Ambushed!

 

Chapter 1

Billy's hands shook as he held the phone, his voice tight with controlled fear. "Dad. Jake and I were ambushed. They took us here and took our phones, radios, wallets and boots. They are now forcing me to show you Jake... hogtied and gagged."

He angled the phone's camera down toward the concrete floor. Jake lay on his side, wrists bound tight behind his back, ankles pulled up and secured to his wrists in a cruel hogtie. Duct tape covered his mouth. His bare feet flexed uselessly against the ropes. His eyes—wild and furious—locked onto the camera.

"Now they are muting the phone," Billy continued, his voice cracking slightly. "And they are going to let you watch them tie me up."

The line went silent, but the video stayed on.

---

At the Benson Ranch

Tom's face drained of color as he stared at his phone screen. Billy Jr. had appeared at his shoulder, drawn by the urgent tone in his grandfather's voice.

"Grandpa, what—" Jr. started, then stopped cold when he saw Jake on the screen. "Jesus Christ. Is that Jake?"

"Don't look," Tom said reflexively, but he knew it was pointless. The boy was already staring.

On screen, rough hands shoved Billy to the floor. Two masked figures moved into frame—black ski masks, work gloves, no identifying features visible.

"Son of a bitch," Tom breathed. His grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles went white.

One kidnapper grabbed Billy's wrists and wrenched them behind his back. Billy grunted—the only sound that came through before they'd muted the audio.

"They're really doing it," Billy Jr. whispered, his voice hollow. "Grandpa, we gotta—"

"I know. Just... watch. Look for anything. Anything we can use."

The second kidnapper fed rope around Billy's ankles with practiced efficiency. Quick, tight loops. These weren't amateurs.

"They know what they're doing," Jr. said, echoing Tom's thoughts. His voice had shifted—steadier now, analytical. The shock was giving way to something else. "Look at those knots. Military? Law enforcement?"

Tom's jaw clenched. "Maybe."

Billy didn't fight. He knew better. But his jaw was clenched, muscles taut across his shoulders as they pulled his bound wrists toward his bound ankles.

"Come on, Billy," Tom muttered under his breath. "Stay calm. Stay smart."

"He is," Jr. said quietly. "He's not giving them a reason."

The hogtie came together quickly—too quickly. Within ninety seconds, Billy lay on the floor beside his brother, bound just as tightly. His bare feet already showing red marks from the rope biting into skin.

"Why'd they take their boots?" Jr. asked.

"So they can't run," Tom said grimly. "And because—"

He stopped. He didn't want to say it.

"Because of the threat," Jr. finished, his voice dark. "They're going to hurt their feet."

The phone was propped up now, showing both brothers side by side on the cold concrete floor. Billy's chest rose and fell with controlled breaths. Jake was still struggling, anger radiating off him even through a phone screen.

Then a text appeared on Tom's screen:

$500K RANSOM OR WE TORTURE THEIR FEET. INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Billy Jr.'s hand shot to his own pocket, reaching for his satellite phone.

Tom's voice came out as a growl. "Hit the button. Now."

Chapter 1

Billy's hands shook as he held the phone, his voice tight with controlled fear. "Dad. Jake and I were ambushed. They took us here and took our phones, radios, wallets and boots. They are now forcing me to show you Jake... hogtied and gagged."

He angled the phone's camera down toward the concrete floor. Jake lay on his side, wrists bound tight behind his back, ankles pulled up and secured to his wrists in a cruel hogtie. Duct tape covered his mouth. His bare feet flexed uselessly against the ropes. His eyes—wild and furious—locked onto the camera.

"Now they are muting the phone," Billy continued, his voice cracking slightly. "And they are going to let you watch them tie me up."

The line went silent, but the video stayed on.

---

At the Benson Ranch

Tom's face drained of color as he stared at his phone screen. Billy Jr. had appeared at his shoulder, drawn by the urgent tone in his grandfather's voice.

"Grandpa, what—" Jr. started, then stopped cold when he saw Jake on the screen. "Jesus Christ. Is that Jake?"

"Don't look," Tom said reflexively, but he knew it was pointless. The boy was already staring.

On screen, rough hands shoved Billy to the floor. Two masked figures moved into frame—black ski masks, work gloves, no identifying features visible.

"Son of a bitch," Tom breathed. His grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles went white.

One kidnapper grabbed Billy's wrists and wrenched them behind his back. Billy grunted—the only sound that came through before they'd muted the audio.

"They're really doing it," Billy Jr. whispered, his voice hollow. "Grandpa, we gotta—"

"I know. Just... watch. Look for anything. Anything we can use."

The second kidnapper fed rope around Billy's ankles with practiced efficiency. Quick, tight loops. These weren't amateurs.

"They know what they're doing," Jr. said, echoing Tom's thoughts. His voice had shifted—steadier now, analytical. The shock was giving way to something else. "Look at those knots. Military? Law enforcement?"

Tom's jaw clenched. "Maybe."

Billy didn't fight. He knew better. But his jaw was clenched, muscles taut across his shoulders as they pulled his bound wrists toward his bound ankles.

"Come on, Billy," Tom muttered under his breath. "Stay calm. Stay smart."

"He is," Jr. said quietly. "He's not giving them a reason."

The hogtie came together quickly—too quickly. Within ninety seconds, Billy lay on the floor beside his brother, bound just as tightly. His bare feet already showing red marks from the rope biting into skin.

"Why'd they take their boots?" Jr. asked.

"So they can't run," Tom said grimly. "And because—"

He stopped. He didn't want to say it.

"Because of the threat," Jr. finished, his voice dark. "They're going to hurt their feet."

The phone was propped up now, showing both brothers side by side on the cold concrete floor. Billy's chest rose and fell with controlled breaths. Jake was still struggling, anger radiating off him even through a phone screen.

Then a text appeared on Tom's screen:

$500K RANSOM OR WE TORTURE THEIR FEET. INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Billy Jr.'s hand shot to his own pocket, reaching for his satellite phone.

Tom's voice came out as a growl. "Hit the button. Now."

---

Chapter 2

The satellite phone's mechanical voice cut through the evening air across six ranches: "911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Billy Jr."

Jr.'s fingers were already moving. He forwarded the kidnapping video to every consortium member before Tom could even speak. Eighteen satellite phones buzzed simultaneously across Kings County.

The radio network exploded with voices.

"What the hell—" Robert Beaumont's voice crackled through. "Is that Billy and Jake?"

"Hogtied," Sheriff Wade Nelson confirmed, his voice tight. "Both of them. We're rolling now."

"Ransom demand," Tom cut in, his voice like gravel. "Five hundred thousand. They're threatening to torture their feet."

"Jesus Christ," Ray Benson said. "Where are you, Dad?"

"Main house. Jr. hit the button. Get here. Now."

"Ten minutes out," Josh Benson reported. "Rebecca's at the hospital—I'm calling her."

"We're moving," Mr. Renzo said. "Billy's already grabbing gear."

"Matterns rolling," came another voice.

"Rodriguez family en route," Daniel's father confirmed.

"Kids," Tom said sharply. "Jr., Billy, Ryan, Daniel—command center. Get those systems online."

"Already upstairs, Grandpa," Jr. replied, his voice steady despite the fear underneath. "Pulling surveillance now."

"Wade, how long till you're here?" Tom asked.

"Five minutes," the Sheriff said. "Wilson and Ryan are with me. Mary's mobilizing the volunteer deputies."

"Caroline and I are three minutes out," Robert Beaumont added. "Celeb's with you?"

"Right here, Dad," Celeb's voice came through. "In the command center with Jr."

"Good boy. You help those kids find them."

Pops' gravelly voice cut through the chatter: "Whoever did this just fucked with the wrong family."

"Pops—" Sarah Benson started.

"Don't 'Pops' me, Sarah. Those boys are ours. And we're getting them back."

"Amen to that," Wade Nelson said.

By the time the adults started arriving, Billy Jr. had already sent a second message to his three friends: COMMAND CENTER NOW. BILLY AND JAKE KIDNAPPED.

Jr. was taking the stairs three at a time. Celeb was right behind him, his face white but focused.

"What do we got?" Celeb demanded as they burst through the command center door.

"Pulling it up now," Jr. said, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. Three monitors flickered to life on the wall. Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel came crashing through the door thirty seconds later, breathless.

"Holy shit," Billy Renzo breathed. "Is this real?"

