What Miranda Rights?

 

Chapter 1: The Ambush

The morning sun beat down on the Benson Ranch as Billy and Jake worked the fence line near the eastern pasture. Billy wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove, squinting at the barbed wire they'd been mending for the past hour.

"Hand me the pliers," Jake said, holding a strand of wire taut.

Billy reached into the toolbox in the bed of their truck. That's when he heard the crunch of gravel behind them.

Two men emerged from a dusty pickup that had pulled up so quietly neither brother had noticed. Both wore bandanas over their faces and carried pistols.

"Don't move," the taller one said, his voice flat and cold.

Jake's body tensed. "What the hell do you want?"

"Keys. Now." The shorter kidnapper gestured toward their truck with his weapon.

Billy's hand instinctively moved toward his pocket, but the taller man stepped closer. "Real slow."

Jake's jaw clenched, his eyes darting between the two men, calculating. Billy could read his brother's mind—they'd been in scrapes before, but nothing like this.

"Jake," Billy said quietly. "Give them the keys."

"Smart kid." The shorter man snatched the keys from Jake's hand. "Both of you, in the truck. You're driving."

They forced Billy behind the wheel, Jake in the passenger seat. One kidnapper climbed in the back cab, gun pressed against the back of Billy's neck. The other followed in their own vehicle behind them.

"Where are we going?" Billy asked, his voice steadier than he felt.

"Drive south on County Road 12. Don't ask questions. Don't try anything stupid."

The truck rolled forward, leaving the fence line unfinished and the ranch disappearing in the rearview mirror. Thirty-five miles of empty Texas highway stretched ahead of them.

Neither brother spoke, but their eyes met once—a silent understanding passing between them.

We'll get through this. Together.

Chapter 2: Strung Up

The farmhouse smelled of rot and abandonment—mildew, dust, and something worse Billy couldn't place. The kidnappers shoved them through the door, guns still drawn.

"Empty your pockets," the taller one ordered. "Everything. Phones, radios, wallets, keys. And the belts too."

Billy pulled out his cell phone and his radio, the one connected to the consortium's emergency network. Jake did the same, his movements slow and deliberate.

"Pile it up. Right there." The shorter kidnapper pointed to a corner near the door.

They dropped everything into a heap—two cell phones, two radios, their wallets, pocket knives, keys. Their belts joined the pile.

"Strip," the taller one said. "Boots, shirts, everything but your jeans. Now."

"What?" Jake's voice cracked with disbelief.

"You heard me."

Billy's fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons as his mind raced. Without their boots, running would be harder. Without their shirts, the sun—or the cold—would work against them. It was about control. About making them vulnerable.

But as he pulled off his shirt, his eyes darted to the pile in the corner. The radios. They were still on—he could see the faint indicator light on his. The idiots hadn't turned them off. Hadn't destroyed them.

Jake moved slower, defiant even in compliance. The shorter kidnapper stepped closer, pressing the gun barrel against his temple.

"Don't test me, cowboy."

Jake's jaw clenched, but he yanked his shirt off and tossed it on the floor. As he did, Billy saw his brother's eyes flick to the corner, to the pile. A barely perceptible nod. Jake had seen it too.

The taller man produced lengths of rope from a duffel bag. "Hands behind your backs."

Billy felt the rough hemp bite into his wrists as the man cinched the knots tight—too tight. His shoulders pulled back at an unnatural angle. Then came the gag, a bandana forced between his teeth and tied hard enough to dig into the corners of his mouth.

They did the same to Jake, whose eyes burned with barely contained rage.

The kidnappers threw the rope over exposed rafters in the ceiling, threading it through pulleys Billy hadn't noticed before. This wasn't improvised. They'd prepared this place.

"Up you go."

Billy's arms wrenched upward as they hauled on the rope. His shoulders screamed. He rose onto his toes, then off the ground entirely, suspended with his arms twisted behind him. The pain was immediate and blinding.

Beside him, Jake grunted through his gag, his body jerking as they strung him up the same way.

The shorter kidnapper stepped back, admiring their work. "Cozy."

Billy's toes dangled inches from the floor. Every breath pulled against his shoulders. He turned his head and met Jake's eyes—wide, furious, but not panicked. Not yet.

The taller man pulled out a phone and aimed it at them. A red recording light blinked on.

"Smile for the camera, boys. Your family's about to get the show of a lifetime."

He panned slowly from Billy to Jake, making sure to capture every detail—the ropes, the gags, the helplessness.

"Two and a half million dollars," he said into the camera. "Wire transfer to accounts we'll provide. You've got twenty-four hours. And just so you know we're serious..."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of dice. Then he produced a thick black marker.

"We're gonna play a little game."

He walked up to Jake first, uncapping the marker. The chemical smell filled the air as he wrote in crude block letters across Jake's forehead: EVENS.

Then he moved to Billy. ODDS.

"When we roll," the man continued, still speaking to the camera, "one of your boys is gonna have a real bad day. The other one gets to watch. You'll see it all, live. So I suggest you start gathering that money."

He held the dice up to the camera, then pocketed them again.

"We'll be in touch."

The recording light blinked off.

Both kidnappers headed for the door. The shorter one paused, looking back. "Don't go anywhere."

The door slammed. A lock clicked.

And then there was only silence—broken by the creak of rope and the ragged sound of two brothers breathing through their gags, hanging in the dim light of an abandoned farmhouse, with black marker on their foreheads and their radios still transmitting from the corner.

Billy's eyes moved to the pile again, then back to Jake.

His brother had seen it too. That small green light, still glowing.

We'll get through this. Together.

