Chapter 1: The Fence Line
Billy Benson wiped the sweat from his forehead and tossed his shirt onto the truck bed. The Texas sun beat down mercilessly, and there was no point pretending the fabric helped anymore.
"Smart move," Jake said, already shirtless, his skin glistening as he wrestled with a fence post. "Should've done that an hour ago."
"Yeah, yeah." Billy grinned, grabbing the wire cutters. At twenty and twenty-one, they'd been working fences together since they were kids. Their bodies had the lean, muscled build of ranch work - nothing fancy, just functional strength earned through years of labor.
They worked in comfortable silence, the kind only brothers who'd shared a room their whole lives could manage. Jake, the hothead, muttered curses at a stubborn post. Billy, steadier but just as determined, measured the next section.
"Shit," Billy said suddenly, standing up straight. "Wire stretcher. Left it in the barn."
Jake looked up, squinting against the sun. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. Can't finish without it." Billy was already heading for the truck, their battered Ford that had been in the family for years. "Be back in fifteen."
"Bring some water!" Jake called after him.
Billy waved without turning around, climbed into the truck, and headed back toward the ranch house.
Jake turned back to the fence line, satisfied with the progress. Another hour, maybe less, and they'd have this section done. He bent down to secure a wire, focused on the work.
He didn't hear them coming.
The first indication was a hand clamping over his mouth from behind, yanking his head back. Jake's eyes went wide - his fighter's instinct kicked in immediately. He threw an elbow back hard, connected with something solid, heard a grunt.
"Get him!"
Two more sets of hands grabbed him. Jake thrashed, trying to break free, but they had the advantage - three against one, and they'd caught him completely off guard. One of them swept his legs out from under him. Jake hit the ground hard, dust rising around them.
"Hold him still!"
Jake bucked and twisted, but a knee drove into his back, pinning him down. His arms were wrenched behind him, and he felt rope bite into his wrists. He tried to yell, but a wadded bandanna was shoved into his mouth, another tied tight around his head to hold it in place.
"Got the hothead," one of them muttered. "Let's move."
They hauled him to his feet. Jake's vision swam - he'd hit his head on the ground. A dark van was parked just off the road, hidden by the terrain. They pushed him toward it.
Jake tried to plant his feet, but zip ties were already being wrapped around his ankles. They lifted him, shirtless and struggling, and tossed him into the back of the van like cargo.
The door slammed shut. Darkness.
Billy made good time. The wire stretcher was right where he'd left it in the barn - he grabbed it along with two cold water bottles from the cooler Pop kept stocked.
The drive back felt easy, routine. He was already thinking about how they'd finish the fence, maybe grab lunch, give Jake grief about something. That's what they did.
When he pulled up to the fence line, he noticed it immediately: tools scattered, the truck door still open, no sign of Jake.
"Jake?" Billy called, climbing out.
Nothing.
His stomach tightened. Jake wouldn't just wander off. Billy scanned the area - there were scuff marks in the dirt, signs of a struggle.
"Jake!"
Movement behind him.
Billy spun around, but he was too late. A fist connected with his gut, driving the air from his lungs. He doubled over, and rough hands grabbed his arms, yanking them behind his back.
"Got the other one."
Billy tried to fight, but there were too many of them. Rope wrapped around his wrists, cinching tight. He gasped for air, tried to shout, and a bandanna was shoved between his teeth, folded and tied behind his head.
"Nice and easy, Billy. Your brother's waiting for you."
Terror shot through him. Jake.
They manhandled him toward his own truck - the Benson Ford. One of them climbed into the driver's seat while two others shoved Billy into the back cab, keeping him pinned down.
The engine started. They were moving.
Billy's mind raced. The truck. Pops' tracking system. Did these idiots know? He tried to stay calm, tried to think, but all he could picture was Jake - wherever they'd taken him, whatever they'd done to him.
The ride felt endless. Bumpy roads, turns, the smell of dust and his own sweat. Finally, the truck stopped.
Hands grabbed him, hauled him out. They were at an old house, isolated, nothing around for miles. They pushed him toward the door.
Inside, the air was stale and hot. They shoved him down a narrow hallway, and then into a dim bedroom.
Billy's eyes went wide.
There was Jake on a bed, shirtless like him, his torso wrapped in rope that pressed his upper arms deep against his sides. His crossed wrists were halfway up his spine, held in place by the ropes from his torso and a rope running from around his neck down to his wrists. His legs were tied together and bent, ropes around his jeans lashing his legs to his thighs. His ankles were bound together on bare skin - they'd removed his boots and socks. His mouth was sealed tight with duct tape, and his eyes blazed with fury and fear.
Jake's muffled shout came through the tape when he saw Billy.
"Your brother doesn't like being tied up with ropes," one of the kidnappers said, his voice casual, almost amused. "He's pretty pissed off. You like ropes, Billy?"
Billy's muffled response through the gag was clear enough: "Fuck you."
They laughed.
"Let's get him matched up with his brother."
They pushed Billy closer to the bed, and the ropes came out.
Chapter 2: The Alarm
Billy Jr. sat at the desk in the ranch office, pencil in hand, working through the duty schedules with his father Josh. Rotation charts covered the desk between them - who was working which section, which cattle needed moving, fence repairs that still needed doing.
"If we put Wilson on the north pasture Tuesday," Billy Jr. said, "that frees up Ryan for—"
"Hold on." Josh leaned over, tapping the chart. "Wilson's got court testimony that day. Deputy work."
"Right, right." Billy Jr. erased and started again.
Across the room, Ray sat hunched over his laptop, spreadsheets glowing on the screen. Numbers, feed costs, market prices - the endless math that kept a ranch profitable. His fingers moved quickly across the keyboard, muttering calculations under his breath.
Tom walked in from the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, his phone buzzing in his pocket. He pulled it out absently, glanced at the screen—
And froze.
His face went white.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed. Then louder, urgent: "POPS! Get in here NOW!"
Billy Jr.'s head snapped up. His father and Ray both turned.
Tom was staring at his phone, his hand shaking slightly.
Pops appeared in the doorway within seconds, brandy glass still in hand. "What the hell's going on?"
Tom turned the phone toward him.
The photo filled the screen: Billy and Jake, shirtless, lying on their stomachs on a bed, bound with rope. Their arms were pulled behind them, torsos wrapped tight. Their faces were turned toward the camera - Jake's eyes blazing with fury, Billy's wide with fear. Both had duct tape sealing their mouths.
"Holy shit," Pops said, his voice going hard and cold. The brandy glass hit the desk with a sharp crack.
Billy Jr. was already on his feet, crossing the room. "What—"
He saw the photo.
His stomach dropped.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no—"
"Billy," Pops snapped, his voice cutting through the shock. "Hit the button. NOW."
Billy Jr.'s hand went to his belt, yanking the handheld radio free. His fingers found the red 911 button on the side. He pressed it three times - click, click, click.
A mechanical voice crackled out from every radio on the consortium network:
"911. Billy Jr. 911. Billy Jr. 911. Billy Jr."