"Shut up and help," Jr. snapped. "Daniel, get the drone network online. Ryan, I need you on comms—monitor every frequency. Billy, pull up the ranch surveillance grid. All cameras, last six hours."

They moved like a machine. No hesitation. This was what they'd trained for—what they'd built the whole system for.

Through the open door, they could hear trucks roaring up the driveway. Doors slamming. Voices shouting. The entire consortium was converging on the Benson Ranch.

"Got something," Billy Renzo called out. "Southeast camera, 14:47 hours."

The footage appeared on the center monitor. Billy and Jake on horseback, riding the fence line near the southeast boundary. Then—movement in the brush. Three figures, masked, emerging fast.

"There," Celeb said, pointing. "They were waiting."

The ambush happened in seconds. Billy and Jake were pulled from their horses. A brief struggle. Then they were down, rough hands wrenching their arms behind their backs. Rope wound tight around their wrists.

"Fast," Jr. muttered. "Too fast. They knew exactly where they'd be."

"Keep watching," Daniel said quietly.

With their hands bound, the brothers couldn't resist as the kidnappers went through their pockets and saddlebags. Satellite phones—gone, tossed in the dirt. Radios—stripped away. Wallets—taken.

Then the boots. The kidnappers yanked off their boots, then their socks, leaving both brothers barefoot.

"They're taking everything," Ryan said quietly. "No way to communicate, no way to run."

The kidnappers hauled the brothers to their feet—hands still bound behind their backs, but not hogtied yet. They were shoved toward the dark pickup truck and pushed into the bed.

"They can still talk to each other," Celeb noted. "Look—Billy's saying something to Jake."

On the grainy footage, Billy's mouth was moving. Jake nodded, his face grim.

"They're just tied at the wrists for transport," Jr. said. "The hogtying happened later. At wherever they took them."

"There's our vehicle," Ryan said, zooming in as the truck pulled away. "Ford F-250, dark blue or black. Plate's covered in mud."

"Follow it through the cameras," Jr. ordered.

They tracked the truck across three different camera angles as it left Benson land. Then it disappeared.

"Lost visual at the county road," Billy Renzo reported.

"Switch to satellite," Jr. ordered.

Celeb pulled up the satellite tracking interface—one of their newest additions, piggybacking on a commercial service Tom had paid through the nose for. The system wasn't real-time, but it was close.

"There," Celeb said, tracing a route on the map. "Heading northeast. They stayed on back roads. Avoiding traffic."

Jr. measured the distance with his mouse. "Thirty-five miles out. That's where we lose them. Too many turnoffs after that point."

"Wait," Ryan said. He'd been working on a separate terminal. "The phone. The one they used to text Tom. I've got a ping."

"How?" Daniel asked.

"They're amateurs," Ryan said with a tight smile. "Left the location services on. I triangulated off the cell towers."

A new marker appeared on the map—five miles beyond where they'd lost the truck.

"Forty miles northeast," Jr. said. "That's our search radius."

The door burst open. Tom, Pops, Sheriff Wade Nelson, and the other adults crowded into the room.

"What do you have?" Tom demanded.

"Forty miles northeast, Grandpa," Jr. said, not looking away from the screens. "We tracked them through surveillance and the phone they used. But that's as far as we can go without tipping them off."

"Tipping them off how?" Wade Nelson asked.

"If we ping the phone again, they might notice," Ryan explained. "If we send patrol cars, they'll see the dust clouds. These guys are pros. They'll know we're looking."

"So what do we do?" Tom's voice was strained.

Jr. turned to face his grandfather. His face was set, determined—older than his sixteen years.

"We send the drones."

Celeb was already moving to the equipment rack. "We've got six birds. Thermal imaging, night vision, encrypted feed. They won't hear them, won't see them."

"We grid search the area," Daniel added. "Systematic. Every structure, every vehicle within that forty-mile radius."

Pops stepped forward, his weathered face grim. "How long?"

"Two hours to cover the area properly," Jr. said. "Maybe less if we get lucky."

Tom looked at Sheriff Nelson. Wade's jaw was tight.

"Do it," Tom said. "But Wade—get your people ready. The second we find them, we're going in hard."

"Already on it," Wade said, pulling out his radio. "Wilson, Ryan, you copy?"

"Copy," his sons replied over the radio in unison.

Jr. turned back to the screens. "All right. Let's bring them home."

The radio crackled again. "This is Ray. What do you need from us?"

"Weapons," Pops said flatly. "Every man with a rifle. We're not negotiating."

The four boys and Celeb bent over their stations, fingers flying, drones spinning to life on the monitors.

The hunt was on.

Chapter 3

The concrete floor was cold and unforgiving beneath them. Billy's shoulders screamed with pain, every muscle pulled taut by the cruel arch of the hogtie. Sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes.

He glanced sideways at Jake. His brother was working his wrists back and forth, trying to find any give in the ropes. Jake's face was red with exertion, jaw clenched tight around the duct tape gag. Their eyes met—a silent conversation passing between them.

Keep going.

Billy resumed his own efforts, twisting his wrists, flexing against the ropes. The burn in his shoulders intensified but he ignored it. They had to try. Had to do something.

Jake had managed to work himself closer to the wall. He was using the rough concrete to saw at the rope connecting his wrists to his ankles. Slow. Methodical. His bare feet flexed and pointed with each movement, toes curling with the effort.

Billy followed his lead, inching across the floor like a worm. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through his bound limbs. Sweat poured off both of them now, soaking their shirts.

Minutes passed. Maybe ten. Maybe twenty. Time had lost all meaning.

Then Jake's eyes went wide. Billy felt it too—a slight loosening. Jake's rope was fraying against the wall.

Hope surged through Billy's chest. He redoubled his efforts, ignoring the burning in his muscles, the rope cutting into his skin.

The door burst open.

Both brothers froze.

Three masked figures stormed in. The tallest one—the leader—stood over Jake, staring down at the frayed rope against the wall.

"You stupid sons of bitches."

Billy tried to speak through the gag, tried to explain, but only muffled sounds came out.

The leader grabbed Jake by the shoulder and flipped him onto his back. Jake's bound feet kicked uselessly.

"Hold him," the leader barked.

The other two kidnappers pinned Jake down. One grabbed his ankles, forcing his bare feet to stay still.

The leader pulled a thick wooden stick from his belt—maybe two feet long, an inch thick. Solid oak or hickory.

Billy's eyes went wide. He tried to scream through the gag. Tried to thrash toward his brother.

The third kidnapper kicked Billy hard in the ribs. "Stay down."

The first blow landed across the soles of Jake's feet with a sickening crack. Jake's entire body went rigid, back arching, a muffled scream tearing through the duct tape.

CRACK.

Another blow. And another.

Billy squeezed his eyes shut, unable to watch, unable to help. Tears streamed down his face.

Five blows total. Then they moved to Billy.

"Your turn."

Billy tried to pull his feet away but the rope held him fast. Strong hands gripped his ankles.

The first strike felt like lightning shooting up his legs. White-hot pain exploded across the soles of his feet. He screamed into the gag, body convulsing.

Four more blows followed in quick succession. By the end, Billy couldn't see straight. His vision swam with tears and pain.

"Now," the leader said, breathing hard, "let's make sure you don't try that shit again."

They yanked the rope connecting Billy's wrists to his ankles even tighter, pulling his feet closer to his hands. The arch in his back became unbearable. He gasped for air through his nose.

Jake got the same treatment. His brother's face had gone pale, eyes glassy with pain.

The leader pulled out a phone and hit record.

"Take a good look," he said to the camera. He panned across both brothers—sweat-soaked, rope marks livid on their skin, feet red and swelling. "Your boys tried to escape. We made sure they won't try again."

He zoomed in on their faces, then their beaten feet.

"You've got six hours. Six. Then we stop playing games and put bullets in their heads. Clock starts now."

He ended the recording and looked down at Billy and Jake with cold eyes.

"Six hours. Better hope Daddy comes through."

The door slammed shut. The lock clicked.

Billy turned his head to look at Jake. His brother's chest heaved with ragged breaths. Tears streaked through the dirt on his face.

They couldn't talk. Couldn't comfort each other.

All they could do was lie there in agony and pray the family found them in time.

---

At the Benson Ranch - Command Center

Tom's satellite phone buzzed. A new video.

His hand trembled as he opened it.

"Jesus Christ," Pops breathed, looking over his shoulder.