For the first time since the ambush, Billy felt a flicker of something other than fear.

Hope.

Chapter 3: The Discovery

The attic office of the Benson ranch house was stuffy in the afternoon heat, even with both windows cranked open. Josh Benson leaned back in his office chair, squinting at the spreadsheet on his monitor. The consortium's quarterly cattle sales were projecting strong—pooling their herds gave them the leverage to negotiate prices the individual ranches never could have managed alone.

"Dad, you seeing these feed projections?" Billy Jr. sat at the adjacent desk, his own laptop open with multiple windows cascading across the screen. "If we bulk order through the consortium like last time, we save another eight percent."

"Send me the numbers," Josh muttered, not looking up. "I'll add it to the—"

Both their screens flickered.

Josh frowned. "What the hell?"

The spreadsheet vanished, replaced by a video feed. Grainy. Dim lighting. And then his stomach dropped.

Billy and Jake. Shirtless. Arms wrenched behind them. Hanging from ropes in what looked like an abandoned barn, their faces contorted in pain behind gags.

"Oh my God," Billy Jr. whispered. "Dad—"

"Shut up. Listen."

A voice came through the speakers, distorted but clear enough.

"Two and a half million dollars. Wire transfer to accounts we'll provide. You've got twenty-four hours."

The camera panned slowly across both brothers. Words were scrawled on their foreheads in thick black marker: EVENS. ODDS.

"And just so you know we're serious..." The voice continued. A hand entered the frame holding a pair of dice. "We're gonna play a little game. When we roll, one of your boys is gonna have a real bad day. The other one gets to watch. You'll see it all, live."

Josh's hands gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles white.

"We'll be in touch."

The feed didn't cut. It stayed live—two brothers hanging there, chests heaving, eyes locked on each other.

Billy Jr. was already moving. He grabbed the radio clipped to his own belt—every consortium member carried one, always. His fingers found the red emergency button that Pops and Billy had programmed into the system.

He pressed it once. Twice. Three times.

A mechanical voice blared from every radio in the consortium network—every belt, every truck, every kitchen counter across six ranches:

"911. Billy Jr. 911. Billy Jr. 911. Billy Jr."

Downstairs, Billy Jr. could hear movement—chairs scraping, footsteps pounding. The whole Benson household was in the ranch house, and they'd all just heard it.

Billy Jr. brought the radio to his mouth, his voice cracking but forcing the words out.

"This is Billy Jr. in the attic office. Billy and Jake have been kidnapped. Repeat—Billy and Jake have been kidnapped. We have a live feed. They're tied up, ransom demand is two-point-five million. All families respond."

The radio crackled with responses almost immediately.

Pops' voice came first, gravelly and sharp—from somewhere downstairs: "Billy Jr., I'm coming up. Keep that feed up. Nobody touch anything."

Wade Nelson's voice followed, calm but cold as ice: "This is Wade. I'm en route. Billy Jr., can you record that feed?"

"Already on it," Billy Jr. said, his fingers already flying across his laptop keyboard.

Heavy footsteps thundered up the attic stairs. The door burst open—Pops, Tom, Sarah, Ray. All of them froze when they saw the screen.

Sarah's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh God. Oh God, no—"

Josh finally found his voice, keying his own radio. "Wade, they said no authorities or—"

"I heard them, Josh." Wade's tone cut through. "I'm not coming in hot. We'll handle this quiet. Pops, I'm pulling up now."

More voices flooded the channel—Robert and Caroline Beaumont, the other Nelsons. Panic. Questions. Curses.

But Billy Jr. wasn't listening anymore. His eyes were locked on the screen, on his uncle and namesake hanging there, helpless. On Jake, whose eyes burned with fury even through the pain.

"Hold on," Billy Jr. whispered to the screen. "We're coming."

Tom Benson stood behind his grandson, one hand gripping Billy Jr.'s shoulder, the other clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles had gone white.

On the monitor, Billy's eyes seemed to shift—looking not at his brother, but down. Toward something on the floor in the corner of the room.

Billy Jr. leaned closer. "What's he looking at?"

Chapter 4: Panic and Abandonment

The two kidnappers sat in the front room of the farmhouse, twenty feet from where Billy and Jake hung suspended. The taller one scrolled through his phone, checking the routing numbers for the offshore accounts. The shorter one paced, nervous energy radiating off him.

"How long you think before they—"

The mechanical voice cut through the silence like a gunshot.

"911. Billy Jr. 911. Billy Jr. 911. Billy Jr."

Both men froze.

The voice was coming from the corner. From the pile of confiscated belongings.

"What the hell?" The shorter one lunged for the pile, pawing through wallets and keys until he found the radios. Both were lit up, transmitting.

Then a young voice crackled through: "This is Billy Jr. in the attic office. Billy and Jake have been kidnapped. Repeat—Billy and Jake have been kidnapped. We have a live feed. They're tied up, ransom demand is two-point-five million. All families respond."

The taller kidnapper's face went white. "They heard everything."

More voices erupted from the radios—overlapping, urgent, coordinating.

"Billy Jr., this is Pops. I'm coming up. Keep that feed up. Nobody touch anything."

"This is Wade. I'm en route. Billy Jr., can you record that feed?"

"Wade, they said no authorities or—"

"I heard them, Josh. I'm not coming in hot. We'll handle this quiet."

The shorter kidnapper grabbed both radios and hurled them against the wall. Plastic shattered, batteries skittered across the floor.

"Shit. Shit. SHIT!" He kicked the pile, scattering wallets and keys. "They know! They're recording us!"

The taller one was already moving, shoving his phone in his pocket. "We're done. We're gone. Now."

