the woods.

Jr. gripped his iPad, watching his uncles run. They were maybe half a mile from the building now, moving deeper into the trees. Their movement was unsteady—favoring their shoulders, stumbling over roots—but they were moving.

"We see you!" Jr. shouted into the radio, switching to the emergency frequency.

"They don't have their radios," Ryan Mattern said from the backseat. "They can't hear us."

"Then we find them the old-fashioned way," Tom said, and his truck veered off the road into the brush, heading toward the treeline.

On the iPads, Billy and Jake stopped running. They were looking up at the sky. At the drones.

They'd seen them.

"They know," Jr. said. "They know we're coming."

The trucks crashed through the underbrush, closing the distance. Two minutes. One minute.

And then they saw them.

Billy and Jake, shirtless, covered in rope burns and sweat and blood, stumbling out of the trees. Their arms hung at awkward angles from their shoulders. Their wrists were raw and bleeding. Rope burns circled their necks like angry red collars. But they were alive.

Tom slammed on the brakes and was out of the truck before it fully stopped. Pops was right behind him.

"Billy! Jake!"

The brothers looked up, saw their family, and Jake's legs finally gave out. Billy caught him, and then they were both on their knees as Tom and Pops reached them.

"We got you," Tom said, his voice breaking. "We got you. You're safe."

Jr. jumped out of the truck, Billy Renzo and Ryan Mattern right behind him. They had water, blankets, first aid supplies.

Billy looked up at his nephew, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, rope burns angry and raw. "Junior," he croaked. "You found us."

"The phones," Jr. said, kneeling beside him. "We traced Jake's phone. The drones found the building."

Jake was gulping water, his hands shaking so badly Pops had to help him hold the bottle. "The drones," he rasped. "We saw them. Knew you were close."

"How'd you get out?" Tom asked, wrapping a blanket around Billy's shoulders.

"Turned back to back," Billy said, his voice hoarse. "Reached each other's ropes. Took forever but we got loose."

"Those cocksuckers left us alone," Jake added, anger cutting through his exhaustion. "Stupid bastards didn't even check on us."

In the distance, they heard gunfire.

The farmhouse.

Wade's voice crackled over the radio, sharp and commanding. "Shots fired! Shots fired! Suspects are armed! Return fire authorized!"

The gunfight lasted less than two minutes. Sharp cracks echoing through the woods, then silence.

When Wade's voice came back on the radio, it was grim. "All three suspects down. Celeb's hit. I need medical now!"

Jr.'s head snapped up. "Celeb?"

"I'm okay," Celeb's voice came through, strained. "Caught one in the arm. I'm okay."

Tom was already on the radio. "We've got Billy and Jake. They're hurt but mobile. We're coming to you."

The convoy regrouped at the farmhouse fifteen minutes later. Celeb sat on the tailgate of Wade's truck, his left arm wrapped in a hasty bandage, blood soaking through. But he was grinning.

"Got the bastards," he said when Jr. reached him. "All three of them."

Inside the farmhouse, the three kidnappers lay dead. The big one with the close-set eyes. The wiry one. The bull. All of them shot when they'd opened fire on Wade and his team.

In the main room, rope hung from the rafters. More rope on the floor, cut and discarded. The evidence of what Billy and Jake had endured.

"Jesus Christ," Ray breathed, looking at the setup. "They had them strung up by their necks."

Pops walked over to the nearest body and spat on it. "Rot in hell, you rat-fucking sons of bitches."

Billy and Jake were in Tom's truck, wrapped in blankets despite the heat, drinking water. Robert Beaumont was checking their injuries—the rope burns, the shoulders that would need X-rays, the dehydration.

"Hospital," Robert said. "Both of them. And Celeb too."

"We're fine," Jake rasped.

"Like hell you are," Pops said, climbing into the truck bed. "You're going to the hospital, and that's final."

Billy looked at his grandfather and nodded. He was too exhausted to argue.

The convoy split again. Half stayed with Wade to secure the scene and wait for state police—whenever they could finally get there. Half headed to Kings County Hospital—forty minutes away—with Billy, Jake, and Celeb.

Jr. sat in the back with his uncles, holding his iPad. On the screen, he could see the farmhouse, the crime scene, the end of the nightmare.

"You did good, Junior," Billy said quietly. "Real good."

Jr. looked at his uncle—at the rope burns on his neck, the blood on his wrists, the exhaustion in his eyes.

"We all did," Jr. said.