The entire room fell silent as they watched. Billy Jr. stood frozen, his face draining of color. Sheriff Wade Nelson's jaw clenched so tight it looked ready to break.

The video ended with the ultimatum: Six hours.

Tom checked the timestamp. It had been sent eleven minutes ago.

"Five hours, forty-nine minutes," Jr. said quietly, his voice hollow. "That's all we've got."

Then Ryan shot up from his terminal. "Wait—Jr., the video! They just uploaded it!"

Jr.'s head snapped around. "The ping?"

"I've got it!" Ryan's fingers flew across the keyboard. "New data point. Triangulating now."

A new marker appeared on the map—much more precise than before.

"There!" Celeb shouted, pointing at the screen. "That's not forty miles out anymore. That's—"

"Thirty-eight point two miles," Daniel finished, pulling up coordinates. "Northeast quadrant. I've got a structure on satellite imagery."

"Old barn," Billy Renzo said, zooming in. "Looks abandoned. Off County Road 47."

Jr. was already redirecting the drones. "Birds three and five, converge on these coordinates. Full thermal scan."

On the monitors, two drone feeds shifted, banking hard and accelerating toward the new target.

"How long?" Tom demanded.

"Four minutes to get eyes on," Jr. said, not looking away from the screen.

Sheriff Wade Nelson was already on his radio. "All units, we have a location. Thirty-eight miles northeast, off County Road 47. Mobilize now."

"Armed response," Pops added. "Every man."

Tom stared at the drone feeds, watching them race across the darkening Texas landscape.

"Hold on, boys," he whispered. "We're coming."

The clock was ticking: five hours, forty-five minutes left.

But now they knew exactly where to go.

Chapter 4

"We're not waiting here," Tom said, his voice cutting through the command center. "Pack it up. We're going mobile."

Jr. and the other boys didn't hesitate. They'd planned for this—portable tablets synced to the main system, satellite uplinks that worked from anywhere.

"Two minutes," Jr. said, unplugging tablets and grabbing charging cables.

Billy Renzo was already loading equipment into tactical bags. Ryan and Daniel secured the drone controllers. Celeb grabbed the backup satellite phones.

Downstairs, the consortium men were arming up. Rifles pulled from gun safes. Ammunition counted. Tactical vests distributed to those who had them.

Pops emerged from the gun room with his Vietnam-era M14, his face set in grim determination. "Nobody kills my grandsons."

"Dad—" Sarah started.

"Don't," Tom said quietly to his wife. "We need every gun we've got."

Sarah's face was pale but she nodded. She turned to Rebecca, Mary Nelson, Caroline Beaumont, and the other women. "We'll monitor from here. Stay on the iPads. You see anything, you radio immediately."

Rebecca pulled out one of the sixteen synchronized iPads, the screen already showing the drone feeds. "We've got eyes on everything, Tom. Go get our boys."

The convoy formed quickly in the yard. Tom's F-350 led—Tom driving, Josh in the passenger seat, the four wiz kids and Celeb crammed into the extended cab with their equipment spread across their laps.

Behind them: Sheriff Wade Nelson's cruiser with his sons Wilson and Ryan. The Beaumonts' truck. The Renzos. The Matterns. The Rodriguezes. Ray and the other Benson brothers. Twelve vehicles total, nearly thirty armed men.

"All units, radio check," Jr. said into his headset as the trucks started rolling.

One by one, they called in. The encrypted frequency was crystal clear.

Tom's truck tore down the driveway, dust plumes rising behind the convoy.

Jr. had his tablet balanced on his knees, watching the drone feeds. "Birds three and five are thirty seconds from target."

"What do you see?" Josh asked, gripping the oh-shit handle as Tom took a turn too fast.

"Structure coming into view now," Daniel reported from the back seat. "Thermal imaging shows... two signatures. No, wait—four. Two stationary on the ground, two moving around them."

"That's them," Tom growled. "Has to be."

The drone feed resolved on Jr.'s screen. An old barn, corrugated metal roof half-collapsed. The dark pickup truck parked beside it. And inside—four heat signatures clear as day.

"Tom, that's definitely them," Jr. said. "Two on the ground—those have to be Billy and Jake. Two standing—the kidnappers."

"How far out are we?" Sheriff Wade Nelson asked over the radio.

"Twenty-two minutes at current speed," Ryan calculated.

"Make it fifteen," Pops said from the truck behind them.

Tom pressed the accelerator harder.

---

Inside the Barn

One of the kidnappers walked to the open door, stretching his back. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, looking up at the darkening sky.

Then he froze.

"You hear that?" he called back to his partners.

The leader looked up from counting money. "Hear what?"

"Like a... buzz. High-pitched."

All three kidnappers stepped outside. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the scrubland.

There—silhouetted against the orange sky. A small shape, maybe two feet across, hovering three hundred yards out.

"What the fuck is that?" the third kidnapper said.

The leader's eyes went wide. "Drone. Shit—there's two of them!"

He spun toward the barn, then back at the drones. His mind was racing.

"They found us," he said, his voice tight. "I don't know how, but they fucking found us."

"What do we do?" the second kidnapper asked, panic creeping into his voice.

The leader's jaw clenched. He looked at the barn where Billy and Jake lay hogtied and helpless. Then at the truck. Then back at the drones.

"Kill them," he said. "Kill them both. We take the truck and we run. Leave no witnesses."

"But the ransom—"

"Forget the goddamn ransom!" the leader shouted. "Those drones mean they're coming. Could be minutes away. We kill the boys, scatter the evidence, and disappear. Move!"

All three kidnappers pulled their weapons and ran back into the barn.

On the ground, Billy and Jake couldn't see them coming. Couldn't hear the death sentence that had just been pronounced.

But forty miles away, in the lead truck of the convoy, Jr. watched his screen in horror as the thermal signatures moved with sudden purpose toward his uncles.

"Dad—Tom—they spotted the drones," Jr. said, his voice tight. "They're going for Billy and Jake."

Tom's knuckles went white on the steering wheel.

"How long?" he asked, his voice deadly calm.

"We're still fourteen minutes out."

In the back of the barn, through the drone's camera, they could see one of the kidnappers raise his pistol.

"Drive faster," Josh said.

Tom floored it.

Chapter 5

Tom's convoy skidded to a halt three hundred yards from the barn, dust clouds billowing around them. Truck doors flew open. Men poured out with military precision—rifles up, safeties off.

Sheriff Wade Nelson took command. "Wilson, Ryan—north side. Beaumonts, cover the east. Renzos, Matterns, south approach. Tom, Ray, Josh—you're with me on the main entrance."

"Pops, you stay with—" Tom started.

"Like hell I will," Pops growled, chambering a round in his M14. "Those are my grandsons in there."

Tom didn't argue.

Jr.'s voice crackled through the radios. "Three hostiles, moving toward the center of the structure. Billy and Jake are on the ground, northeast corner. No movement from them."

"Flash bangs ready," Wade ordered. "On my count. Three... two... one—GO!"

The assault happened in seconds.

Wilson Nelson kicked in the side door as Ray Benson hurled a flash bang through the main entrance. The barn exploded with light and sound—a deafening CRACK that rattled teeth and turned the world white.

"MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!"

The consortium men poured through every opening. The kidnappers, disoriented and blinded, tried to raise their weapons.

They never had a chance.

Gunfire erupted—controlled bursts, professional, lethal. Tom's rifle barked twice. Wade's three times. Pops' M14 boomed like thunder.

Within fifteen seconds, all three kidnappers were down. Not moving. Not breathing.

"CLEAR!" Wade shouted.

"CLEAR!" came the responses from every direction.

Then Tom was running, his rifle forgotten, dropped to hang from its sling. "BILLY! JAKE!"

They were there—both of them, hogtied tight on the filthy concrete floor. Duct tape across their mouths. Their bare feet swollen and discolored. Rope marks raw and bleeding on their wrists and ankles.

But their eyes were open. They were alive.

"Oh thank God," Tom breathed, dropping to his knees beside them. His hands shook as he pulled a knife from his belt. "Hold still, boys. Hold still."

Josh was already sawing through Jake's ropes. Ray worked on Billy's ankles. Pops stood over them, his weathered face wet with tears he didn't bother to hide.

"Easy now," Tom said, cutting through the rope connecting Billy's wrists to his ankles. The tension released and Billy gasped, his back finally able to straighten after hours in that cruel arch.

Jake's gag came off first. He sucked in air, coughing. "Took you... long enough..."

"Shut up," Tom said, but he was smiling through his own tears.