"What about them?" The shorter one jerked his thumb toward the back room where Billy and Jake hung.

"Leave 'em. Let's go!"

"But the money—"

"Forget the money! You heard them—they're organizing. They've got law enforcement. We stay here, we're dead or in prison."

The shorter kidnapper grabbed the duffel bag, his hands shaking. "The cell phones—"

"Leave them! Move!"

They bolted for the door. The taller one paused for half a second, looking back toward the room where the brothers hung. Then he shook his head and ran.

The truck engines roared to life outside.

Gravel sprayed as the vehicles tore down the dirt road, leaving nothing behind but dust, broken radios, and two brothers still hanging in the darkness—alone now, but with hope burning brighter than the pain in their shoulders.

In the back room, Billy's eyes met Jake's.

The radios were smashed. But the cell phones were still in the pile.

And they were alone.

Chapter 5: The Command Center

Wade Nelson's truck kicked up dust as it skidded to a stop in front of the Benson ranch house. He was out before the engine died, his radio already in hand.

"Pops, I'm here. What've we got?"

"Attic office. Get up here first, then we're moving downstairs."

Wade took the stairs two at a time, his boots heavy on the old wood. When he burst through the attic door, the room was already crowded—Pops, Tom, Sarah, Josh, Ray, and Billy Jr. still glued to his laptop screen.

The live feed was still up. Billy and Jake, hanging. Breathing. Alive.

"Jesus Christ," Wade muttered.

"They want two-point-five million," Josh said. "Wire transfer. Foreign accounts. No authorities."

Wade's jaw tightened. "Well, they've got authorities now whether they like it or not." He pulled out his phone. "But we're doing this my way. Quiet."

Pops stepped closer. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Texas Rangers. The good ones. Off the books."

"How fast?"

"Already made the call on the way over. They'll be here in thirty."

More footsteps thundered up the stairs. Robert Beaumont, followed by Wilson and Ryan Nelson in their deputy uniforms.

"We're scrambling the consortium," Robert said. "Everyone's liquidating what they can for the ransom, just in case."

"Good," Wade said. "But we're not paying a damn thing until we know where they are."

Billy Jr. looked up from his screen. "Uncle Wade, I'm recording everything. The feed, the audio, all of it."

"Smart. Keep it rolling." Wade surveyed the cramped attic. "We need more space. Pops, clear the dining room. We're setting up command center down there."

"On it." Pops was already moving toward the stairs, barking orders. "Sarah, Tom—dining room table, clear it. Everything off. Ray, get the extra chairs from the barn."

Within minutes, the Benson dining room had transformed. The long oak table that normally held family dinners was now covered in laptops, radios, and maps. Billy Jr. set up his station at one end, the live feed still playing on his screen. Josh brought down the recording equipment from the attic office.

Wade's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. "Rangers are ten minutes out. They're bringing tech."

Billy Jr. cleared his throat. "Uncle Wade... I might already have tech."

Wade turned. "What do you mean?"

"My friends. Renzo, Mattern, Rodriguez. We've been... well, we've been building stuff. Communication systems, surveillance equipment, drones—"

"Drones?" Wade's eyebrows shot up.

"Custom-built. High-res cameras, thermal imaging, GPS tracking. We use them for hunting, mostly, but—"

Pops let out a sharp laugh. "I'll be damned. The frat house strikes again."

Wade looked at Billy Jr. with new respect. "Can you get them here?"

"They're already on their way. I texted them before I hit the 911 button."

"Good kid." Wade turned to address the growing crowd in the dining room. More consortium members had arrived—the Beaumonts, the Nelsons, other ranchers. "Alright, listen up. We're setting up command center right here. Billy Jr. and his crew handle tech and surveillance. Rangers will coordinate tactical. Pops and I will run point on strategy. The rest of you—families, logistics, and keeping this quiet. No social media, no gossip, nothing leaves the consortium. Understood?"

Everyone nodded.

The sound of vehicles pulling up outside drew their attention. Wade looked out the window—three unmarked trucks, tinted windows.

"That's them."

Moments later, four men in civilian clothes entered the dining room. The lead Ranger was older, weathered, with cold gray eyes. He nodded at Wade.

"Captain Reyes. Got here as fast as we could."

"Appreciate it, Cap." Wade gestured to Billy Jr.'s screen. "That's what we're dealing with."

Reyes studied the feed, his expression unreadable. "Any leads on location?"

"Not yet. But we've got some advantages." Wade nodded toward Billy Jr. "This is Billy Jr. He and his crew are tech specialists."

Reyes raised an eyebrow. "How old are you, son?"

"Fifteen, sir."

"Jesus. Alright, what've you got?"

Billy Jr. pulled up another window on his screen. "The feed came through our network, so I've been trying to backtrace the IP. It's bounced through a couple proxies, but I'm working on it. My friends are bringing our drones—we can do aerial surveillance once we narrow down a location."

"And," Billy Jr. hesitated, then continued, "Billy and Jake's truck has GPS tracking. We installed it last year after some cattle rustlers hit the county. If they're still in the truck, or if it's nearby..."

Reyes looked at Wade. "You've got good people here."

"Best damn county in Texas," Wade said.

The front door burst open—three teenage boys carrying duffel bags and equipment cases rushed into the dining room. Billy Jr. waved them over.

"Renzo, Mattern, Rodriguez—set up on this side of the table."

The boys moved with surprising efficiency, pulling out laptops, tablets, drone controllers, and what looked like a portable server. They claimed a section of the long dining table, spreading out their equipment.

One of the Rangers whistled low. "Where the hell did you kids get all this?"