The line opened. Every radio across six ranches was live, listening.
Billy Jr. brought the radio to his mouth, his voice shaking but clear:
"This is Billy Jr. We have an emergency. Billy and Jake have been kidnapped. Repeat - Billy and Jake have been taken. All families respond to Benson ranch house immediately. Bring tech gear, weapons, and emergency kits. This is not a drill."
Static, then voices exploded across the frequency:
"Copy that. Beaumonts en route."
"Nelsons moving. Two minutes."
"Renzo family confirmed. On our way."
"Mattern family responding."
"Rodriguez family, we're coming."
Billy Jr. lowered the radio, his hand still shaking. Across the room, Tom was scrolling frantically through his phone. No other messages. Just the photo.
Josh stood frozen, his face pale. "When? When did this happen?"
"They were at the fence line," Tom said. "They should've been back an hour ago. I thought—" His voice cracked. "I thought they were just running late."
Ray was already moving, slamming his laptop shut. "We need to find them. Now."
Pops grabbed his radio from his belt, his face a mask of controlled fury. "Celeb, you copy?"
A burst of static, then Celeb's voice, tight and furious: "I copy. What the FUCK is going on?"
"Get back to the house. Billy and Jake are gone."
"I'm five minutes out."
Billy Jr. was already pulling out his phone, opening the tracking app. His hands moved fast, swiping through screens. The consortium's vehicle tracking system - every truck, every ATV, every piece of equipment had a GPS chip embedded. Pops and Josh had installed them months ago after a rash of equipment thefts in the county.
"I've got it," Billy Jr. said, his voice urgent. "I've got the truck."
Everyone turned.
"Billy's truck," Billy Jr. continued, staring at the screen. "It's showing movement - southeast, near the edge of our range."
"How far?" Pops demanded.
"Twenty miles. Maybe more. The signal's weak - it's right at the edge of the network."
Tom leaned over Billy Jr.'s shoulder, looking at the map. A blinking red dot hovered near the boundary line, flickering slightly. "Can you track it?"
"Trying." Billy Jr.'s fingers moved across the screen, zooming in. "The signal's not strong enough. It's like it's moving, but it might just be drift from the weak connection."
"Goddammit." Pops slammed his fist on the desk. "We need more range."
The sound of trucks pulling up outside - gravel crunching, doors slamming.
Footsteps pounded across the porch.
The door burst open.
Sheriff Wade Nelson stormed in first, still in uniform, his face grim. Mary Nelson was right behind him, worry etched across her features. Wilson and Ryan, both deputies, came next - off-duty but armed, their duty belts strapped on.
Behind them, Robert and Caroline Beaumont rushed in, Caroline's hand gripping Robert's arm.
Then the Renzos - the whole family, parents and kids, the teenage son hauling a duffel bag of equipment.
The Matterns followed, their boy carrying a drone case.
The Rodriguezes brought up the rear, Daniel already pulling out a tablet.
The ranch house, usually spacious, suddenly felt crowded. Voices overlapped, questions flying:
"What happened?"
"When were they taken?"
"Do we know who?"
Pops raised his hand, silencing the room. His voice cut through the chaos like a blade:
"Billy and Jake were working the fence line this morning. Tom just got this." He held up the phone, showing the photo.
A collective intake of breath. Caroline's hand went to her mouth. Mary Nelson's eyes filled with tears.
"They took them in Billy's truck," Pops continued. "Billy Jr.'s tracking it, but the signal's at the edge of our range. We don't know if it's moving or stationary."
Wade stepped forward, his sheriff's instincts kicking in. "We need to call this in. FBI, state police—"
"No." Tom's voice was flat, hard. "Not yet."
Wade turned. "Tom, this is a kidnapping. We need—"
"If they wanted the authorities involved, they wouldn't have sent the photo to me." Tom's jaw was tight. "They'll make contact. Ransom demand, instructions - something. And if we bring in outside law enforcement before we know what they want, they might—"
He couldn't finish the sentence.
Wade stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright. But if they make a demand that includes no police, I go undercover. I'm not sitting this out."
"Agreed."
Billy Jr. was already coordinating with the other teenagers. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez clustered around him, pulling out tablets, laptops, and equipment from their bags.
"We need to extend the tracking range," Billy Jr. said, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. "The truck's too far out."
"Drones," Daniel said immediately. "We launch the network, create a relay."
"Weather's going to be a problem," Ryan Mattern added, pulling up a forecast on his tablet. "Storm system moving in from the west. We've got maybe three hours before it hits."
Billy Jr. cursed under his breath. "Three hours. That's not enough time."
"It's what we've got." Billy Renzo was already unpacking a drone from its case. "Let's get the relay stations set up. If we can get two or three in the air before the storm hits, we can extend the signal."
Pops watched them work, his face grim. The boys moved with practiced efficiency - they'd been building this system for months, testing it across the consortium ranches. Now it was going to save lives.
Or so he hoped.
Robert Beaumont stepped forward. "What do you need from us?"
"Weapons," Pops said bluntly. "Vehicles. Supplies. We don't know what we're walking into, but when we find those boys, we're bringing them home."
"You've got it."
The room became a hive of controlled chaos. The men checked rifles, loaded ammunition, gathered supplies. The women clustered together near the kitchen, organizing water, first aid kits, food. The younger children - Anna Nelson, the Rodriguez siblings, the Mattern kids - huddled together on the couch, scared and silent.
Billy Jr. stood at the center of it all, staring at the blinking red dot on his screen.
Hold on, Billy. Hold on, Jake. We're coming.
Outside, the sky was darkening. The storm was coming.
Chapter 3: The Storm
The ropes bit deep into Billy's skin. He'd been trying for what felt like hours—shifting, twisting, testing every knot he could reach with his fingertips. Nothing gave.
Across from him on the bed, Jake was doing the same. Their eyes met in the dim light filtering through the grimy window.
"Anything?" Billy's voice was muffled by the tape.
Jake shook his head, frustration blazing in his eyes. He threw his weight sideways, trying to inch closer to Billy. If they could just get back-to-back, maybe they could reach each other's wrists...
Billy worked himself across the bed, grunting with effort. His shoulders screamed in protest, his arms pulled unnaturally high up his spine by the rope from his neck. Every movement made the rope tighten.
They managed to get their backs touching. Billy's fingers fumbled blindly, searching for Jake's wrists. There—he felt rope, smooth and tight.
Jake was doing the same, his fingers probing Billy's bonds.
For ten minutes they worked in silence, picking at knots they couldn't see, trying to find any weakness in the ties that held them. Billy's fingers were slick with sweat, cramping from the awkward angle.
Nothing. The knots were too tight, too well-placed. Whoever had tied them knew what they were doing.
Outside, the sky had darkened. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
In the next room, the kidnappers were gathered around a cheap folding table. Cards were laid out in front of them—poker, half-heartedly played while they waited.
"How long till the next call?" one of them asked.