Billy's gag came next. "Is there... food at home?"

Despite everything, Tom laughed—half sob, half relief. "Yeah, son. There's food."

The ropes fell away completely. Both brothers tried to stand but their legs wouldn't hold them. Their feet—swollen, beaten, couldn't bear weight.

"Whoa, easy," Josh said, catching Jake before he fell.

Headlights swept across the barn entrance. Rebecca's SUV skidded to a stop.

"Let me through!" Rebecca pushed past the armed men, her nurse's bag already open. She took one look at her uncles' feet and her face went pale. "Oh my God."

"Can you walk?" she asked gently, kneeling beside Billy.

"No," Billy admitted, his voice hoarse. "Hurts like hell."

Rebecca pulled out compression wraps, ice packs, and pain medication. "I'm going to stabilize these. Then we're getting you to the hospital—"

"No hospital," Jake said firmly. "Home. We just want to go home."

"Jake—"

"HOME," both brothers said in unison.

Rebecca looked at Tom. He nodded slowly.

"All right," she said. "But I'm checking you every hour. And if those feet get worse, you're going to the ER whether you like it or not."

She worked quickly, wrapping their feet with practiced efficiency. Tom and Josh lifted Billy. Ray and Wilson carried Jake. They were loaded gently into the back of Tom's truck, sitting with their backs against the cab, feet elevated on coolers packed with ice.

The convoy turned for home.

---

The Benson Ranch - Two Hours Later

The kitchen smelled like heaven. Sarah, Mary Nelson, and Caroline Beaumont had been cooking since the moment they got the radio call: "We have them. They're alive."

Chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, cornbread, gravy. Comfort food. Home food.

Billy and Jake sat at the kitchen table, their feet propped up on chairs, wrapped in Rebecca's careful bandaging. They looked exhausted—faces pale, dark circles under their eyes. But they were eating like they hadn't seen food in a week.

"Slow down," Sarah said gently, touching Billy's shoulder. "You'll make yourself sick."

"Don't care," Billy mumbled around a mouthful of chicken. "S'good."

Jake just nodded, already reaching for more cornbread.

Jr. and his buddies hovered nearby, trying to act casual but unable to stop staring at their uncles—making sure they were really there, really safe.

Pops sat at the head of the table, a tumbler of Jack Daniels in his weathered hand. He'd already poured himself three fingers and showed no signs of stopping.

"To my grandsons," he said, raising his glass. "Toughest sons of bitches in Texas."

"Pops!" Sarah protested weakly.

"It's true," Pops insisted. "And to those wiz kids who found 'em. Damn fine work."

Jr. ducked his head, embarrassed but pleased.

Tom stood by the window, watching his sons eat. His hands had finally stopped shaking. Wade Nelson stood beside him, both men holding their own glasses of whiskey.

"They're going to be okay," Wade said quietly.

"Yeah," Tom replied. "They are."

Outside, the rest of the consortium men were gathered in the yard—weapons cleaned and stored, adrenaline finally fading. They'd come when called. They'd fought when needed. And they'd brought the boys home.

Inside, Billy pushed his empty plate away and looked at Jake. His brother looked back.

No words needed. Just a nod.

They were home.

Chapter 6

An hour later, Josh and Ray carried Billy up the stairs. Tom and Celeb had Jake. Their feet were too swollen, too painful to walk on.

"Watch the doorframe," Billy muttered as they maneuvered through the frat house door.

"We got you," Josh said.

They settled both brothers onto their bunks—Billy on the bottom, Jake above him, same as it had been since they were kids. Jr.'s bunk was across from them, with Celeb on the top.

Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel stood in the doorway with backpacks.

"We're staying," Billy Renzo announced.

"Damn right we are," Ryan added.

Tom looked at the three wiz kids, then at Jr. and Celeb who already lived there, then at his injured sons. He nodded. "You need anything—"

"We're good, Dad," Billy said. "Really."

Tom hesitated, then squeezed Billy's shoulder and left, closing the door behind him.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Celeb moved to the corner, pried up the loose floorboard, and pulled out the secret beer stash. "I think tonight qualifies."

"Hell yes it does," Jake said from his bunk.

The door opened again. Everyone froze, beers half-hidden.

Pops walked in with his bottle of Jack Daniels and a stack of plastic cups.

"Put those shit beers away," he said. "Tonight, you drink like men."

He poured a finger of whiskey into each cup, passing them around. The boys took them reverently. Even the three sixteen-year-olds didn't dare refuse when Pops was pouring.

"To Billy and Jake," Pops said, raising his own glass. "Who survived a bunch of dumb-ass kidnappers and lived to tell about it."

They all drank. The whiskey burned going down. Billy Renzo coughed.

"Lightweight," Pops muttered, but he was smiling.

Pops settled into the old armchair in the corner—the one that had been there since Tom was a kid. Everyone else found spots—Jr. and his three buddies on the floor, Daniel on the mattress between the beds, Celeb leaning against his bunk. The door stayed closed. This was their space.

"So," Jr. said finally, looking up at Jake's bunk and over at Billy. "What the fuck happened?"

Jake snorted. "You want the whole story or the short version?"

"Everything," Celeb said. "Start to finish."

Billy and Jake exchanged looks. Then Billy started talking.

"We were riding fence line, southeast boundary. Normal patrol. Jake was giving me shit about something—"

"You were riding too slow," Jake interjected.

"I was being careful," Billy shot back. "Anyway, we're arguing, not paying attention like we should've been. Then these three assholes come out of nowhere."

"Fast," Jake added. "Too fast. Like they'd been waiting."

"They pulled us off our horses before we could react," Billy continued. "I tried to fight but one of them had a gun to Jake's head. So I stopped."

"Smart," Pops said quietly.

"They tied our hands behind our backs with rope," Jake said. "Tight. Professional knots. Then they went through our pockets, our saddlebags. Took our phones, radios, wallets. Everything."

"Then they made us take off our boots," Billy said. "Well, we couldn't with our hands tied, so they yanked them off. Socks too."

"Why?" Ryan asked.

"So we couldn't run," Jake said flatly. "And because of what they were planning to do later."

The room went quiet.

"They threw us in the back of a truck," Billy continued. "Just our hands tied, not hogtied yet. We could talk to each other."

"What'd you say?" Jr. asked.

Jake grinned despite everything. "I told Billy not to be a pussy. He told me to shut the fuck up."

"Sounds about right," Celeb said, and everyone laughed—tense, relieved laughter.

"They drove for maybe forty minutes," Billy said. "Took us to that old barn. That's when they hogtied Jake first. Wrists to ankles, pulled tight. Gagged him with duct tape."

"Then they made me call Dad," Billy said. "Untied my hands so I could hold the phone. Made me show Jake like that. Then they tied me up the same way while you watched."

"That was fucked up," Daniel said quietly.

"Yeah," Billy agreed. "It was."

"How long were you like that?" Jr. asked.

"Hours," Jake said. "I don't even know. Time stopped meaning anything. Your shoulders feel like they're being ripped out of their sockets. You can't move. Can't talk. Just lie there."

"We tried to escape," Billy said. "Jake found a rough spot on the wall, started sawing at his ropes."

"Did it work?" Billy Renzo asked.

"Almost," Jake said. "Got it maybe halfway through. Then they caught us."

The room went very still.

"That's when they beat our feet," Billy said quietly.

Pops took a long drink of his whiskey.

"Big wooden stick," Jake said. "Thick. Hard. They held our feet still and just... wailed on them. Five hits each."

"Jesus," Ryan breathed.

"Then they tightened the hogties even more," Billy added. "So we couldn't try again. Sent that video to Dad with the six-hour deadline."

"We thought we were dead," Jake admitted. "When we heard them run back in after spotting the drones, I thought, 'This is it.'"

"But then—" Billy started.

"Then we heard the flash bang," Jake finished. "Thought the world was ending. Then gunfire. Then Dad's voice."

"Scariest fifteen seconds of my life," Billy said. "Followed by the best fifteen seconds."

Nobody spoke for a moment. Then Pops cleared his throat.

"You boys did good," he said. "Kept your heads. Didn't panic. Tried to escape even when it was damn near impossible. That takes balls."

"Thanks, Pops," Jake said.

"And you wiz kids," Pops continued, gesturing with his cup at Jr. and his friends. "Found 'em with those fancy drones and computers. Saved their lives."

"We just did what we trained for," Jr. said.