"Built most of it," the one Wade assumed was Renzo said, not looking up as he powered on a laptop. "Ordered the rest online."

"Got the GPS tracker interface up," Rodriguez said. "Searching for Billy's truck now."

Mattern was already assembling a drone on the floor near the window, his hands moving fast. "We've got three birds ready to fly. Just need coordinates."

Pops watched the whole operation from his position at the head of the table, a flask in one hand. He took a swig and muttered, "Goddamn whiz kids."

Captain Reyes stepped to the center of the room, commanding everyone's attention. "Alright, here's how this works. You kids find that truck, we move in. But nobody—and I mean nobody—plays hero. We do this clean, we do this smart, and we bring those boys home. Clear?"

"Clear," Billy Jr. said, his eyes never leaving his screen.

Wade's radio crackled. It was Wilson. "Wade, we've got visual on a dust trail about three miles east of the Benson property. Could be nothing, could be something."

Billy Jr.'s fingers flew across his keyboard. "Pulling up satellite imagery now."

The dining room had become a war room—Rangers conferring over maps, the whiz kids bent over their screens, consortium members on phones coordinating resources, and Pops standing guard over it all.

On Billy Jr.'s screen, Billy and Jake still hung, motionless except for the rise and fall of their chests.

Pops moved to stand behind Billy Jr., one gnarled hand on the boy's shoulder.

"We're coming, boys," he said quietly. "Hold on just a little longer."

Chapter 6: Working Free

The silence in the farmhouse was deafening after the kidnappers' trucks roared away. Billy hung suspended, every muscle in his shoulders screaming, his wrists raw from the rope. He could hear Jake's ragged breathing through his gag beside him.

Their eyes met. Jake's were wide with a mix of fury and relief—the kidnappers were gone, but they were still strung up like slaughtered cattle.

Billy's gaze drifted down to the pile in the corner. The shattered radios lay scattered across the floor, but the cell phones—he could see the corner of his phone case sticking out from under a wallet. Still intact.

They just had to get down.

Jake made a muffled grunt through his gag, jerking his head toward the rafter. Billy followed his brother's eyes upward. The rope was looped over a simple wooden beam, then tied off to a cleat on the wall about eight feet away.

Billy's mind raced. His arms were behind his back, wrists bound tight. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. But the kidnappers had been in a hurry—they'd tied the rope off to secure them, but they hadn't done anything elaborate.

Jake started swinging. Small movements at first, his body rotating slightly. Billy understood immediately—if they could build momentum, maybe they could reach something, knock something loose.

Billy started swinging too, in the opposite direction. Their bodies created a pendulum effect, the ropes creaking against the old beam above.

Jake's eyes were locked on a support post about four feet to his left. He swung harder, grunting through his gag with the effort. On his third swing, his shoulder made contact with the post.

The impact jolted him, but it also shifted his position. He pushed off with his shoulder, swinging back toward Billy, then forward again toward the post. This time he got his back against it.

Jake started working his body up and down against the rough wood, trying to use the friction to work the rope. Billy could see what he was doing—trying to fray it, or at least loosen the knots.

Billy looked around frantically for his own leverage point. There—a metal bracket sticking out from the wall, probably an old shelf support. He started swinging toward it, building momentum.

His first attempt missed. Second attempt, his bound hands glanced off it. Third time, he hooked the rope on the bracket.

The sudden stop nearly dislocated his shoulders. Billy bit down hard on the gag to keep from screaming. But the rope had caught—he could feel the tension shift.

He pulled down with his full body weight, then twisted. The bracket wasn't meant to hold this kind of load. It groaned. Shifted.

Jake saw what Billy was doing and redoubled his own efforts against the post, sawing the rope up and down against the weathered wood.

Minutes passed. Billy's vision started to blur from the pain. His arms had gone numb. But the bracket was bending—he could feel it giving way.

With one more violent twist, the bracket tore free from the wall.

Billy dropped.

He hit the floor hard on his side, the impact knocking the wind out of him. But his arms were still bound, the rope still attached to the beam above, now just dragging on the ground.

Billy rolled onto his back, gasping through the gag. He worked his way to his knees, then struggled to his feet. The rope from the beam trailed behind him like a tail.

He stumbled toward Jake, turned his back to his brother. Their bound hands fumbled blindly for each other. Billy's fingers found the knot on Jake's wrist. It was tight—too tight. His numb fingers couldn't get purchase.

Jake made a frustrated sound through his gag, then jerked his head toward the corner. The pile. The pocket knives.

Billy shuffled toward it, dragging the rope. He dropped to his knees and turned his back to the pile, his bound hands searching blindly through the scattered belongings. Wallet. Keys. His fingers closed around something metal and folded—a knife.

He fumbled it open, nearly dropping it twice. Then he backed up to Jake, the knife held awkwardly in his bound hands.

"Don't move," Billy tried to say through the gag, but it came out as muffled nonsense.

Jake held as still as he could, his body weight still hanging from the rope. Billy sawed blindly at the rope around Jake's wrists. The blade was sharp—thank God for that. He felt the fibers giving way.

After what felt like an eternity, the rope snapped.

Jake's arms dropped. He nearly fell, but caught himself, his feet finding purchase on the floor. His hands were still bound together, but they were in front of him now. He ripped the gag from his mouth, gasping.

"Jesus Christ," Jake croaked. His fingers were shaking as he grabbed the knife from Billy and cut through the remaining rope around his own wrists.

Free, Jake immediately went to work on Billy's bonds. In seconds, Billy's hands were loose. He tore the gag from his mouth and bent forward, hands on his knees, breathing hard.

"You okay?" Jake asked, his voice rough.