"Two hours," the leader said, checking his phone. "Then we see if they're willing to pay."
"They'll pay." Another man tossed a card down. "Rich ranchers? They've got the money."
"It's not just one ranch." The youngest kidnapper—barely in his twenties—looked nervous. "You saw that response on the scanner. Six families. Six ranches working together."
"So? More money to go around."
"More people looking for us," the young one countered. "More resources. Hell, one of them's the county sheriff."
The leader's jaw tightened. "We knew about the sheriff."
"Did we know about the consortium?" The young man stood up, pacing. "Did we know they'd have a whole network set up? Did we know they'd mobilize like a goddamn army?"
"Sit down."
"I'm just saying—maybe we bit off more than we can chew here."
"We're committed." The leader's voice was hard. "The photo's sent. The demand's made. We see this through."
Thunder cracked overhead, closer now.
"Storm's coming," someone muttered.
Back in the bedroom, Billy and Jake had given up on the wrist knots. Their fingers were raw, cramping, useless.
But the legs...
Billy shifted his focus lower. His ankles were bound tight, lashed to his thighs so his legs were bent and immobile. But unlike the complex harness holding his torso and arms, the leg ropes were simpler—just wraps and knots.
He tested the tension, flexing his calf muscles. The rope dug in, but there was a tiny bit of give. Not much, but maybe...
Jake was working on his own leg bonds, grunting with effort as he tried to straighten his legs against the resistance.
The room flashed white—lightning, close and bright. Thunder followed almost immediately, a deafening crack that shook the old house.
Then the lights went out.
Complete darkness.
Billy froze for a moment, his heart hammering. Then he heard Jake's muffled voice, urgent and determined.
They kept working.
In the darkness, Billy's world narrowed to sensation—the burn of rope against his bare ankles, the strain in his bent legs, the sweat dripping down his face and chest. He worked his feet back and forth, trying to loosen the wraps just enough to create some slack.
Outside, rain began to hammer against the roof. The wind picked up, howling around the corners of the house.
Billy felt something shift—just slightly. One of the wraps around his ankle had loosened a fraction. Not enough to slip free, but enough to give him hope.
Keep going. Keep going.
Thunder crashed again. In the brief flash of lightning, Billy saw Jake's face—jaw clenched, eyes blazing with determination. He was making progress too, working the ropes on his bent legs with desperate persistence.
"Power's out," one of the kidnappers said, flicking a light switch uselessly.
"Generator?"
"Busted. Haven't fixed it yet."
The leader cursed, standing up. "Check on them."
The young one grabbed a flashlight and headed down the hallway. He opened the bedroom door, sweeping the beam across the two figures on the bed.
Still tied. Still bent and immobile. Tape still tight over their mouths.
"They're fine," he called back.
He closed the door and returned to the table.
"This storm's getting bad," someone said, looking toward the window. Rain was coming down in sheets now, visibility almost zero.
"Good," the leader said. "Keeps anyone from coming after us."
But his voice didn't sound as confident as it had before.
The young kidnapper stared at the dark window, listening to the storm rage outside. Six ranches. A consortium. A sheriff and deputies. Tech-savvy teenagers. An entire network mobilized to find two brothers.
What the hell had they gotten themselves into?
In the darkness of the bedroom, Billy kept working the ropes on his legs. The wraps were looser now—not free, but looser. Another few minutes, maybe more, and he might actually get somewhere.
Beside him, Jake was doing the same, his breathing heavy and determined through the tape.
Their arms were still bound impossibly tight, but their legs... there was hope.
Lightning flashed again. In that brief moment of light, their eyes met across the darkness.
They weren't giving up.
Chapter 4: Into the Storm
Billy Jr. stared at the weather radar on his tablet, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Red and orange covered the screen—the storm system sitting right over the search area like a wall.
"We can't launch in this," Daniel Rodriguez said, looking over his shoulder. "Wind shear alone would rip them apart."
"We have to wait," Ryan Mattern added, his voice frustrated. "Another hour, maybe two—"
"We don't HAVE two hours!" Billy Jr. slammed his hand on the table. "They're out there RIGHT NOW!"
Billy Renzo put a hand on his shoulder. "We know, man. We know."
Around them, the ranch house buzzed with tense activity. Men checked weapons. Women packed supplies. Younger siblings huddled together, scared and silent. Wade Nelson stood near the window, his sheriff's uniform traded for civilian clothes—going undercover as promised.
Pops paced like a caged animal, brandy glass forgotten, his face a mask of controlled fury. Every few minutes he'd check his watch, curse under his breath, and resume pacing.
Tom's phone buzzed.
Everyone froze.
Tom pulled it out, looked at the screen, and his face went white.
"Another photo," he said quietly.
The room went silent.
Tom held up the phone. This time it was a close-up—Billy's wrists bound behind his back, the rope digging deep into his bare skin. Red marks, swelling, the unmistakable signs of struggling against the bonds.
"Jesus Christ," someone whispered.
Billy Jr. felt something break inside him. He looked at his three friends—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez. Their faces mirrored his own rage.
"Fuck this," Billy Jr. said, his voice cold and hard. "We fly the drones even if it's a fucking hurricane."
"Billy—" Daniel started.
"Heat sensors with the cameras," Billy Jr. continued, already moving toward the equipment cases. "We launch all six. I don't care if they all crash—if even ONE gets eyes on that location, we'll know."
Pops stopped pacing. He looked at his great-grandson, and something like pride flickered across his face.
"Do it," Pops said.
Ten minutes later, six drones sat on the front lawn, rain already pelting down. The storm hadn't peaked yet, but it was close.
Billy Jr. and his crew worked fast, running final checks on each unit. The drones were equipped with thermal imaging—designed to track cattle in low visibility. Tonight, they'd track people.
"Launching," Billy Renzo called out.
The first drone lifted off, immediately buffeted by wind. Its camera feed showed on four tablets inside the house—everyone watching.
One by one, the other five followed.
For two minutes, they held steady, pushing into the storm. The feeds were choppy, images distorted by rain, but the GPS coordinates were solid. They were heading toward the truck's last known location.
Then the first drone's feed went black.
"Lost one," Daniel said.
Seconds later, another feed cut out.
"Two down."
"Three."
"Four—shit!"
Billy Jr. stared at his tablet. Two drones left. The feeds showed darkness, rain, occasional flashes of lightning. But the thermal sensors were working, overlaying heat signatures on the grainy images.
"There!" Ryan pointed at his screen. "Building. Northeast corner of the property."
"Got it," Billy Jr. confirmed. "And there—vehicle. Matches the truck's profile."
The GPS coordinates locked in. Everyone in the room leaned forward, watching the two remaining feeds.
The drones pushed closer. The building came into sharper focus—an old farmhouse, isolated, exactly where the truck signal had been flickering.
Then the fifth feed went black.
"One left," Daniel breathed.
The last drone fought through the wind, its camera shaking violently. It circled the house once, capturing thermal signatures inside—multiple heat sources, hard to count—and then swooped toward the truck.