"Bullshit," Pops said. "You did more than that. You did what family does."

He poured another round. This time, the whiskey didn't burn quite as much going down.

Outside, the night was quiet. The ranch was safe. The consortium stood guard.

Inside the frat house, seven boys and one old man sat together—drinking, talking, being alive.

"Pops," Billy said after a while. "Can we not tell Mom we're drinking Jack Daniels?"

"Boy," Pops said, "your mama already knows. And right now, she don't give a damn. You're home. That's all that matters."

Jake raised his cup. "To being home."

"To being home," they all echoed.

And for the first time since the ambush, Billy and Jake actually believed it.

Pop's Bugle

 

Chapter 1

The bugle blast cut through the pre-dawn darkness at exactly 5:15 AM, rattling through every corner of the Benson Ranch house like it had for the past fifty years.

"Jesus Christ, Pops!" Jake groaned from the top bunk, throwing his arm over his face.

From the bunk below him, Billy was already stirring. "You say that every morning, and he still blows that damn thing."

"Fuck me," Caleb muttered from the top bunk across the room, his Louisiana drawl thick with sleep.

Billy Jr. sat up from the bottom bunk beneath Caleb, grinning. The sixteen-year-old was already wide awake. "Five-fifteen on the dot. You could set your watch by him."

"I'd like to set that bugle on fire," Jake said, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk.

From the mattress on the floor between the two bunk beds, Colton groaned and pulled his pillow over his head. "Y'all are crazy. This family is crazy." The seventeen-year-old from Baton Rouge, Caleb's cousin, had been living in the Frat House for months now but still wasn't used to Pops' wake-up routine.

The bugle sounded again, closer now. Pops was making his rounds down the hallway.

"UP AND AT 'EM, YOU LAZY SHITS!" Pops' voice boomed from outside their door. "DAYLIGHT'S BURNING!"

"It's still dark out!" Caleb yelled back.

"NOT FOR LONG! COFFEE'S ON IN TWO MINUTES!"

The old man's boots thumped down the stairs, and they could hear him muttering colorful curses about young men who couldn't get their asses out of bed.

Billy swung down from his bunk, already reaching for his jeans. At twenty-one, he was lean and work-hardened, his dark hair sticking up in every direction. "Come on. You know Sarah's gonna have breakfast ready in twenty minutes."

Jake dropped down beside him, twenty-two and built heavier than his younger brother, with the same dark Benson features. "I need coffee before I can be human."

"You need coffee to be an asshole, you mean," Billy said, grinning.

"Fuck you."

"Love you too, brother."

Billy Jr. was already dressed, pulling on his boots. The kid idolized his uncles, especially these two. At sixteen, he was getting that same Benson build, broad through the shoulders from ranch work. "Command center checks out good. Ran diagnostics last night with Renzo and the guys."

"Of course you did, you damn nerd," Jake said, but there was pride in his voice. He ruffled Jr.'s hair as he passed.

Caleb finally rolled out of his top bunk, stretching his tall frame. He'd been living in the Frat House for fourteen months now, ever since the consortium formed, and he'd become like a third brother to Billy and Jake. "Colton, get your Baton Rouge ass up. We got work."

Colton sat up from his mattress on the floor, rubbing his eyes. "I'm up, I'm up."

The five of them clattered down the stairs, a stampede of boots on hardwood. The smell of coffee hit them before they reached the kitchen, and sure enough, Pops was at the counter, pouring himself a cup, his weathered face creased with satisfaction.

"About damn time," Pops said. "Thought I was gonna have to drag you out by your ankles."

"Morning, Pops," Billy said, grabbing a mug.

The old man was seventy-six, Vietnam vet, tough as leather, with close-cropped gray hair and eyes that still had that thousand-yard stare when he got quiet. But this morning he was grinning, cigar already clenched between his teeth even though Sarah would raise hell if he lit it inside.

"Sleep good, boys?"

"Until some asshole blew a bugle in our faces," Jake said.

Pops laughed, a sound like gravel in a can. "Builds character. Your great-great-grandfather used that bugle in the civil War. Family tradition."

"Pretty sure he used it to torture prisoners," Caleb said, pouring coffee.

"Probably did!" Pops clapped him on the shoulder. "Smart man."

Sarah was already at the stove, moving with the efficiency of decades of feeding ranch hands. Rebecca, Josh's wife, was setting out plates. The kitchen was warm, filled with the sizzle of bacon and the smell of biscuits in the oven.

"Morning, boys," Sarah said without turning around. "Wash your hands."

"Yes, ma'am," came the chorus.

Tom Benson came in from the back door, already dressed for work, his face weathered from forty years of ranching. "Josh is in the barn. Said he's got assignments after breakfast."

Billy and Jake exchanged a glance. Assignments meant work details, splitting up to cover the massive acreage the consortium now managed.

By the time they sat down, the whole family was gathering around the table. Ray came in from his room, business manager mode already activated, tablet in hand. Josh arrived from the barn with dirt on his boots.

Breakfast was loud, chaotic, and efficient. Plates passed, coffee poured, conversation layered over conversation. Pops held court at one end, telling some story about Khe Sanh that made the younger boys' eyes widen. Billy Jr. was already talking tech with Colton, probably planning some new upgrade to the Command Center.

Billy caught Jake's eye across the table and grinned. This was their life. Messy, loud, full of family. Perfect.

When the plates were mostly clear, Josh stood up, pulling out a folded map. "Alright, listen up. Got a lot to cover today."

The table quieted. Josh was the General Manager, and when he laid out assignments, people listened.

"Ray, you're with Dad handling the cattle contracts with the Mattern place. Pops, you're supervising the fence crew on the north forty with Horse and Ryan." Horse Nelson—Wilson—and his brother Ryan were both deputies under their father Sheriff Wade, but they helped out on the ranches when they could.

"Caleb, you and Colton are on equipment maintenance. That irrigation system's been acting up."

"Got it," Caleb said.

Josh's eyes moved to Billy and Jake. "You two—I need you to check the eastern boundary line. The old Hutchins property. We've been getting reports of fence down, maybe some cattle drift. Take the tools, fix what you can, mark what needs a crew."

Billy nodded. "How far out?"

"About forty minutes. It's remote out there, but shouldn't take more than a few hours if the damage isn't bad."

"We're on it," Jake said.

"Jr., you and your tech crew are running drills today, right?" Josh asked.

Billy Jr. nodded eagerly. "Yes sir. Testing the new satellite phones and running drone surveillance patterns. Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez are coming over after chores."

"Good. Keep that system sharp."

Tom stood, coffee cup in hand. "Alright then. We all know what we're doing. Let's make it a good day. Stay on the radios."

Chairs scraped back, the organized chaos of a working ranch morning. Billy drained his coffee, feeling the day ahead. Eastern boundary, just him and Jake. Easy work, good brother time.

Jake clapped him on the shoulder. "Ready to get some actual work done away from all these people?"

"Hell yes," Billy said. "Let's go."

They grabbed their gear from the mudroom—tools, rope, work gloves, water. Jake's truck was parked out front, the GPS tracker hidden under the dash that Jr. had installed in all the family vehicles. Just a precaution, the kid had said. You never know.

Billy climbed into the passenger seat, and Jake fired up the engine. The sun was just starting to pink the horizon as they rolled out, gravel crunching under the tires.

Behind them, the Benson Ranch hummed with life and purpose. Ahead of them, the eastern boundary waited.

They had no idea they were driving straight into hell.

Chapter 2

The eastern boundary was exactly as remote as Josh had said. Forty minutes of dirt roads, getting rougher the farther they drove from the main ranch. Jake's truck bounced over ruts and rocks, kicking up dust in their wake.

"Christ, when's the last time anybody came out here?" Jake muttered, gripping the wheel.

"Probably never," Billy said, scanning the landscape. Rolling hills, scrub brush, endless fence line. Beautiful and isolated. "That's why the fence is probably shit."

They found the section Josh had marked on the map. Sure enough, two fence posts were down, wire sagging. Could've been weather, could've been cattle pushing through. Either way, it needed fixing.

Jake killed the engine. The silence that followed was absolute except for the wind moving through the grass.

"Alright, let's get this done," Billy said, climbing out. He grabbed the tools from the truck bed—post hole digger, wire cutters, hammer, fresh wire coils.

Jake pulled on his work gloves. "You take the north post, I'll take the south. Meet in the middle."

"Roger that."