"Yeah. You?"

"I'll live." Jake looked up at the rope still hanging from the beam, at the words still scrawled on their foreheads. "Those sons of bitches."

Billy staggered to the pile and grabbed his cell phone. His hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped it. No signal.

"Damn it." He moved toward the door, holding the phone up. One bar appeared.

Jake grabbed his own phone. "I've got one bar too."

Billy's fingers fumbled across the screen. He pulled up the consortium group chat and typed: WE R OK. FARMHOUSE. KIDNAPPERS GONE. NEED PICKUP.

He hit send and watched the message struggle to upload. After five agonizing seconds, it went through.

Jake leaned against the wall, still breathing hard. He looked at Billy, then started to laugh—a half-crazed sound.

"What?" Billy asked.

"EVENS and ODDS." Jake pointed at their foreheads. "We look like idiots."

Despite everything, Billy felt a smile crack across his face. "Wait till Pops sees us."

Jake's phone buzzed. Then Billy's. Messages flooding in from the consortium.

Wade: LOCATION. NOW.

Billy looked around the farmhouse, at the windows. "I don't know where the hell we are."

Jake moved to a window and looked out. "Dirt road. Old barn about a hundred yards out. Wait—" He squinted. "There's a propane tank. It's got a number on it."

Billy joined him, reading the faded digits on the rusted tank. He texted them to the group.

Billy Jr. responded almost instantly: GOT IT. SENDING COORDINATES TO EVERYONE. STAY PUT.

Jake slumped down against the wall, his chest still heaving. Billy sat down beside him.

"You did good," Billy said quietly.

Jake looked at his little brother. "You too."

They sat in silence for a moment, shoulders touching, waiting for the cavalry to arrive.

"Next time," Jake said, "we're not splitting up at the fence line."

"Deal."

Chapter 7: The Reunion and The Hunt

The convoy arrived at the abandoned farmhouse in a cloud of dust—Pops leading, followed by Tom, Ray, Robert Beaumont, and Billy Jr. in Josh's truck with Ryan Renzo, Daniel Rodriguez, and Ryan Mattern crammed in the back seat. Half the consortium had mobilized, and the whiz kids weren't about to miss this.

Pops was out before his truck even stopped rolling, his boots hitting the ground hard. He burst through the farmhouse door with Tom, Billy Jr., and the three other boys right behind him.

Billy and Jake were sitting against the wall, shirtless, still catching their breath. The words EVENS and ODDS were still scrawled across their foreheads in thick black marker.

Pops stopped dead in his tracks. Then he started laughing—a deep, rumbling sound that filled the room.

"Well, I'll be damned. You two look like a couple of idiots."

Jake flipped him off weakly. "Good to see you too, Pops."

Billy Jr. rushed forward and threw his arms around Billy, then Jake, pulling them both into a fierce hug. "Oh my God, I thought—when I saw that feed—"

"We're okay, Junior," Billy said, ruffling his nephew's hair. "We're okay."

"You did good," Jake added. "That 911 system saved our asses."

Ryan Renzo, Daniel Rodriguez, and Ryan Mattern crowded in behind Billy Jr., their eyes wide.

"Dude, that was insane," Ryan Renzo said. "We tracked everything."

"The GPS worked perfectly," Daniel added.

"You guys are legends," Ryan Mattern said.

Tom moved in, his eyes scanning them both. "You boys hurt?"

"Just sore," Billy said, rolling his shoulders and wincing. "They strung us up pretty good, but we got ourselves down."

"Course you did." Pops pulled out his flask and handed it to Billy. "Here. You earned it."

Billy took a swig, the brandy burning down his throat. He passed it to Jake, who did the same.

Tom pulled both his sons into a crushing hug, not caring about the sweat or the marker or anything else.

"Thank God," Tom said, his voice rough. "Thank God you're okay."

"We're fine, Dad," Billy said. "But those sons of bitches are out there somewhere."

Billy Jr. was already keying his radio. "Daniel, you still tracking the truck?"

Daniel pulled out his tablet. "Yeah, GPS shows it stopped about twelve miles south of here. Old gas station off Highway 83. Ryan's got a drone up—two heat signatures inside the building."

Billy Jr. looked at Pops. "They're sitting ducks."

Jake pushed to his feet. "Then let's go get them."

"Hold on," Tom said, already pulling spare work shirts from his truck. Billy and Jake pulled them on, still moving stiffly.

Billy Jr. stayed glued to his radio. "Uncle Wade, did you copy that location?"

Wade's voice crackled back. "Negative, Junior. We're searching the north sector. That's a good twenty minutes from us. You have eyes on them now?"

"Affirmative. Ryan's drone has visual."

"Do NOT engage until we get there. You hear me? Hold position and—"

"Copy that, Uncle Wade," Billy Jr. said. Then he looked at Pops and grinned. "He said hold position."

Pops chuckled. "That's what I heard too. Alright, boys, mount up. Let's go hold position real close."

The convoy reformed—Pops in the lead, Tom right behind him with Billy, Jake, Billy Jr., and the whiz kids packed into the cab and truck bed, then Ray's truck, then Robert Beaumont and the other consortium members.

Billy Jr. stayed on the radio, coordinating. Daniel had his tablet out, monitoring the GPS. Ryan Mattern controlled the drone from the back of the truck.

"Take County Road 12 south for eight miles, then turn left on the old service road," Billy Jr. directed. "Ryan says they haven't moved. Still inside."

"They think they got away clean," Jake said, his hands clenched into fists.

"Daniel, what's the structure look like?" Billy Jr. asked.