There. Clear as day on the thermal image. The Benson Ford, parked behind the house.
Billy Jr. hit the button to lock the coordinates.
The final drone's feed cut out.
"Got it," Billy Jr. said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. "Exact location confirmed."
Pops grabbed his radio. "All families, this is Pops. We have a confirmed location. We move NOW. Grab your gear and get to your trucks."
The room exploded into motion.
The convoy formed quickly—six trucks, armed men and teenage boys, equipment packed and weapons loaded. Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez piled into the lead truck with Pops and Wade.
Billy Jr. had his tablet open, GPS mapping the route. The radios crackled to life as the trucks pulled out into the pouring rain.
"Stay together," Wade's voice came through the speakers. "Visibility's shit. Watch the truck in front of you."
The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the downpour. Billy Jr. navigated, calling out turns over the radio, his voice calm and precise despite the chaos.
"Left in two hundred yards."
"Straight for half a mile."
"Right turn coming up—watch for the cattle guard."
Behind them, the other five trucks followed, headlights cutting through sheets of rain. The road was muddy, treacherous. Twice they had to slow to a crawl to navigate washed-out sections.
But they kept moving.
Pops sat in the passenger seat, rifle across his lap, his face grim. "How far?"
"Twelve miles," Billy Jr. said, eyes on the tablet. "Maybe twenty minutes at this pace."
"We're coming, boys," Pops muttered. "Hold on."
At the old farmhouse, the kidnappers were losing their nerve.
"We need to get out of here," the young one said, pacing frantically. "You heard that radio chatter—they've got a whole goddamn army mobilizing."
"We've still got time," the leader said, but his voice lacked conviction.
"Time for WHAT? For them to show up here with guns and drones and—"
Thunder cracked overhead, shaking the house.
"Fuck this," one of the others said, standing up. "I'm out. This was supposed to be simple—grab two rich kids, get paid, disappear. Not go to war with half of King County."
The leader looked around the room. He saw the fear in their faces, the doubt. He felt it himself.
"Alright," he said finally. "We move. Leave the boys—they're not going anywhere tied up like that. We relocate, regroup, figure out the next move."
"What about the ransom?"
"Forget the ransom. We cut our losses and disappear."
They grabbed their gear, moving fast. One by one, they piled into their trucks, engines roaring to life.
Within minutes, they were gone, taillights vanishing into the storm.
In the bedroom, Billy felt the final wrap slip free from his ankle. His leg straightened, muscles screaming in relief and pain.
A moment later, Jake's muffled shout told him he'd done the same.
Their arms were still bound—wrists high up their backs, rope harnesses tight around their torsos and necks. But their legs were free.
Billy worked his jaw, loosening the duct tape enough to speak. "Jake—can you move?"
"Yeah," Jake grunted, his tape also loosened. "Let's get the fuck out of here."
They rolled off the bed, landing hard on the floor. Barefoot, shirtless, hands still bound, they stumbled to their feet and made for the door.
It wasn't locked.
The hallway was dark, empty. They moved quickly through the house—no one there. The kidnappers were gone.
They burst through the front door into the storm.
Rain hammered down, cold and relentless. Billy squinted through the downpour and saw it—their truck, parked twenty yards away.
"There!" he shouted.
They ran, bare feet splashing through mud, arms still bound behind their backs.
They reached the truck. Billy stared at it, then at Jake.
"How the fuck are we supposed to drive this?" Jake said, echoing Billy's thoughts exactly.
Billy looked at the driver's side door. Looked at his bound wrists. Looked at Jake.
"We'll figure it out," Billy said. "We have to."
Chapter 5: Back to a Learner's Permit
Billy stared at the truck, rain streaming down his bare chest and back. His arms were still wrenched behind him, wrists bound high up his spine. Jake stood beside him, equally drenched, equally helpless with his arms tied the same way.
"Okay," Billy said, raising his voice over the storm. "One of us works the pedals. The other steers."
"How?" Jake shouted back. "We can't reach anything with our hands like this!"
Billy thought fast, water dripping into his eyes. "You get in the driver's seat. Normal. You can see out the windshield, work the pedals with your feet."
"And the wheel?"
"I sit on your lap. Facing you. I turn the wheel with my wrists."
Jake stared at him for a second. "That's insane."
"You got a better idea?"
Jake didn't.
They moved to the driver's side. Billy pulled the door open with his bound hands—awkward, fumbling, but he managed. Jake climbed in first, settling into the seat. His bare back pressed against the vinyl, his bound arms awkward behind him.
"Keys," Jake said.
Billy leaned in, scanning the interior. There—still in the ignition. The kidnappers had left them.
"Got them," Billy said.
He turned awkwardly, using his fingertips to twist the key. The engine rumbled to life.
"Okay," Billy said. "My turn."
He climbed onto Jake's lap, straddling him, facing him chest to chest. Their bare skin pressed together—both shirtless, both soaked, both tied. Billy adjusted his position, trying to reach the steering wheel behind him with his bound wrists.
"This is the most fucked-up thing we've ever done," Jake muttered.
"Just drive."
Billy's fingers found the wheel. He tested his grip—limited, but workable. He could push it left or right with the heels of his palms and his wrists, even if he couldn't properly grip it.
"I can't see shit," Billy said, his face inches from Jake's.
"I can," Jake replied. "I'll tell you when to turn. You just listen and do what I say."
"Like hell I will."
"Billy—"
"Fine. Let's go."
Jake's foot found the brake, then the clutch. He shifted into first gear—awkward with his legs, but he managed. The truck lurched forward.
"Easy!" Billy shouted.
"I'm trying!"
Jake eased off the clutch, giving it gas. The truck rolled forward slowly, wheels spinning slightly in the mud before catching traction.
"Straight," Jake said, his eyes locked on the windshield. Rain hammered against the glass. The wipers struggled to keep up. "Keep it straight."
Billy held the wheel steady, his wrists aching from the angle.
They moved at a crawl—maybe five miles per hour. The truck bounced over uneven ground, jostling them together. Every bump sent a jolt through Billy's shoulders, the ropes digging deeper into his skin.
"Turn coming up," Jake said. "Ten degrees left."
Billy pushed the wheel left with his wrists. The truck responded, veering slightly.
"Good. Straighten out."
Billy corrected. They kept moving.
"How far to the road?" Billy asked.
"Maybe half a mile. Feels like a hundred."
The storm raged around them. Lightning flashed, illuminating the landscape for a split second—muddy terrain, scrub brush, the faint outline of a dirt road ahead.
Thunder cracked.
"Fifteen degrees right," Jake said. "There's a dip—brace yourself."
Billy turned the wheel. The truck tilted as it hit the uneven ground, and both brothers grunted as they were thrown against each other.
"Shit," Jake hissed. "Okay, we're through it. Straight again."
They continued like this—agonizingly slow, Billy adjusting the wheel on Jake's commands, Jake working the pedals and accelerator with his bare feet. Ten miles per hour felt like flying. Every second stretched out, every yard forward a victory.