And for the first time in hours, he let himself breathe.

Chapter 6: Hospital and Homecoming

Kings County Hospital was a small facility—twenty beds, an ER, and a trauma room that saw more ranch accidents than gunshot wounds. When the convoy rolled up, the staff was already waiting. Rebecca had called ahead from the ranch house.

Billy, Jake, and Celeb were taken straight back. The rest of the convoy filled the waiting room—Pops with a fresh cigar, Tom pacing, Josh and Ray standing by the windows, Jr. and the wiz kids clustered around their iPads even though there was nothing left to track.

Dr. Patricia Morris came out first, forty minutes later. She'd been treating Benson injuries for fifteen years—broken bones, burns, the occasional goring from an angry bull. But the look on her face said this was different.

"They're going to be okay," she said, and the entire room exhaled. "Celeb's got a through-and-through in his left arm. Clean wound, no bone damage. We stitched him up, gave him antibiotics, and he's already asking when he can leave."

"That's Celeb," Jr. said, grinning.

"Billy and Jake are more complicated," Dr. Morris continued. "Severe rope burns on their wrists, ankles, and necks. Dehydration. Jake's got a partially dislocated shoulder—we popped it back in. Billy's shoulder is strained but intact. They're both going to be sore as hell for a week, and those rope burns are going to take time to heal."

"Can we see them?" Tom asked.

"Give us another twenty minutes. We're getting them cleaned up and into beds. They need fluids, rest, and probably some decent food."

Pops nodded. "We'll take care of the food part."

Dr. Morris smiled. "I know you will."

She disappeared back through the doors.

Jr. pulled out his phone and switched to FaceTime. His mom answered immediately, her face filling the screen. Behind her, he could see Sarah and Rebecca and Caroline Beaumont, all crowded around.

"They're okay," Jr. said, and heard his mom start crying. "Rope burns, dehydration, Jake's shoulder got messed up. But they're okay. Celeb too. He got shot in the arm but he's fine."

"Thank God," Sarah said, her voice breaking. "Thank God."

"We're bringing them home tonight," Tom said, leaning into the frame. "They're getting patched up now."

"The house is ready," Rebecca said. "We've been cooking all afternoon. There's enough food for an army."

"Good," Pops said, chomping on his cigar. "Because we're bringing an army home."

Twenty minutes later, they were allowed back.

Billy and Jake shared a room, both in hospital beds with IVs running into their arms. They'd been cleaned up, the worst of the blood and dirt washed away, but the rope burns were still angry and red. Billy had bandages around his wrists. Jake's left arm was in a sling.

Celeb was in the next room over, his arm wrapped and bandaged, grinning like an idiot when Jr. walked in.

"You got shot," Jr. said.

"Just a scratch," Celeb said.

"You got shot protecting my uncles."

"Damn right I did." Celeb's grin widened. "And I got one of those bastards. Put two rounds center mass before he even knew what hit him."

"You're an idiot," Jr. said, but he was smiling.

"Your idiot," Celeb shot back.

In the other room, Billy and Jake were surrounded. Tom and Pops stood on one side of the beds, Josh and Ray on the other. The wiz kids hung back by the door, but Billy waved them in.

"Get in here," Billy said, his voice still hoarse. "You boys saved our asses."

"The drones worked," Daniel said, looking almost shy. "The whole network worked."

"It worked because you built it," Jake said. "All four of you. That's why we're alive."

Jr. looked at his uncles—at the bandages, the exhaustion, the pain they were trying to hide. "How bad was it?"

Billy and Jake exchanged a look.

"Bad enough," Billy said finally. "But we got out. That's what matters."

"They had you strung up," Jr. said quietly. "By your necks."

"Yeah," Jake said. "They did. But we turned back to back, got the ropes off. Took a while, but we did it."

"And then you ran," Jr. said.

"And then we ran," Billy agreed. "Saw the drones and knew you were close. Best goddamn sight of my life."

Dr. Morris came back in. "All right, that's enough excitement for now. These two need rest. You can take them home in two hours, but they're staying in those beds until then."

"Yes ma'am," Pops said, but he didn't move.

"That means you too, Pops," Dr. Morris said, giving him a look.

Pops grinned. "I hear you, Doc. We'll be in the waiting room."

They filed out, leaving Billy and Jake to rest. Celeb was released an hour later, his arm in a sling, a bottle of pain pills in his good hand. He walked out to the waiting room to applause.