Daniel studied his tablet. "One main room, boarded windows, two exits—front and back. Both vehicles parked behind the building."

"Perfect," Pops muttered.

They turned onto the service road, moving slower now. The old gas station came into view—windows boarded up, rusted pumps, weeds growing through cracked pavement. And there, behind it, were the two trucks.

"I see them," Pops said over the radio. "Everyone fan out. Block every exit."

The consortium trucks moved into position, surrounding the building.

Billy Jr. keyed his radio again. "Uncle Wade, we're in position."

"Junior, I said do NOT—"

"Just holding position, Uncle Wade. Real close position."

Pops, Tom, Ray, Robert, Wilson Nelson, Billy, and Jake moved toward the building on foot. Billy Jr. and his friends started to follow, but Billy put a hand on his nephew's shoulder.

"Stay by the trucks, Junior. You too, boys. We got this."

"But—"

"We got this," Jake repeated, his voice firm.

Billy Jr. nodded reluctantly. The four boys stayed back by the trucks, but Daniel kept his tablet up, monitoring everything. Ryan Mattern kept the drone circling overhead.

Pops reached the door. He looked at Tom, who nodded. Then Pops kicked it open.

"Surprise, you sons of bitches!"

There was a crash inside, shouting. The two kidnappers scrambled to their feet, but there was nowhere to go. Men blocked every exit.

The shorter one's eyes went wide when he saw Billy and Jake. "Oh shit—"

"Yeah, that's right," Jake said, stepping forward. "We got out."

Ray and Robert grabbed the taller kidnapper, slamming him against the wall. Wilson had the shorter one in a headlock before he could run.

"Get some rope," Pops said. "Same kind they used on the boys."

Robert produced rope from his truck—ranchers always had rope. They bound the kidnappers' hands behind their backs, then tied them to the support posts in the old gas station.

The taller kidnapper was breathing hard, his face pale. "You can't do this—this is illegal—"

"You want to talk about illegal?" Jake stepped closer, his voice low and dangerous. "You strung us up like cattle. You painted our foreheads. You were gonna torture us on camera."

Billy moved to stand beside his brother. "And you were dumb enough to leave our radios on."

Pops pulled off his belt. "Billy, Jake—you want first crack?"

Billy looked at Jake. Jake looked at Billy. They nodded.

"Yeah," Jake said. "We do."

What followed wasn't pretty. Billy and Jake took turns, their fists connecting with ribs, faces, anywhere they could reach. The kidnappers grunted and cried out, but nobody stopped it.

When Billy's knuckles started bleeding, Tom handed him his own belt. "Use this."

The beating continued—not just from Billy and Jake, but from the others too. Pops got in a few good hits. Robert cracked the taller one across the face. Ray landed a solid punch to the gut.

Outside, Billy Jr. and his friends watched through the open door, their faces grim but satisfied.

"That's what you get," Ryan Renzo muttered.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only ten minutes, Pops stepped back.

"Alright. That's enough. Junior, call your Uncle Wade. Tell him we've got them secured and ready for arrest."

Billy Jr. keyed his radio immediately. "Uncle Wade, this is Billy Jr. Suspects secured at the gas station. Ready for official arrest."

Wade's voice came back. "Copy that. We're five minutes out."

The kidnappers hung from their ropes now, bloodied and broken, whimpering. The tables had turned completely.

Jake leaned in close to the taller one. "How's it feel?"

The man just sobbed.

Billy wiped the blood from his knuckles on his jeans. His shoulders still ached, but this—this felt good.

Headlights appeared on the service road. Wade's truck, followed by the unmarked Ranger vehicles.

Wade got out, took one look at the scene, and shook his head. "Jesus Christ. What happened here?"

"They resisted," Pops said with a straight face. "Had to subdue them."

"Uh-huh." Wade looked at Billy and Jake, at their bruised knuckles, at the kidnappers tied to the posts. "Captain Reyes, you see any evidence of excessive force here?"

Captain Reyes walked a slow circle around the kidnappers, his face impassive. "Looks like a clean apprehension to me, Sheriff. Suspects are secured and ready for transport."

"That's what I thought." Wade pulled out his cuffs. "Alright, cut them loose. We'll take it from here."

As the Rangers loaded the barely conscious kidnappers into their truck, Wade pulled Pops aside. "You know I can't officially condone what happened here."

"I know."

"But off the record?" Wade's mouth twitched into something almost like a smile. "They had it coming."

Billy Jr. grabbed his radio. "Command center, this is Billy Jr. Package secured. Everyone's coming home."

Cheers erupted through the radio from the dining room back at the ranch.

Pops clapped both Billy and Jake on the shoulders. "Come on, boys. Let's get you home. Your grandmother's gonna want to scrub that marker off your damn foreheads."

Jake grinned. "Can we stop for beer first?"

"Hell no. But I'll pour you both a whiskey when we get back."

As the convoy reformed to head home, Billy looked back at the Ranger's truck—the kidnappers bound, beaten, broken.

Justice served.

He climbed into Tom's truck. Jake slid in beside him, and Billy Jr. squeezed in on the other side, with Ryan Renzo, Daniel Rodriguez, and Ryan Mattern piling into the back.

Jake caught Billy's eye and nodded.

We got through it. Together.

Just like they always did.

Chapter 8: Home

The convoy pulled into the Benson Ranch as the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. Every vehicle in the consortium was already there, parked in a semicircle around the main house. People poured out as soon as Pops' truck came into view.

Sarah Benson was first down the porch steps, followed by Rebecca, Mary Nelson, Caroline Beaumont, and what looked like half the county. The moment Tom's truck stopped, she yanked open the door and pulled Billy and Jake into a crushing hug.