They worked in comfortable silence, the kind that came from years of doing ranch work together. Billy dug out the rotted post, muscles burning as he worked the digger into the hard Texas soil. Jake was already hammering the new post into place on his end, the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk echoing across the empty land.

Billy wiped sweat from his forehead. It was getting hot, sun climbing higher. He glanced at his watch. They'd been out here about thirty minutes. Should have this wrapped up in another hour, easy.

That's when he heard it. The rumble of an engine.

Billy looked up. A truck was coming down the access road, kicking up dust. Not one of theirs.

"Jake," Billy called.

Jake straightened, hammer in hand, squinting at the approaching vehicle. "You expecting anybody?"

"Nope."

The truck slowed as it approached, pulling up about twenty yards away. Two men climbed out. Then a third from the back seat.

Billy's gut tightened. Something was off. These weren't ranchers. Wrong clothes, wrong bearing. They moved with purpose, spreading out slightly as they approached.

"Morning," the first man called. He was tall, lean, with a scraggly beard and cold eyes. "Y'all having truck trouble?"

"Nope," Jake said, his voice flat. "Just fixing fence. Private property."

"That so?" The man smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Well, we got business with you boys."

Billy's hand moved instinctively toward his radio on his belt. Before he could reach it, the second man pulled a gun.

"Don't," the man said simply.

Jake's jaw clenched. Billy could see his brother's hands balling into fists. "The fuck do you want?"

"Just a little cooperation," the bearded man said. He nodded to the third man, who moved forward with rope in his hands. "Nice and easy, and nobody gets hurt worse than they need to."

"Like hell," Jake snarled, taking a step forward.

The gun came up. "Your brother moves again, he gets shot. You want that?"

Billy's heart was pounding. They were forty minutes from help, no backup, completely alone. "Jake. Don't."

"Listen to your brother," the bearded man said. "Smart kid."

The third man moved behind Billy first. "Hands behind your back."

Billy's mind raced, looking for options, but the gun was steady on Jake. If he fought, Jake would get shot. He gritted his teeth and put his hands behind his back.

The rope bit into his wrists immediately, wrapped tight and efficient. The man knew what he was doing. Billy tested the bonds instinctively—no give.

"Now you," the bearded man said to Jake.

"Fuck you," Jake spat.

The gunman took two steps forward and slammed the pistol across Jake's jaw. Jake's head snapped to the side, blood spraying from his mouth. He staggered but stayed on his feet.

"JAKE!" Billy lunged forward, but the man behind him grabbed him, yanking him back.

"Do it again and I'll shoot him in the leg," the gunman said calmly. "Hands. Behind. Your back."

Jake's eyes were blazing with rage, but he slowly, reluctantly, put his hands behind him. Blood dripped from his split lip onto his shirt.

They tied Jake's wrists with the same brutal efficiency. Then came the gags—knotted bandannas shoved into their mouths and tied tight behind their heads. Billy tried to work his jaw, but the knot was pressed hard against his tongue, making it impossible to yell.

Then blindfolds. Everything went black.

Billy's breath came fast through his nose, panic trying to claw its way up. He forced it down. Stay calm. Think.

Rough hands grabbed his arms, marching him forward. He stumbled, unable to see, and someone shoved him hard. His shins hit metal—the truck bed. They pushed him up and in, his tied hands making it impossible to catch himself. He landed hard on the ridged metal.

A moment later, Jake was shoved in beside him. Billy felt his brother's shoulder against his.

"So what the fuck," Jake's muffled voice tried to say around the gag. It came out garbled, but Billy caught the gist. "You going to take our truck and leave us out here tied up?"

One of the men laughed. "Something like that."

Billy felt hands on his ankles. More rope, wrapping tight, binding his work boots together. He heard Jake grunt as they did the same to him.

"Watch 'em," someone said.

Billy heard footsteps, truck doors opening and closing. Then Jake's truck engine roared to life.

They were moving.

Billy's mind raced. They weren't just being robbed. This was planned. Organized. These men knew they'd be out here. Knew they'd be alone.

The truck bounced over the rough terrain, every jolt sending pain through Billy's bound wrists and tied ankles. He was pressed against Jake's side, the only comfort in the darkness.

This was bad. Really bad.

But they were alive. And as long as they were alive, they could fight.

Billy tested the ropes again, feeling for any weakness. Nothing yet. But he'd keep trying.

Next to him, Jake was doing the same. Billy could feel his brother's muscles straining against the bonds.

The truck drove on, carrying them deeper into the unknown.

Chapter 3

The drive felt endless. Billy lost track of time in the darkness, every bump and turn disorienting. He could hear Jake's breathing beside him, harsh and angry through his nose. His brother was furious, and Billy knew that rage was the only thing keeping Jake from panicking.

Billy focused on staying calm. Cataloging what he knew. Three men. At least one gun. They were in Jake's truck, which meant Jr.'s GPS tracker was still active. Someone would realize they were missing eventually. They just had to survive until then.

The truck finally slowed, turned, and the road got even rougher. Branches scraped against the sides. They were going deep into the woods, far from any main road.

When the truck stopped, Billy heard doors opening. Footsteps on dirt.

"Get 'em out," someone said.

Hands grabbed Billy's shoulders, hauling him up. His tied ankles made it impossible to stand, and they half-dragged, half-carried him out of the truck bed. His boots hit the ground and his legs buckled. Someone caught him, keeping him upright.

"Move," a voice growled in his ear.

They pushed him forward, his tied feet shuffling in the dirt. Billy could smell old wood and hay—a barn, maybe. The temperature dropped as they moved inside, out of the sun.

"Right there. Both of them."

Billy was shoved down hard. His knees hit wooden planks, and without his hands to catch himself, he fell sideways. His shoulder slammed into the floor.

Jake landed beside him a moment later with a grunt of pain.

"Sit them up."

Rough hands grabbed Billy, yanking him upright into a sitting position on the rough wooden floor. Someone was doing the same to Jake—Billy could hear his brother struggling, muffled curses coming through the gag.

"Hold still, asshole," one of the men snarled. Billy heard the sound of a punch, then Jake's groan.

"Leave him alone!" Billy tried to yell, but the gag turned it into an incoherent sound.

"Shut up," someone said, and a fist slammed into Billy's gut.

The air exploded out of his lungs. Pain radiated through his stomach, sharp and overwhelming. Billy doubled over instinctively, but hands shoved him back upright.

"I said shut up."

Billy fought to breathe through his nose, each breath stabbing through his abused stomach muscles.

They started with more rope on his arms. Someone pulled his bound wrists higher up his back, making his shoulders scream. Then more rope, wrapping around his upper arms, pulling them tight against his sides. Around and around, the rope biting into his biceps, his forearms, cinching everything together.

"Tighter," the bearded man said. "I don't want them getting any ideas."

The rope pulled tighter. Billy felt the circulation starting to cut off, his fingers already tingling. They wrapped the rope around his torso next, binding his arms completely to his body, layer after layer, from his shoulders down to his waist.

Billy tested the bonds. Nothing. His arms were locked, immobile, the ropes so tight he could barely flex his muscles.

They were doing the same to Jake. Billy could hear his brother's muffled protests, the sounds of a struggle, then a sickening thud.

"Jake!" Billy tried to yell again.

"Your brother's got a mouth on him," the bearded man said. "Needs to learn some manners."

More sounds of punching. Jake's muffled grunts of pain. Billy strained against the ropes, desperate to help, but he couldn't move. Couldn't see. Couldn't do anything.

"That's enough," someone else said. "We need them alive for the photos."

"Yeah, yeah."

More rope around Billy's legs now. His ankles were already tied, but they added more, wrapping his calves together, then his thighs, until his legs were completely bound.

Footsteps approached Billy. "Your turn, kid."

The first punch caught him in the ribs. Billy's body tried to curl protectively, but the ropes held him rigid. The second punch hit the same spot. Then a third. Pain exploded through his chest, each breath like knives.

A fist slammed into his face. Billy's head snapped to the side, his cheekbone exploding with pain. Blood filled his mouth behind the gag. Another punch, this time to his other eye. Stars burst behind the blindfold.

"Get the shirts."

Hands grabbed the bottom of Billy's t-shirt and yanked it up, pulling it over his head as far as the ropes would allow, bunching it around his neck and covering his face. The position was humiliating, exposing his chest and stomach.

The beating continued. Fists slamming into his ribs, his gut, his chest. Billy lost count. Each blow sent fresh waves of agony through his body. He could hear Jake getting the same treatment, his brother's muffled sounds of pain cutting through Billy worse than his own injuries.