"The hero returns," Ray said, grinning.

"Got shot and everything," Josh added. "Gonna be telling that story for years."

"Damn right I am," Celeb said.

Two hours later, Billy and Jake were discharged. They walked out slowly, both moving stiffly, but they walked out on their own. Tom brought the truck around and they climbed in carefully, Jr. and Celeb helping them.

The drive back to the ranch took forty minutes. The sun was setting, painting the sky orange and red. Billy and Jake sat in the back, wrapped in blankets, watching the landscape pass by.

"Feels good to be going home," Billy said quietly.

"Yeah," Jake agreed. "It does."

When they pulled up to the ranch house, the entire front yard was full of vehicles. The consortium had gathered—all six families. The Nelsons. The Beaumonts. The Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. Easily forty people, and they erupted into cheers when the truck stopped.

Sarah and Rebecca came running, tears streaming down their faces. They reached the truck before Tom even had it in park.

"My boys," Sarah said, pulling Billy and Jake into a careful hug. "My boys."

The house had been transformed. The destruction from the robbery was gone—cleaned up, repaired, put back together. The dining room table was covered in food. Pot roast. Brisket. Cornbread. Beans. Potatoes. Pies. Enough to feed everyone twice over.

Billy and Jake were ushered inside like returning war heroes. People clapped them on the back, shook their hands, hugged them carefully. Celeb got the same treatment, his arm in the sling like a badge of honor.

"Speech!" someone called out, and the room laughed.

Pops held up his hand. The room went quiet.

"These boys," Pops said, pointing at Billy and Jake, "are tougher than any sons of bitches who tried to break them. They got tied up, strung up, and left for dead. And what'd they do? They got themselves loose and ran like hell."

Laughter and more applause.

"And this kid," Pops pointed at Celeb, "took a bullet protecting my grandsons. Fourteen months in this family and he's already bleeding for us. That's what family does."

Celeb grinned, his face red.

"And these four," Pops pointed at Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. "These four geniuses built a network that tracked those cocksuckers down in two hours. Two goddamn hours. My great-grandson and his boys saved the day."

The room erupted again.

"So let's eat!" Pops said, raising his tumbler of brandy. "Let's drink! And let's celebrate that we're all here, all together, and those rat-fucking kidnappers are rotting in hell where they belong!"

"Hear, hear!" the room chorused.

The party went late into the night. Food disappeared. Beer flowed. Pops broke out the good whiskey. People told stories, laughed, hugged, cried. The frat house filled up with the wiz kids and Celeb and Billy and Jake, all of them sprawled across the bunks and the floor.

Jr. pulled out the hidden beers from under the floorboards and passed them around.

"To not dying," Jake said, raising his bottle.

"To not dying," they all echoed.

They drank. They talked. And slowly, as the adrenaline faded and exhaustion took over, they started to drift off.

Jr. lay in his bunk, listening to his uncles breathe, listening to Celeb snore softly, listening to the wiz kids whisper and laugh in the dark.

They were home.

They were safe.

And the consortium had shown what happened when you messed with one of their own.

Chapter 7: The BBQ

Two weeks after the rescue, the Benson ranch looked like a small town had taken up residence.

The entire consortium had converged for what they were calling a "celebration BBQ," but everyone knew it was more than that. It was a statement. A show of solidarity. A way of saying that what had happened to Billy and Jake could never happen again—not on their watch.

Six families. Forty-some people. And enough food to feed twice that many.

The Bensons, the Nelsons, the Beaumonts, the Renzos, the Matterns, and the Rodriguezes had taken over the yard, the porch, and half the driveway. Tables were loaded with brisket, ribs, sausage, potato salad, beans, cornbread, and pies. Coolers full of beer and sweet tea sat in the shade. Kids ran around playing tag. The adults clustered in groups, talking and laughing, the tension of two weeks ago finally starting to ease.

Billy and Jake were holding court near the grill, both still moving a little stiffly. The rope burns on their wrists and necks had faded to angry pink lines, and Jake's shoulder was still in a sling, but they were alive. They were home. And they were telling the story—again—to anyone who wanted to hear it.

"So we're standing there," Jake said, gesturing with his good arm, "chest to chest, tied tighter than a damn Christmas ham, with a rope around both our necks going up to the rafters—"

"And all I'm thinking," Billy cut in, "is 'don't fall, don't fall, because if one of us goes down, we both choke.'"