"Oh my God, oh my God," she kept saying, her hands running over their faces, their arms, checking for injuries. Then she saw the marker on their foreheads and her face went from relief to fury. "What did those bastards—"

"We're okay, Mom," Billy said. "We're okay."

"EVENS and ODDS?" She looked ready to cry and kill someone at the same time. "They marked you like—like—"

"Like cattle," Jake finished. "Yeah. But we got 'em back worse."

Tom wrapped his arm around Sarah. "Boys handled themselves. Got themselves free, too."

"Damn right they did," Pops said, climbing out of his truck with his flask. "Benson boys don't quit."

Billy Jr., Ryan Renzo, Daniel Rodriguez, and Ryan Mattern spilled out of the back, all talking at once about the GPS tracking, the drone footage, the whole operation. Anna Nelson pushed through the crowd and threw her arms around Billy Jr.

"You scared me," she said quietly.

"I know. But we got them."

Rebecca hugged her brothers-in-law next, then swatted Jake on the arm. "You two are never working the fence line alone again. Ever."

"Deal," Jake said with a grin.

Edna Nelson appeared, her eyes red like she'd been crying. She walked straight up to Billy and wrapped her arms around him, not saying anything for a long moment.

"Hey," Billy said softly. "I'm okay."

"I saw the feed," Edna whispered. "I saw what they did to you."

"It's over. We're home."

Wade pulled up last with the Rangers' vehicles. Captain Reyes stepped out, nodded to the crowd, then got back in his truck. The Rangers would handle the paperwork. This moment belonged to the families.

Billy looked around. "Where's Celeb?"

Before anyone could answer, the front door of the ranch house banged open. Celeb stumbled out onto the porch, wrapped in a blanket, his face flushed with fever and his hair sticking up in every direction. Billy Jr. and his three friends rushed to his side, trying to steady him.

"Celeb, what the hell are you doing out of bed?" Sarah called out.

"My brothers just got home," Celeb said, his voice hoarse but defiant. "I'm not missing this."

Billy Jr., Ryan Renzo, Daniel, and Ryan Mattern formed a protective wall around him, practically carrying him down the porch steps.

"We got him, Grandma," Billy Jr. said. "He's coming to dinner. No arguments."

Sarah opened her mouth to protest, saw the look on all their faces—including Celeb's fever-bright but determined eyes—and threw up her hands.

"Fine. But he sits, he eats, and then he goes straight back to bed."

Celeb made it down the steps with his friends supporting him. The moment he reached Billy and Jake, he pulled away from the boys and wrapped both brothers in a fierce hug.

"Thank God," Celeb said, his voice cracking. "I've been listening on the radio all day—heard everything—wanted to be there but—"

"We know, man," Billy said, hugging him back. "We know."

Jake clapped him on the shoulder. "You look like hell."

"You two look worse. What's on your foreheads?"

"Long story," Jake said. "We'll tell you inside."

"And those bastards?"

"Tied up, beaten, and in custody," Billy said with satisfaction.

Celeb grinned weakly. "Wish I could've been there for the beating part."

"Next time," Jake said.

"There better not be a next time."

Billy Jr. and his friends guided Celeb inside, practically carrying him to the dining room where they deposited him in a chair between Billy and Jake. Sarah brought him hot tea instead of the food everyone else was getting.

"Alright, everyone inside," Sarah announced to the crowd. "Dining room. We're eating together. All of us."

The house filled with people and noise. Sarah sat Billy down in a chair on Celeb's other side and went to work on his forehead with a soapy washcloth, scrubbing hard enough to make him wince.

"Ow—Mom—"

"Hold still. This is permanent marker. What kind of animals—" Her voice cracked.

"Mom, I'm okay. Really."

She scrubbed harder, tears running down her face now. Tom came over and put his hand on her shoulder.

"He's home, Sarah. They both are."

She nodded, wiping her eyes, and moved to Jake to do the same.

Pops stood at the head of the table, flask in hand. He raised it high.

"To Billy and Jake. Two tough sons of bitches who got themselves out of hell and helped us catch the bastards who put them there."

"Pops!" Sarah said sharply. "Language!"

"Sorry, Sarah. Two tough gentlemen who kicked ass."

The room erupted in laughter and cheers. Everyone raised their glasses—beer, whiskey, sweet tea, whatever they had. Celeb raised his mug of hot tea weakly.

Billy Jr. raised his can of Coke. "And to the 911 system that actually worked!"

"Hell yeah it did!" Billy said, clinking his glass against his nephew's can, then against Celeb's mug.

The food started circulating. Plates piled high. Conversations overlapped—everyone wanted to hear the story, wanted to know every detail. Billy and Jake took turns telling it, with Pops and Billy Jr. filling in the parts from the command center. Celeb listened intently, even though he could barely touch his food.

"Wait, so the radios were just sitting there, still on?" Wilson Nelson asked.

"Idiots didn't even check," Jake said, shaking his head. "Soon as Junior hit that 911 button, they heard everything and panicked."

"And you broke free using a wall bracket?" Ray asked Billy.

"Yeah, twisted until it came loose. Jake was working his rope against a post. Took forever, but—" Billy held up his raw wrists. "We got it done."

"Those knuckles tell a different story too," Robert Beaumont said, nodding at Billy's bruised hands.

Jake grinned. "That part was the most fun."

Wade, sitting near the end of the table, cleared his throat. "Officially, I didn't see anything."

"Officially," Pops agreed, winking.

Billy Jr. was in the middle of explaining the drone operation to anyone who would listen. "Daniel had the GPS tracking, Ryan Mattern had the drone controls, and I coordinated on the radio. It was like a military op."