"I see the road," Jake said finally, his voice tight. "Maybe a hundred yards."
"Keep going."
"Left. Twenty degrees."
Billy turned. The truck responded.
"Brake—slow down."
Jake's foot found the brake. The truck slowed to a crawl.
"We're almost there," Jake said. "Just—hold steady."
Billy's arms were screaming. His wrists were raw, bleeding where the ropes had cut into his skin. But he held the wheel.
"Straight. Straight. There—we're on the road."
The truck's tires hit pavement, and the ride smoothed out slightly.
Jake brought the truck to a stop, his foot pressing the brake. The engine idled. Rain drummed on the roof.
"We can't keep doing this," Jake said, breathing hard. "Not for long. We'll crash or go off the road."
Billy knew he was right. His wrists were shredded, his shoulders on fire. And they had no idea how far they'd have to drive like this.
"Emergency kit," Billy said suddenly. "Pops keeps one in every truck. Should be behind the seat."
Jake shifted, and Billy awkwardly climbed off his lap. They both got out of the truck, stumbling into the rain.
Billy fumbled with the rear door, finally getting it open. There—the red emergency kit, strapped behind the passenger seat. He turned around, using his bound hands to grab it, pull it free.
"Flares," Billy said. "We light them. Someone will see."
"In this storm?"
"It's better than driving blind!"
Jake nodded. Billy pulled the kit open with his wrists, scattering contents onto the truck bed. There—two road flares, bright orange.
"Help me," Billy said.
Jake turned his back to Billy. Together, fumbling with bound hands, they managed to pull the cap off the first flare. Billy struck it against the ignition strip.
It burst to life—brilliant red light cutting through the darkness and rain.
Billy dropped it on the pavement, away from the truck.
They repeated the process with the second flare. Another burst of red flame, hissing in the rain but burning bright.
The two flares sat on the road, twenty feet apart, glowing like beacons in the storm.
Billy and Jake stood between them, shirtless, barefoot, arms still bound behind their backs, rain pouring down their faces.
Waiting.
Five miles away, the convoy crept through the storm.
"I can't see a goddamn thing!" Pops shouted, leaning forward in his seat, squinting through the windshield.
Billy Jr. had his face pressed to his tablet, watching the GPS. "We're close. Maybe three miles out."
"At this rate, it'll take us half an hour," Wade said grimly, gripping the wheel. The wipers were on full blast, but the rain was relentless. Visibility was less than ten feet.
"Slow and steady," Billy Jr. said. "We can't miss the turn."
Behind them, the other trucks followed, headlights barely visible through the downpour.
The radio crackled.
"This is Nelson Two," Wilson's voice came through. "We're at a crawl here. Can barely see the road."
"Copy that," Wade replied. "Stay tight. We're almost there."
"Goddamn storm," Pops muttered, his hand gripping his rifle. "Those boys are out there. We need to move faster."
"Can't," Wade said. "Not in this. We go off the road, we're stuck."
Billy Jr. stared at the GPS, watching their position inch forward on the screen. They were so close. So agonizingly close.
"Come on," he whispered. "Just a little further."
In the back seat, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez sat silent, their tablets showing the same data, their sidearms holstered but ready.
The convoy crawled forward at five miles per hour, rain hammering against the metal roofs, wipers fighting a losing battle.
And somewhere ahead, in the darkness and the storm, two flares burned bright on the road.
Chapter 6: Reunion
"Wait—" Billy Jr. leaned forward, squinting through the windshield. "Is that—"
"Light!" Pops barked. "I see light!"
Two red flames flickered in the distance, barely visible through the sheets of rain. Road flares.
"GO!" Pops shouted.
Wade pressed the accelerator. The truck surged forward—still slow in the storm, but faster now. Ten miles per hour. Fifteen.
Behind them, the other trucks followed, horns starting to blare.
Billy Jr. stared ahead, his heart pounding. The flares grew brighter as they approached. And then—
"There!" Billy Jr. pointed. "I see them!"
Two figures stood on the road between the flares. Shirtless, barefoot, arms clearly bound behind their backs. Their heads were tilted back, mouths open, drinking the rain.
"BILLY! JAKE!" Pops roared.
Wade laid on the horn. All six trucks behind them did the same—a cacophony of sound cutting through the storm.
The two figures' heads snapped forward. Even through the rain and darkness, Billy Jr. could see their faces—exhausted, battered, but alive.
Wade hit the brakes. The truck skidded slightly, stopping twenty feet from the brothers.
Doors flew open.
Pops was out first, rifle forgotten, running through the rain. Wade right behind him. Billy Jr. and his three friends scrambled out of the back seat.
"Jesus Christ," Pops breathed, reaching them first. His hands went to Billy's shoulders, then Jake's, looking them over. "You boys—you're—"
"We're okay," Billy said, his voice hoarse. "We're okay, Pops."
Jake was shaking—from cold, from exhaustion, from relief. "They left. The kidnappers—they panicked and ran."
"Get them in the truck," Wade ordered. "Now."
The men from the other families had poured out of their vehicles—Robert Beaumont, the Renzo father, Mr. Mattern, Mr. Rodriguez. They stood in the rain, relief evident on their faces as Billy and Jake were guided past them.
Billy Jr. and his crew surrounded the brothers, guiding them back to the lead truck and into the back seat. Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez piled in around them.
"Hold still," Billy Jr. said, already pulling out a pocketknife. "We'll get you out of this."
His hands shook as he worked on Billy's ropes. The knots were tight, the rope soaked and swollen from the rain. But he was careful, sawing through the wraps around Billy's torso first, then working on the rope connecting his neck to his wrists.
Billy Renzo was doing the same for Jake, cursing under his breath at how tight the bonds were.
"Easy," Billy Jr. murmured. "Almost there."
The rope around Billy's wrists finally gave. His arms dropped, and he cried out—the sudden release after hours of being bound sent fire through his shoulders.
"I know, I know," Billy Jr. said, steadying him. "Just breathe."
A moment later, Jake's ropes fell away too. He slumped forward, gasping.
Wade had his radio out, already coordinating. "All units, this is Sheriff Nelson. I'm putting out an APB on the suspects. Two, possibly three trucks. Standby for description."
He looked at Billy and Jake. "What did they drive?"
Billy's voice was raw but steady. "Dark blue Chevy Silverado, extended cab. Texas plates, couldn't see the numbers. Damaged front right bumper. And a white Ford F-250, crew cab, mud all over it. Rust on the driver's side door. Third vehicle was a gray Dodge Ram, newer model, tinted windows."
"You got all that?" Jake added. "We watched them from the window."
Wade relayed the information over the radio, his voice crisp and professional. "Suspects are armed. Consider dangerous. Last seen heading south from our current location approximately thirty minutes ago."
The convoy started moving again, slower now, heading back toward the Benson ranch. Billy and Jake wrapped in emergency blankets someone had produced, still shivering but alive.