"Right," Jake continued. "So we're there for maybe twenty, thirty minutes, and these assholes just leave us. Don't even check on us. Just walk out like we're not gonna do anything about it."

"Big mistake," Billy said, grinning.

"Huge mistake," Jake agreed. "So Billy gets the bright idea—we turn around. Get back to back. Try to reach each other's ropes."

"Took us forever," Billy said. "My fingers were numb. Couldn't feel half of what I was doing. But I got Jake's wrist knot loose, then he got mine, and then—"

"Then we got the hell out of there," Jake finished. "Saw the drones overhead and knew you boys had found us."

"Damn right we did," Jr. said, walking up with Celeb, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. All five of them were grinning.

Celeb's arm was still in a sling too—a matching set with Jake. He'd been milking the injury for two weeks, and the teasing hadn't stopped.

"How's the hero doing?" Ray called out from across the yard. "Still got that bullet wound bothering you?"

"It's a through-and-through," Celeb shot back. "Barely grazed me."

"That's not what you said at the hospital," Jr. said, grinning. "You were all 'I took a bullet for the Bensons, I'm a hero, someone get me pain meds.'"

"I was in shock!" Celeb protested, but he was laughing.

"You were hamming it up," Billy said, slapping him on the back. "But you did good, kid. Real good."

"All of you did," Jake added, looking at Jr. and the wiz kids. "You boys saved our asses."

Jr. shrugged, trying to look modest and failing. "We just did what we built the system to do."

The afternoon wore on. The sun started to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the yard. The smell of mesquite smoke and slow-cooked meat hung in the air.

Then Wade Nelson stepped up onto the porch and let out a sharp whistle.

The yard went quiet.

"All right, everyone!" Wade called out, his sheriff's voice carrying across the crowd. "I need all six families to gather up. We've got something to take care of."

People started moving toward the porch, curiosity written on their faces. Tom and Pops exchanged knowing looks. Sarah and Rebecca smiled. The heads of all six families—Benson, Nelson, Beaumont, Renzo, Mattern, Rodriguez—moved to the front.

"Billy Junior!" Wade called out. "Get up here, son."

Jr. looked at his friends, confused. "What's going on?"

Celeb shrugged. Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel all had identical grins on their faces but said nothing.

"Just go," Billy Renzo said.

Jr. walked up to the porch, feeling every eye in the yard on him. His dad put a hand on his shoulder.

Wade looked down at him, his face serious but his eyes twinkling. "Billy Junior Benson. Two weeks ago, you and your team did something remarkable. You activated the consortium network, coordinated a rescue operation, and tracked down two kidnapped men in under two hours."

Murmurs of agreement from the crowd.

"You used equipment you built yourselves, software you coded, and drones you modified. You turned a bunch of ranch kids into a tactical operations team. And you saved lives."

Jr. felt his face getting red. "We just—"

"Don't interrupt the sheriff," Pops said, grinning around his cigar.

Wade continued. "So the six families got together and decided we needed to get you something. A little thank you gift." He paused, his face deadpan. "We brought you a toy, boy."

The crowd chuckled. Jr.'s face went from red to confused to slightly miffed.

"A toy?" Jr. said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. "I'm sixteen. I don't need—"

"Hold on now," Wade said, raising a hand to cut him off. "This is a special toy. Wiz kids! Bring out the boxes!"

From the side of the house, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez appeared, each pushing a large dolly loaded with industrial-sized boxes. Professional shipping containers with labels and serial numbers. Six boxes total, each one big enough to hold serious equipment.

Jr.'s confusion turned to shock.

The crowd pressed closer, everyone wanting to see.

"Each family bought one piece," Wade said. "Six families, six boxes. Billy Renzo, you want to do the honors?"

Billy Renzo stepped forward, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. He grabbed a crowbar and approached the first box.

"Box number one," Billy announced, prying open the container. "From the Benson family."

The lid came off. Inside, nestled in foam padding, was a sleek black computer tower with tempered glass sides showing off internal LED lighting, and next to it, professional packaging with the Autel logo.

"This," Billy said, pulling out the documentation, "is the Autel Integrated Command System software and licensing, also known as SkyCommand Center. This is the brain of the whole operation. It's the same platform law enforcement and military use for coordinating multi-drone operations, tactical response, and real-time intelligence gathering."

He looked up at the crowd. "This system can support up to thirty-two live video broadcasts simultaneously with only two hundred milliseconds of latency. That means Jr. can watch feeds from thirty-two different sources—drones, cameras, radios, iPads, whatever—in real time with basically zero delay."