Finally, it stopped.

Billy slumped to the side, only the ropes keeping him from collapsing completely. Every breath was torture. His ribs felt cracked. His face was on fire. Blood ran from his nose, soaking into the gag.

"Jesus," one of the men said, sounding almost impressed. "These boys can take a beating."

"Good," the bearded man said. "Makes better photos. Get the camera."

Billy's mind was fuzzy with pain, but he forced himself to focus. Photos. Ransom photos. Which meant someone would see them. Someone would know.

They had to hold on.

Beside him, Jake made a sound—not pain, but rage. Even beaten and tied, his brother wasn't broken. That gave Billy strength.

"Smile for the camera, boys," the bearded man said. "You're about to make us a million dollars."

The flash went off, impossibly bright even through the blindfold.

Then another.

And another.

"Perfect," the bearded man said. "Now let's see if the Benson family wants their boys back in one piece."

Billy heard footsteps moving away, then a door slamming. Silence fell over the barn except for Jake's labored breathing somewhere to his left.

They were alone.

Billy's whole body screamed with pain, but his mind was already working. The ropes were tight, brutally tight, but they weren't tied to anything. He could move. Barely. If he could just get to Jake, maybe they could work together.

He had to try.

Chapter 4

Back at the Benson Ranch, the morning work continued as planned. Pops supervised the fence crew on the north forty, barking orders and spinning stories. Ray and Tom were deep in negotiations with the Mattern family over cattle contracts. Caleb and Colton wrestled with the temperamental irrigation system.

In the Command Center, Billy Jr. had Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez clustered around the monitors. They were running diagnostics on the new satellite phone system, checking signal strength and encryption protocols.

"Looking good," Renzo said, watching the data stream. "All eighteen units showing green."

"Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake should be done soon," Jr. said, glancing at the clock. They'd been gone almost four hours.

"That fence work taking a while," Colton observed from the doorway. He'd come up from the irrigation work to grab water.

Jr. shrugged. "Remote location. Probably just taking their time."

Another hour passed.

Josh came up the stairs around noon, checking on the tech crew. "You boys want lunch? Sarah's got sandwiches."

"Yes sir," came the chorus.

"Jr., you heard from your uncles?" Josh asked.

"No sir. Want me to radio them?"

"Yeah, just check in. They should be wrapping up soon."

Jr. grabbed his radio. "Billy, Jake, you copy?"

Static.

"Uncle Billy, Uncle Jake, this is Jr. Come back."

Nothing.

Jr. frowned. "Maybe they're out of range?"

Josh's expression tightened slightly. "Try their cell phones."

Jr. pulled out his satellite phone and dialed Billy's number. It rang once, then went to voicemail. Jake's did the same.

"That's weird," Jr. said.

"Could be dead batteries," Josh offered, but his tone suggested he didn't believe it.

Pops came thundering up the stairs, having heard the radio calls from the hallway. "What's going on?"

"Can't raise Billy and Jake," Josh said. "They're not answering radio or phones."

Pops' face went hard. "How long they been gone?"

"Five hours," Jr. said. "Should've been back by now."

"Could be the work took longer," Josh said, but even he sounded unconvinced.

Pops grabbed his own radio. "Billy. Jake. This is Pops. Answer me right now."

Silence.

"Goddammit." Pops looked at Jr. "We're going out there."

"I'm coming," Josh said immediately.

"Me too," Caleb said, appearing in the doorway with Colton.

Tom came up the stairs, drawn by the commotion. "What's happening?"

"Billy and Jake aren't responding," Pops said shortly. "We're going to check on them."

Tom's jaw set. "I'm driving."

They piled into Tom's truck—Pops riding shotgun, Josh, Jr., and Caleb in the back. The forty-minute drive felt like hours, tension thick in the cab. Jr. kept trying the radio, kept calling the phones. Nothing.

When they reached the eastern boundary, Jr.'s stomach dropped.

The work site was there—tools scattered on the ground, one fence post half-installed, work clearly abandoned mid-task.

But Jake's truck was gone. And no Billy. No Jake.

"Spread out," Pops commanded, already out of the truck, his Vietnam training kicking in. "Look for tracks, signs of struggle, anything."

Jr. moved to where Jake's truck should have been parked. Tire tracks in the dirt, but the truck was gone. His heart pounded. Why would they leave?

Then he saw them—Billy's radio lying in the dirt. And Jake's, a few feet away. Both cell phones near the fence post, screens dark.

"Pops!" Jr. called, his voice shaking. "Their radios and phones are here!"

That was wrong. Billy and Jake never left their radios behind. Never. And they sure as hell wouldn't drive off without them.

Caleb was walking the perimeter, eyes on the ground. "Got tire tracks here! Multiple vehicles. Jake's truck and at least one other, maybe two. And footprints. Lot of them."

Josh crouched near the fence line. "There's rope here. Cut pieces." He held up several short lengths of rope, clearly sliced off something larger.

Pops' face had gone pale beneath his tan. "Blood here," he said quietly, pointing to dark spots on the dirt near where the tools lay scattered.

The pieces fell into place with horrible clarity. Billy and Jake hadn't just wandered off. They hadn't driven away for some reason.

They'd been taken. And the kidnappers had taken Jake's truck with them.

Jr. felt his hands start to shake. His uncles—his heroes—the two strongest men he knew besides Pops—were gone. Taken by force.

"Jr.," Pops said, his voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the panic. "I need you to focus. Can you do that?"

Jr. swallowed hard and nodded.

"Hit the emergency system. Right now."

Jr. pulled out his satellite phone with trembling fingers. His thumb found the emergency button on the custom app he'd built. He pressed it.

The mechanical voice activated immediately, broadcasting across every encrypted device in the consortium network: "911-911-911 BILLY JR. 911-911-911 BILLY JR. 911-911-911 BILLY JR."

The signal went out to every ranch, every phone, every radio. Within seconds, responses started flooding in.

"Jr., what's happening?" Ray's voice crackled through.

"This is Wade Nelson, what's the emergency?" The Sheriff's voice, sharp and professional.

More voices, rapid-fire questions, the entire consortium mobilizing.

Pops took Jr.'s phone. "This is Pops. We have a situation at the eastern boundary. Billy and Jake are missing. Evidence of abduction. Multiple suspects. Jake's truck is gone too. I need everyone at the Benson Ranch NOW. Wade, get your deputies and get here. This is real."

The gravity in Pops' voice left no room for questions.

"On our way," Wade said immediately. "ETA fifteen minutes."

Tom was already on his phone with Sarah. "Get Rebecca ready. We might need medical. And Sarah—" his voice cracked slightly. "Our boys are in trouble."

Jr. stared at the abandoned work site, at the blood on the ground, at the cut pieces of rope. His uncles were out there somewhere, hurt, taken by men who meant them harm. And they had Jake's truck.

But Jake's truck had the GPS tracker. Jr.'s GPS tracker.

"Pops," Jr. said suddenly. "Jake's truck has the GPS tracker I installed. We can find them."

Pops' eyes sharpened. "Good. We'll check it when we get back to the Command Center. Let's move."

But Billy and Jake were strong. The strongest men he knew. And they had the whole consortium coming for them.

"Let's get back," Pops said. "We need the Command Center operational and every resource we have working on this."

They loaded into the truck, taking the radios and phones as evidence, photographing the scene. Jr. took one last look at the eastern boundary as they pulled away.

Hold on, Uncle Billy. Uncle Jake. We're coming.

Chapter 5

The Benson Ranch exploded into controlled chaos within minutes of the 911 call.

Trucks roared up the drive from every direction. Sheriff Wade Nelson arrived first with his deputies, Wilson and Ryan, lights flashing. The Mattern family convoy pulled in right behind them. The Rodriguez and Renzo families weren't far behind. Robert and Caroline Beaumont came with their ranch hands, faces grim.

By the time Tom's truck pulled back into the ranch yard, the entire consortium had mobilized.

Sarah met them at the door, her face white but controlled. "Tell me."

"They're gone," Tom said, his voice rough. "Taken. There was blood."

Sarah's hand went to her mouth, but she didn't break. "Rebecca's setting up medical in the living room. Ray's in the Command Center with the boys."

Inside, the house had transformed into a war room. Families crowded into the kitchen and living room. Men checked weapons. Women organized supplies. The controlled panic of people who knew how to work together in a crisis.