Wade's phone rang.
He answered, listened, and his face broke into a grim smile.
"Copy that. Excellent work." He ended the call and grabbed the radio. "All units, all families—Texas Rangers just stopped three trucks matching our descriptions fifteen miles south of here. Four suspects in custody. They're being transported to county lockup."
The radio in every truck exploded with cheers and shouts from the men.
Back at the Benson ranch house, the women and children had been clustered around their radios, listening to every transmission. When Wade's announcement came through, the room erupted.
Sarah Benson grabbed her radio, her hands shaking. "Billy? Jake? Can you hear me?"
Billy Jr. handed his radio to his uncle Billy.
"We're here, Mom," Billy said, his voice thick. "We're okay."
"Oh thank God," Sarah sobbed. "Thank God. Are you hurt?"
"We're fine, Mom. Cold and tired, but fine."
Mary Nelson's voice came next, breaking: "Jake, sweetheart—"
"I'm good, Aunt Mary," Jake said, taking the radio from Billy. "We're both good. Coming home."
Edna Nelson's voice, shaky but relieved: "Billy—I thought—I was so scared—"
"I'm here, Edna," Billy said softly. "I'm coming home to you."
Anna Nelson's voice, young and emotional: "Billy Jr.? You found them. You really found them."
Billy Jr. took the radio back, smiling despite his exhaustion. "Yeah, Anna. We did."
Rebecca's voice came through: "Jr., I'm so proud of you. So proud."
"Thanks, Mom," Billy Jr. said quietly.
Caroline Beaumont's voice: "Celeb's okay? He's with you?"
Celeb, who'd been in one of the other trucks, grabbed his radio. "I'm here, Mom. We got them. We got our boys back."
Pops sat in the front seat, his hand gripping the dashboard, listening to the voices of his family flooding the radio network. Relief, joy, tears—all of it mixing together across the consortium.
He looked back at Billy and Jake, wrapped in blankets, surrounded by teenagers who'd helped save them.
"Good boys," Pops said quietly. "All of you. Damn good boys."
The convoy continued through the storm, headlights cutting through the rain, heading home.
Chapter 7: Home
The convoy pulled into the Benson ranch just after midnight. The storm had finally started to break, rain easing to a steady drizzle.
The front door flew open before the trucks even stopped. Sarah Benson ran out, followed by Mary Nelson, Edna, Anna, and the other women and children who'd been waiting.
Billy and Jake climbed out of the lead truck, still wrapped in emergency blankets, still barefoot and shirtless underneath. Sarah grabbed Billy first, pulling him into a fierce hug. Mary did the same with Jake.
"Inside," Rebecca said, her nurse's training kicking in immediately. "Both of you. Now."
They herded the brothers into the house, into the kitchen where Rebecca had already laid out her medical supplies. Billy and Jake sat at the table while Rebecca examined their wrists—raw, bleeding, rope burns deep in the skin.
"This is going to sting," she warned, dabbing antiseptic on Billy's wrists.
He hissed through his teeth but didn't pull away.
Jake got the same treatment, wincing as Rebecca worked. "You'll both be fine," she said finally. "Just need to keep these clean and bandaged for a few days."
The ladies had been busy. Huge pots of soup sat on the stove—chicken, vegetables, enough to feed an army. Sarah ladled out bowls, pressing them into Billy and Jake's hands first, then serving the men as they filed in from the trucks.
Everyone was soaked, chilled to the bone from hours in the storm.
"Celeb,The user wants the final chapter showing the aftermath at the ranch house:
Back at the house, Nurse Rebecca treats them with antiseptic
Ladies prepared soup for everyone, especially Billy and Jake, but everyone is chilled
Celeb and some teens light a huge fire in the fireplace, Tom turns up the heat
Pops breaks out bottles, gives stiff drinks to Billy and Jake, others join in
Even the teens get a shot, nobody protests
House warms up
They remove wet clothes, get changes from Josh and Ray (though they don't all fit)
Pops asks how they drove the truck all tied up
Jake and Billy explain, Pops pours a second round
Everyone finally leaves
Jr., Jake, Billy, and Celeb retire to the frat house, open floorboards for the beer stash
End chapter
This is new content.
Chapter 7: Homecoming
The convoy pulled into the Benson ranch just after midnight. The storm was still raging, but the house blazed with light—every window glowing, the porch lights on, people waiting.
The trucks barely stopped before doors flew open. Sarah Benson ran out into the rain, not caring that she was getting soaked. Mary Nelson right behind her. Edna followed, her face streaked with tears.
Billy and Jake climbed out of the truck, still wrapped in emergency blankets, and were immediately engulfed.
"Inside," Sarah commanded, her voice firm despite the tears. "Everyone inside. NOW."
The house filled quickly—all six families, dripping wet, cold, exhausted, but relieved. The younger children clustered around Billy and Jake, staring wide-eyed at the rope burns on their wrists and the bruises on their bare chests.
"Kitchen table," Rebecca Nelson ordered, already pulling out her nursing kit. She was in full professional mode—calm, efficient, assessing. "Billy, Jake, sit."
They obeyed without argument.
Rebecca worked quickly, cleaning the raw skin on their wrists with antiseptic. Both brothers hissed at the sting but didn't pull away. She wrapped their wrists in gauze, checked their shoulders, felt for dislocations.
"You'll be sore for days," she said, her voice tight with emotion despite her professional demeanor. "But nothing's broken. You got lucky."
"Felt lucky," Jake muttered, wincing as she wrapped another layer of gauze.
Around them, the women had already mobilized. Sarah and Caroline Beaumont were heating up massive pots of soup—beef and vegetable, thick and hot. Mrs. Renzo was pulling out bowls. Mrs. Mattern was setting the table.
"Everyone's eating," Sarah announced. "No arguments."
Celeb and some of the other teenagers—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez—were building a fire in the massive stone fireplace. They piled in logs, got it roaring, flames leaping high.
Tom adjusted the thermostat, kicking the heat up. Within minutes, the house began to warm, steam rising from wet clothes.
Pops appeared from his study, arms full of bottles. Brandy, whiskey, bourbon—his good stuff. He set them on the table with a heavy thunk.
"Billy. Jake." He poured two generous measures of whiskey into glasses and handed them over. "Drink."
Both brothers took the glasses and downed them in one swallow. The burn was almost as bad as the antiseptic, but it helped.
Pops poured for the other men—Tom, Josh, Ray, Wade, Robert Beaumont, the Renzo and Mattern fathers. Everyone took a glass.
Then Pops looked at the teenagers—Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, Celeb. He poured shots for each of them.
"Pops—" Tom started.
"Not tonight," Pops said firmly. "These boys earned it."
Nobody protested.
The teens took their shots, coughing and sputtering, but grinning.
The house was warming up fast now, the fire blazing, the heat running full blast. Men started peeling off wet shirts and jackets. Josh and Ray disappeared upstairs and came back with armfuls of dry clothes—flannel shirts, sweatpants, t-shirts.