"You boys did good," Captain Reyes said. He'd stayed for dinner at Sarah's insistence. "Better than some trained teams I've seen."

The four boys beamed. Celeb smiled weakly at them, proud despite missing it all.

As the evening wore on, the adrenaline faded. Billy found himself getting quieter, his shoulders aching, exhaustion settling in. Jake looked the same—still smiling, still bantering, but his eyes were tired. Celeb was practically falling asleep in his chair.

Sarah noticed. "Alright, everyone. The boys need rest. Thank you all for coming, for helping, for everything. But it's time."

There were hugs all around. Promises to check in tomorrow. The consortium families slowly filtered out, but not before each one stopped to clap Billy and Jake on the shoulder, to squeeze their hands, to whisper, "Glad you're home."

Finally, the house grew quiet. Billy Jr. and his friends helped Celeb to his feet.

"Come on, we'll get you upstairs," Billy Jr. said.

The six of them—Billy, Jake, Celeb, and Billy Jr. with his crew—headed up to the frat house. Pops followed behind, his flask replaced with a bottle of whiskey and a handful of shot glasses.

They pushed the door open and Celeb collapsed onto his bunk with a groan.

"Worth it," Celeb muttered. "Totally worth it."

Pops set the bottle and glasses on the small table between the bunks. "Alright, boys. After a day like today, I think everyone deserves a little something medicinal."

He poured a finger of whiskey into each glass—one for Billy, one for Jake, one for Celeb, one for Billy Jr., and one each for Ryan Renzo, Daniel, and Ryan Mattern.

Sarah's voice called up the stairs. "Pops! What are you doing up there?"

"Medicinal purposes, Sarah!" Pops called back. "Doctor's orders!"

"You're not a doctor!"

"Close enough!" Pops handed out the glasses, winking at the boys. "Shame, shame," he muttered under his breath, which sent all of them into quiet laughter.

Billy Jr. looked at the glass in his hand like it was treasure. "Pops, you're the best."

"Damn right I am. Now drink up before your grandmother comes up here."

They all raised their glasses.

"To not dying today," Jake said.

"To not dying today," everyone echoed.

They drank. Celeb coughed immediately, his fever-weakened system not ready for the burn. The other boys handled it better, though Billy Jr. and his friends all made faces.

"Jesus, that's strong," Ryan Renzo wheezed.

"That's the point, boy," Pops said, collecting the glasses. "Alright, I'm out of here before Sarah has my hide. You boys get some rest."

"Thanks, Pops," Billy said.

"Yeah, thanks," the others echoed.

Pops paused at the door. "Billy, Jake—you did good today. Real good. I'm proud of you boys."

"Thanks, Pops," they said together.

He left, closing the door behind him. They could hear him whistling as he went back downstairs.

The boys sprawled out across the frat house—some sitting on bunks, others on the floor. The adrenaline and whiskey had them all still wired despite the exhaustion.

Billy Jr. looked at Billy and Jake. "Can we sleep over? Tonight?"

Ryan Renzo nodded. "Yeah, we don't want to go home yet."

"After everything today," Daniel added, "we just want to hang here."

Ryan Mattern looked hopeful. "If that's cool with you guys."

Billy looked at Jake, who shrugged. "Works for me. The more the merrier."

"Hell yeah," Celeb said from his bunk. "Full house tonight."

Billy Jr. grinned. "Let me go tell Grandma." He disappeared for a moment, then came back. "She said it's fine. She's calling your parents now."

Within minutes, they'd sorted out sleeping arrangements. Billy claimed his usual bottom bunk, Jake his top. Celeb stayed in his bunk. Billy Jr. grabbed sleeping bags from the closet—ones they kept for exactly this kind of night. The three other boys spread out on the floor.

"This is like old times," Billy Jr. said, settling into his sleeping bag.

"Except with a kidnapping," Daniel pointed out.

"Minor detail," Jake said dryly from his bunk.

They talked for a while longer—about the operation, the tech, what they'd do differently next time. Celeb contributed when he could, though his voice kept fading.

Eventually, the room grew quiet. The exhaustion finally caught up with all of them.

"I'm glad you're home," Celeb said quietly, his voice thick with exhaustion and fever. "Both of you."

"Us too, man," Billy said. "Us too."

"Me too," Billy Jr. added from his sleeping bag. "Today was... I don't know. Scary."

"You did good, Junior," Jake said. "Real good. We're proud of you."

The lights went out. For a moment, there was just the creak of the old bed frames, the rustle of sleeping bags, and the sound of the house settling.

"Billy?" Jake said quietly from the top bunk.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for not giving up in there."

"You either."

Silence.

"Love you, little brother."

Billy smiled in the dark. "Love you too."

From the other bunk, Celeb's hoarse voice added, "Love you guys too. Now shut up and let me sleep."

"Love you guys," Billy Jr. said from his sleeping bag.

"Yeah, love you all," the other three boys chimed in sleepily.

All of them laughed quietly.

Outside, Pops sat on the porch with his flask, looking out over the ranch. Tom joined him, sitting in the chair beside him.

"Hell of a day," Tom said.

"Hell of a day," Pops agreed. He took a swig. "But those boys... Tom, they're tougher than I ever was at that age."

"They're Bensons."

"Damn right they are." Pops raised his flask toward the house. "To family."

"To family," Tom echoed.

Inside the frat house, seven boys—brothers, friends, family—finally slept.

Billy and Jake were home.

And the Benson Ranch, the consortium, and every family in Kings County would make damn sure nothing like this ever happened again.