"Jesus," someone muttered from the crowd.

"The system integrates everything," Billy continued. "Drones, radios, cameras, iPads, satellite phones—it all feeds into this central hub. You can coordinate missions, plan flight paths, track assets, and manage communications all from one station. Mission planning. Real-time telemetry. Remote drone control. Data storage and archiving. Role and authority management. Fleet management. Everything."

He looked at Jr., then back at the crowd. "This part cost the Benson family thirty-five thousand dollars."

Jr.'s jaw dropped. "Thirty-five thousand—"

"And this," Billy interrupted, pointing to the computer, "is a custom-built workstation to run it. Intel i9 processor, 64 gigs of RAM, dual RTX 4090 graphics cards. This thing will process anything you throw at it—video rendering, mapping software, data analysis, flight coordination, all of it at once."

"Box number two!" Ryan Mattern called out, already working on the second container.

The lid came off, revealing a massive curved monitor still in its factory packaging, along with four more monitor boxes and a tangle of professional mounting hardware.

"From the Nelson family," Ryan said. "This is your visual command center. One forty-nine-inch curved ultra-wide OLED display as your primary monitor, plus four thirty-two-inch 4K displays for secondary feeds. You'll have five screens running at once."

He pulled out another box. "And this is a professional-grade ergonomic command console with integrated cable management, sit-stand capability, and equipment mounting. Built for twenty-four-seven operations."

He grinned at Wade. "The monitors and console setup cost the Nelsons fifteen thousand dollars."

Wade nodded, looking proud.

"Box three!" Daniel Rodriguez moved to the next container and popped it open.

This one was filled with networking equipment—servers, routers, switches, and what looked like a satellite dish in pieces.

"From the Beaumont family," Daniel said. "This is your network integration hardware. A unified communications server to coordinate all your assets. Enterprise-grade network switches and routers. A Starlink High Performance satellite terminal for connectivity anywhere—and I mean anywhere, even moving vehicles. And encrypted mesh network nodes so the whole consortium can stay linked up no matter what."

He looked at Robert Beaumont. "Twenty thousand dollars."

Robert grinned and raised his beer. "Money well spent."

"Box four!" Billy Renzo was back, attacking the fourth container.

Inside were smaller components, interface modules, and what looked like iPad docking stations.

"From the Renzo family," Billy said. "This is your peripheral integration system. iPad synchronization modules so all eighteen iPads in the consortium network feed into and receive from the master command station in real time. Radio network interface hardware to tie in all the consortium radios. Camera feed integration system to pull in streams from any source—security cameras, drone cameras, phone cameras, whatever. And a data storage server with twelve terabytes of redundant backup storage."

He whistled. "The Renzos dropped ten thousand on this."

Billy Renzo's father, Vincent, called out from the crowd. "And worth every penny!"

"Box five!" Ryan Mattern opened the next one.

This box was different—industrial power equipment, climate control units, and professional cabling in massive spools.

"From the Mattern family," Ryan said. "This is your infrastructure. A commercial-grade UPS battery backup system so the command center never goes down, even if the power does. Total runtime of four hours on battery if we lose grid power. A dedicated climate control unit to keep all this equipment at optimal temperature—because this much computing power generates heat. And professional cable management and power distribution systems so everything stays organized and protected."

He looked at his dad. "Eight thousand dollars."

Mr. Mattern nodded. "Can't have all that fancy equipment frying because of a power surge or overheating."

"And box six!" Daniel opened the final container.

This one had documentation, licensing agreements, and what looked like software installation media and security keys.

"From the Rodriguez family," Daniel said. "This is your software licenses for the next five years. That includes the Autel command platform subscription with all updates and support. Professional mapping and GIS software. Data analytics platforms. Drone fleet management software. And encrypted communications licenses for secure operations."

He grinned at his father. "Twenty-two thousand dollars in software licensing, paid up front for five years."

Mr. Rodriguez called out. "And automatic renewal after that. We're not letting this expire."

Wade stepped forward, looking at Jr., whose face had gone from confused to shocked to completely overwhelmed.

"Six families," Wade said. "Six boxes. Total cost: one hundred and ten thousand dollars."

The crowd erupted.

Jr. stood there, staring at the boxes, at the equipment, at the faces of everyone in the consortium. His voice came out barely above a whisper. "A hundred and ten thousand dollars?"