"Here," Josh said, tossing them around. "They won't all fit, but they're dry."
Billy and Jake gratefully pulled on dry shirts—too big, hanging loose, but warm. Others did the same, the pile of wet clothes growing near the door.
Soup bowls were passed around. Everyone ate, the warmth spreading from the inside out. The younger children finally relaxed, sensing the adults were no longer tense.
Pops refilled his own glass, took a long sip, and looked at Billy and Jake across the table.
"Alright," he said, his voice gravelly. "How the fuck did you drive that truck all tied up like that?"
The room went quiet. Everyone leaned forward.
Billy and Jake exchanged a look.
"Well," Billy started, "we couldn't both steer and work the pedals with our hands tied behind our backs—"
"So Jake sat in the driver's seat normal," Jake continued. "Feet on the pedals. Eyes on the road."
"And I sat on his lap," Billy said. "Facing him. Turned the wheel with my wrists behind my back."
"Jake called out directions—ten degrees left, fifteen degrees right—and I steered."
"He worked the gas and brake."
"We drove about half a mile like that. Maybe ten miles an hour. Couldn't see shit in the storm."
The room was silent for a long moment.
Then Pops started laughing—a deep, genuine laugh that shook his shoulders. He poured another round for everyone.
"Goddamn," he said, shaking his head. "You boys are something else."
The tension finally broke. People laughed, talked, relived the night. The teenagers clustered together, showing each other the GPS data on their tablets. The women fussed over Billy and Jake, making sure they ate more soup.
Finally, after another hour, the families began to leave. Trucks started up, headlights cutting through the rain as they headed back to their own ranches. Promises to meet tomorrow, to debrief, to celebrate properly.
The Benson house quieted. Tom and Sarah went upstairs. Josh and Rebecca to their room. Ray to his. Pops to his study with his brandy.
Billy Jr., Jake, Billy, and Celeb climbed the stairs to the frat house—their shared room at the end of the hall.
Celeb knelt by the far wall and pried up the loose floorboards. The secret beer stash—bottles carefully hidden, always restocked.
He pulled out four cold ones and passed them around.
"To the craziest fucking night of our lives," Celeb said, raising his bottle.
"To drones and GPS," Billy Jr. added.
"To not dying," Jake said.
"To home," Billy finished.
They clinked bottles and drank, sprawled across the two bunk beds, exhausted but alive.
Outside, the storm was finally beginning to ease. The rain slowed to a steady patter. Thunder rumbled in the distance, moving away.
And in the frat house, four brothers—by blood and by choice—fell asleep with empty bottles in their hands and smiles on their faces.
Chapter 8: Sunday Afternoon
The Texas sun beat down on the Benson ranch, but nobody minded. Three massive grills were going full blast, smoke rising into the clear sky. The storm had passed, leaving everything washed clean and bright.
All six families were there—trucks parked in rows, kids running everywhere, dogs chasing each other, the smell of burgers and ribs filling the air.
Billy Jr. sat at a picnic table with Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. Their tablets were spread out in front of them, showing the drone flight data from Friday night.
"We got the coordinates, though," Billy Jr. said, staring at the GPS tracks. "Mission accomplished."
"At what cost?" Daniel said dramatically, shaking his head. "Six drones. All our cheap-ass budget drones. Gone."
"Twelve hundred bucks total," Ryan calculated. "Two hundred each. Just... scattered across King County in pieces."
Billy Renzo groaned. "Those things barely had thermal sensors. The cameras were garbage. But they were OURS."
"But we saved them," Billy Jr. said, looking toward the grill where Billy and Jake were standing with their fathers, beers in hand, bandages still on their wrists. "That's what matters."
"True," Daniel admitted. "Still, we're back to square one. Gonna take us months to save up for new ones."
"At least the tracking system worked," Billy Jr. said.
"Yeah, until the storm ate our entire fleet," Ryan said, grinning despite himself.
Across the yard, the adults had gathered near the main grill. Tom was flipping burgers while Josh worked the ribs. Pops had set up what looked like a full bar on a folding table—bottles of whiskey, brandy, bourbon, cases of beer, juices, sodas.
"Pops is running a damn liquor store," Wade said, shaking his head but smiling.
"Best prices in King County," Pops shot back, pouring himself a generous measure of brandy. "Help yourself, Sheriff. You earned it."
Wade did, filling a glass with ice and bourbon. Mary Nelson stood beside him, sipping a wine cooler, her arm around Jake.
Sarah and Rebecca were at another table, organizing side dishes. Caroline Beaumont was cutting watermelon. The younger Nelson kids—Anna and her siblings—were playing cornhole with the Rodriguez and Mattern children.
"Alright, settle down," Wade called out, raising his voice over the crowd. "Got an update from the DA's office."
Everyone quieted, turning toward him.
"Four suspects in custody," Wade said. "All four are being charged with kidnapping, aggravated assault, unlawful restraint, and felony theft—Billy's truck. DA's also adding conspiracy charges."
"What's that mean for sentencing?" Robert Beaumont asked.
"Minimum twenty years each. Likely more. Judge won't be sympathetic—this was planned, executed, and they targeted minors." Wade took a sip of his bourbon. "They're done."
A murmur of satisfaction rippled through the crowd.
"Good," Pops said flatly. "Lock 'em up and throw away the goddamn key."
"Language!" Sarah called from the side dish table.
Pops ignored her, refilling his glass.
Billy and Jake were still the center of attention. Men kept coming up to them, shaking their heads, asking the same question in different ways.
"So you really drove that truck with your hands tied behind your backs?" Mr. Mattern asked.
"Yeah," Jake said, grinning despite himself. "Billy sat on my lap facing me. I worked the pedals and looked out the windshield. He turned the wheel with his wrists."
"I called out directions," Jake added. "Ten degrees left, fifteen degrees right, like we were playing a video game from hell."
"Half a mile like that," Billy said. "In a storm. Couldn't see more than ten feet ahead."
Ray shook his head. "That's the most insane thing I've ever heard."
"Worked, though," Billy said.
Tom clapped both his sons on their shoulders. "Proud of you. Both of you. Stupid, reckless, and brilliant."
Josh came over with a platter of ribs. "Eat. You two lost weight."
They didn't argue.
Back at the drink table, Pops was in his element. He poured shots for the men, cracked open beers, filled juice boxes for the kids. Anna Nelson and the younger children formed a line, grabbing sodas and lemonades.
Then Billy Jr. and his three friends walked up.
"Pops," Billy Jr. said casually. "Four beers."
Pops didn't even blink. He reached into the cooler, pulled out four cold cans, and handed them over.
"Thanks, Pops," Daniel said.
"Don't mention it," Pops said.
They turned to walk away.
"Hey!" Sarah called from across the yard. "Is that—are they drinking BEER?"
Everyone looked. Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez stood there, beers in hand, frozen mid-step.
Tom looked at them. Looked at Pops. Looked back at them.
"After what they did Friday night?" Tom said. "I didn't see a damn thing."
Wade nodded. "Neither did I."
Rebecca sighed but didn't protest.
The four teenagers grinned and walked back to their table, cracking open the cans.
"Best consortium ever," Ryan muttered.
"Damn right," Billy Jr. said, taking a long sip.
The afternoon stretched on. Music played from someone's truck speakers. Kids ran through sprinklers. The men told and retold the story of the rescue, adding details, laughing, shaking their heads.
Pops held court at his drink table, glass never empty, cigars being passed around to the men who wanted them.
At one point, Billy and Jake found themselves sitting with Edna and Anna, away from the crowd.
"You scared me," Edna said quietly, her hand on Billy's arm. "I thought—"
"I know," Billy said. "But we're okay."
"You're not allowed to get kidnapped again," Anna said to Jake. "That's the rule now."
Jake grinned. "I'll try to remember that."
Billy Jr. walked over, beer still in hand. "Hey. Just so you know—we'll rebuild the drone fleet. Gonna take a while to save up, but we'll get there."
"How much did those pieces of junk cost you?" Jake asked.
"Two hundred bucks each," Billy Jr. said. "Twelve hundred total. Not much, but it was what we had."
Billy whistled. "You guys did miracles with garbage equipment."
"That's what we do," Billy Jr. said, grinning.
Billy stood up and pulled his nephew into a hug. "Thanks, Jr. You saved our lives."
"That's what family does," Billy Jr. said.
The sun was starting to dip lower when a truck engine roared up the drive. Everyone turned.
Josh and Ray's truck came barreling in, kicking up dust, the bed loaded with six massive wooden crates—square, sealed tight, stacked three by three.
"What the hell?" Tom said.
Josh pulled to a stop near the crowd and climbed out, grinning like a madman. Ray jumped out the passenger side, equally excited.
"Jr.!" Josh called. "You and your crew! Get over here!"
Billy Jr. looked at his friends. They set down their beers and jogged over.
"What's going on?" Billy Jr. asked.
Josh reached into the truck bed and pulled out a claw hammer. He tossed it to Billy Jr.
"Open them."
Billy Jr. caught the hammer, confused. He climbed into the truck bed and approached the first crate. The wood was fresh, stamped with shipping labels.
He wedged the claw under the back panel and pulled. Nails screeched. The panel came loose.
Then the sides collapsed outward with a loud crack.
Inside, nestled in foam padding, sleek and pristine, was a DJI Matrice 30T.
Billy Jr. froze.
"No way," he breathed.
"Open the rest!" Ray shouted.
Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel scrambled into the truck bed. Hammers appeared from somewhere—everyone was helping now. Panels flew off. Wood clattered to the ground.
One by one, the crates opened.
Six drones. Six brand-new DJI Matrice 30Ts. Professional-grade. Enterprise-level. Perfect.
"HOLY SHIT!" Billy Jr. shouted.
"JR.! LANGUAGE!" Sarah yelled, but she was laughing.
The four teenagers were losing their minds, pulling the drones out of the foam, checking the gimbals, the cameras, the thermal sensors.
"These are OURS?" Daniel shouted, hands shaking.
"Yours," Josh said, grinning. "Courtesy of the consortium. We pooled together. Ordered them Friday night."
"Wait—these are Matrice 30Ts!" Ryan said, his voice cracking. "These cost—these cost—"
"Fourteen thousand dollars each," Ray said calmly.
The boys went silent.
"Fourteen... thousand..." Billy Jr. whispered. "Each?"
"Times six," Josh added. "Eighty-four thousand dollars total. Paid in full."
Billy Renzo sat down hard on the truck bed. "You're joking."
"Not joking," Ray said. "You boys flew garbage drones into a hurricane to save Billy and Jake. You earned these."
Billy Jr. stared at his father, then at the drones, then back. His eyes filled with tears.
"Dad—"
"You saved your uncles, son," Josh said quietly. "You saved family. This is what the consortium does."
Josh pulled out a spec sheet from his jacket and cleared his throat, reading aloud:
"DJI Matrice 30T. Integrated thermal, wide, and zoom cameras. Six hundred forty by five hundred twelve thermal resolution at thirty hertz. Two hundred times hybrid zoom. IP55 weatherproof rating. Operational from negative twenty Celsius to fifty Celsius. Laser rangefinder. Forty-one-minute flight time."
He folded the paper. "You just went from two-hundred-dollar toys to fourteen-thousand-dollar professional equipment."
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Pops appeared from the house, moving slower than usual but grinning wide. He had a small wooden box in his hands.
"Hold on, hold on," Pops said, raising his voice. "Before you boys start flying those damn things—"
He opened the box. Inside were four sets of military aviator wings pins—small, silver, gleaming.
"USS Consortium Air Force," Pops announced. "Official designation as of today."
He walked up to Billy Jr. first and pinned the wings to his shirt.
"Captain Billy Benson Junior. Drone commander."
Billy Jr. stood straighter, tears streaming down his face now.
Pops moved to Billy Renzo. "Lieutenant Billy Renzo. Tactical operations."
Then Ryan Mattern. "Lieutenant Ryan Mattern. Weather and reconnaissance."
Finally Daniel Rodriguez. "Lieutenant Daniel Rodriguez. Technical systems."
The four boys stood there, wings pinned to their chests, speechless.
Pops stepped back and saluted them.
The entire consortium—every man, woman, and child—broke into applause.
"Alright!" Pops shouted over the noise. "Another round of drinks, boys! We're celebrating!"
But the four teenagers weren't listening. They were already back in the truck bed, pulling out control panels, battery packs, operation manuals.
"Check this out!" Billy Jr. shouted, holding up the RC Plus controller. "Seven-inch display! Our old ones had like three inches!"
"The thermal camera has super mode!" Daniel yelled, flipping through the manual. "Twelve-eighty by ten-twenty-four resolution! Our old ones were barely three-twenty!"
"Laser rangefinder goes out to twelve hundred meters!" Ryan added. "We didn't even HAVE a rangefinder before!"
"We can run dual controllers!" Billy Renzo said, nearly vibrating with excitement. "Two operators per drone! And it's weatherproof—IP55 rated!"
They were talking over each other, voices rising, pages flipping, batteries being checked, gimbals being tested.
"Look at this gimbal stability—"
"The obstacle avoidance is omnidirectional!"
"Flight time's forty-one minutes, our old ones lasted like fifteen!"
"WOW! The zoom is TWO HUNDRED TIMES!"
Pops stood at his drink table, brandy in hand, watching them with a satisfied grin.
Tom walked up beside him. "Think they like them?"
"I think," Pops said, taking a long sip, "we just created the best goddamn air force in Texas."
Tom laughed. "USS Consortium. I like it."
The sun set slowly over the Benson ranch. Music played. Kids ran. Families talked and laughed.
And in the truck bed, four boys—newly minted officers of the USS Consortium Air Force—planned their next mission, wings pinned to their chests, professional-grade drones at their command, and the whole sky ahead of them.
THE END
N
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