"That's right," Tom said, stepping up beside his son. "Split six ways. Just under twenty thousand per family. Each family paid their share."

Pops moved forward, brandy in hand, cigar clamped between his teeth. "You boys saved Billy and Jake. You turned this consortium into a goddamn tactical operation that would make the National Guard jealous. You deserve the best equipment money can buy."

"And now you've got it," Wade said. "This isn't just a toy, Junior. This is a complete integrated command and control system. The kind of setup that costs corporations and government agencies hundreds of thousands of dollars. You've got it now."

Jr. looked at Billy Renzo, Ryan, Daniel, and Celeb. They were all grinning.

"You knew," Jr. said.

"Hell yeah we knew," Billy said. "We've been helping plan this for a week. Picking specs, coordinating delivery, making sure everything would work together."

"Once it's installed in the new command center room," Ryan added, "we're gonna have the most advanced private tactical operations setup in South Texas."

"Maybe in the whole state," Daniel said.

Jr. turned back to the crowd, to the six families who'd pooled their money to buy this for him. His voice was thick. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Tom said, his hand still on Jr.'s shoulder. "You already proved yourself. This is just us making sure you can keep doing what you do."

Sarah stepped forward, tears in her eyes, and pulled Jr. into a hug. "You saved my boys. You brought Billy and Jake home. This is the least we could do."

The crowd started applauding. Then cheering.

Pops raised his tumbler. "To the wiz kids!"

"To the wiz kids!" everyone echoed.

Jr. looked at his friends, at his family, at the boxes of equipment worth more than most people's cars. "We're gonna need help installing all this."

"Already handled," Wade said. "The room next to the frat house is being converted right now. Climate control, dedicated power, everything. Should be ready for installation in three days."

"And then," Pops said, taking a puff of his cigar, "I want a full demonstration. I want to see what this beast can do."

"You got it, Pops," Jr. said.

Billy stepped forward and ruffled Jr.'s hair. "Told you we'd take care of you, kid."

Jake moved up beside his brother, his good arm reaching out to clap Jr. on the shoulder. "And if anyone ever tries to mess with this family again, they're gonna find out real quick that we've got a command center that'll hunt them down before they get ten miles."

"Damn right," Celeb said, raising his beer with his good arm.

The party kicked back into gear. The food was served, plates piled high. Beer flowed. Music started up from someone's truck stereo. The kids went back to playing. The adults went back to talking and laughing.

But everyone kept glancing at the six boxes on the porch, at the equipment that represented the consortium's commitment to never being caught off guard again.

Later that evening, as the sun set and the string lights came on across the yard, Jr. sat with his friends in the frat house. Billy and Jake had joined them, along with Celeb, all of them nursing beers and talking about the command system.

"A hundred and ten thousand dollars," Jr. said for the tenth time, shaking his head. "That's insane."

"That's family," Billy said. "That's what we do."

"And now you've got the most advanced setup probably in the whole region," Jake added. "The kind of system actual tactical teams use."

"We're gonna be unstoppable," Ryan Mattern said, grinning.

"We already are," Daniel Rodriguez said.

Billy Renzo leaned back on his bunk. "Once we get that system online, we'll be able to coordinate six drones simultaneously, track every asset in the consortium, integrate all communications, and have real-time intelligence on anything happening within a fifty-mile radius."

"Maybe more," Daniel added. "With the satellite uplink, we can go beyond line of sight."

Jr. looked around at his friends, at his uncles, at the life they'd all built together. The frat house. The network. The consortium. And now, a command center that would make sure they were never caught off guard again.

"You know what?" Jr. said quietly. "Those kidnappers made a big mistake."

"Yeah?" Celeb said. "What's that?"

Jr. grinned. "They pissed off the wrong family."

Billy raised his beer. "To the consortium."

"To the frat house," Jake added.

"To the command center," Ryan said.

"To never getting caught with our pants down again," Daniel finished.

They clinked bottles, and as the sound of laughter and music drifted through the open windows, Jr. felt something settle in his chest. Pride. Purpose. Belonging.

The Benson ranch, the consortium, the six families—they were more than neighbors. More than business partners.

They were an army.

And now they had the tools to prove it.

Outside, Pops stood on the porch, looking out over the yard full of people. Tom joined him, and they stood in silence for a moment.

"Think they know what they've got?" Tom asked.

Pops took a long pull from his brandy and grinned around his cigar. "They're about to find out."

THE END