Jr. took the stairs two at a time, Pops and Josh right behind him. In the Command Center, Ray was already pulling up maps on the monitors. Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez had their stations ready.

"What do we know?" Ray asked immediately.

"They took Billy and Jake from the eastern boundary," Pops said. "Multiple attackers. Evidence of a fight. Blood. Cut rope. And they took Jake's truck."

Jr.'s fingers were already flying across the keyboard. "Jake's truck has the GPS tracker. I'm pulling it up now."

The map loaded. Jr. zoomed in, searching for Jake's truck signal. There—a blinking dot, moving slowly through back roads deep into the woods.

"Got it," Jr. said, his voice tight. "They're about sixty miles northeast. Moving slow, looks like they're on logging roads."

"Can you track where they stop?" Josh asked.

"Yeah. I've got continuous monitoring." Jr. tapped more keys. "I'm recording the route, and I'll get an alert when the vehicle stops moving."

Sheriff Wade Nelson came up the stairs, his presence filling the room. Mary and Edna were with him. Edna's face was streaked with tears, but her jaw was set.

"Show me," Wade said.

Jr. pulled up the GPS display on the main monitor. "They're here, Grandpa Wade. Heading deeper into the backcountry."

Wade studied the map. "That's rough country. Old logging territory. Lots of abandoned structures. Perfect place to hide someone."

"We go get them," Pops said flatly.

"We will," Wade said. "But we do this smart. If they've got Billy and Jake, they're armed and they're desperate. We can't just go in guns blazing."

"The hell we can't," Caleb said from the doorway.

"Caleb." Wade's voice was firm but not unkind. "I want them back too. But if we spook these guys, they might hurt the boys worse. Or kill them. We need intelligence first."

Jr.'s computer chimed. "Truck stopped," he said immediately. "They're stationary now." He zoomed in on the location. "Looks like... there's an old barn there. I can see it on the satellite view."

"Get the drones up," Pops said.

Jr. and Renzo were already moving. Within minutes, two drones were launching from the backyard, their cameras streaming live to the monitors.

Colton pulled up thermal imaging software. "If they're in that barn, we'll see heat signatures."

The room fell silent as everyone watched the screens. The drones covered the distance quickly, their cameras showing dense forest giving way to a small clearing.

There it was—an old weathered barn, isolated and falling apart. And Jake's truck, parked beside it.

"That's it," Jr. said, his voice barely a whisper.

Renzo switched to thermal imaging. Three bright signatures inside the barn—no, wait. Five. Three moving around, two stationary on the floor.

"Billy and Jake," Josh breathed. "They're in there."

"And three hostiles," Wade said. "Armed, we have to assume."

Edna was crying openly now, Mary's arm around her shoulders.

The tension in the room was suffocating. Jr. stared at those two thermal signatures on the floor. His uncles. Tied up. Maybe hurt.

Then his computer chimed again. Email notification.

Jr. frowned and opened it. His blood went cold.

"Oh God," he said.

"What?" Pops demanded.

Jr. couldn't speak. He just clicked the attachment.

The photo filled the screen.

Billy and Jake, sitting on a barn floor, bound in layers of rope. Blindfolded, gagged. Their shirts pulled up over their heads. Their faces bloody, bruised, swollen. Their chests and stomachs covered in dark bruises.

Edna's scream cut through the room.

Sarah appeared in the doorway and saw the screen. "My boys," she whispered.

The second photo was worse. A close-up of their battered faces.

The third showed the rope around their arms and torsos, wrapped so tight it cut into their skin.

Then the message below the photos:

$1,000,000. Ten hours. Or they hang. Instructions to follow.

The timestamp showed it had been sent twenty minutes ago.

"Nine and a half hours," Ray said quietly.

The room erupted.

"We're not paying those bastards—"

"We have to get them out—"

"Call the FBI—"

"NO TIME—"

"ENOUGH!" Pops' voice cut through the chaos like a whip crack.

Everyone fell silent.

Pops stood in the center of the room, his Vietnam combat face on. This wasn't a grandfather anymore. This was a soldier.

"Wade," Pops said. "You're law enforcement. What's your call?"

Wade looked at the photos, at the GPS location, at the assembled families. "FBI protocol says we negotiate, buy time, bring in federal resources. That's the book answer."

"And the real answer?"

Wade met Pops' eyes. "We've got nine and a half hours, and they've already beaten those boys half to death. By the time the feds mobilize, Billy and Jake could be dead. We know where they are. We've got eyes on the location. We've got the manpower."

"You saying what I think you're saying, Sheriff?"

Wade looked around the room at the assembled consortium—ranchers, deputies, men who knew the land and knew how to fight.

"I'm saying we don't pay. And we don't wait. We go get our boys."

Pops grinned, fierce and dangerous. "Damn right we do."

Tom stepped forward. "What do you need?"

Wade moved to the map. "Tactical plan. We've got the advantage—they don't know we found them. Jr., keep those drones up. I want continuous surveillance. Count every person who goes in or out. Map every entrance. Find me weak points."

"Yes sir, Grandpa Wade," Jr. said, his fingers already moving. Then he stopped and looked up. "Actually—we're not staying here."

Pops' eyebrows shot up. Jr. rarely contradicted orders, especially from Pops or Grandpa Wade.

"We built the portable command center for exactly this," Jr. said, standing up. "Renzo, Colton, get the cases. We're going mobile."

"Hell yes," Renzo said, jumping up.

Jr. looked at Pops and Grandpa Wade. "We can run everything from the field. Drones, GPS tracking, thermal imaging, encrypted comms. We've got the sixteen iPads synced to the system—we can distribute them to every team member for real-time voice and text communication. Fully encrypted. You'll have eyes and ears on everything, all coordinated through us."

Wade looked at Pops. "That's a hell of an advantage."

"We trained for this," Jr. pressed. "Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake made us drill on the mobile setup. We can run tactical support right there, real-time intelligence to everyone."

Pops studied his great-grandson for a long moment, then a slow grin spread across his weathered face. "You stay back from the action. You're tech support, not assault. Understood?"

"Yes sir, Pops!"

"Then gear up. You've got five minutes."

The Command Center exploded into motion. Jr., Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez grabbed the portable equipment cases—ruggedized laptops, satellite uplinks, portable monitors, drone controls, and the stack of sixteen iPads.

"Colton, grab the charging station," Jr. called. "We might be out there a while."

Within minutes, they had the mobile command center loaded into the back of Tom's truck. Jr. started distributing the iPads, quickly showing each team member how to access the encrypted network.

"Voice and text," Jr. explained rapidly to each person. "Tap here for push-to-talk, here for text messaging. Every message goes to everyone on the network unless you direct message. You'll see the drone feeds here, thermal imaging here, GPS locations of all team members here."

Pops took his iPad, grinning. "My great-grandsons are fucking wizards."

"Damn right, Pops," Jr. said with a quick smile despite the tension.

Josh got one. Ray got one. Tom. Wade and his sons Horse and Ryan. Robert Beaumont and his foreman. Caleb. Even Sarah got one so she could monitor from the house with Rebecca.

"Test," Wade said into his iPad.

"Loud and clear, Grandpa Wade," Jr.'s voice came back crystal clear through everyone's devices.

"Holy shit," Horse muttered, looking at his screen. "This is better than our department radios."

"Way better," Jr. said. "Encrypted, can't be intercepted, and you've got visual feeds. Everything synced."

They loaded into the trucks—a convoy of six vehicles. Pops, Josh, Ray, and Caleb in the lead truck. Wade and his deputies in the second. The Beaumonts and their ranch hands in the third and fourth. Jr. and the wiz kids in Tom's truck with all their equipment spread across the bed and cab.

As they pulled out of the ranch, Jr. had his laptop open on his knees. The drone feed showed the barn on the screen. The thermal signatures still showed five people—three moving around, two stationary on the floor.

His uncles. Still alive. Still fighting.

"Uncle Billy, Uncle Jake," Jr. whispered. "We're coming. Just hold on."

Renzo was in the passenger seat, already repositioning the drones along their route. Mattern sat in the back with another laptop, GPS tracking all vehicles in the convoy. Rodriguez monitored encrypted police bands to make sure no one else stumbled into their operation. Colton was running diagnostics on all sixteen iPads, making sure every connection stayed strong.

The portable command center was fully operational and moving.

"ETA sixty minutes to the barn location," Jr. announced over the network, his voice broadcasting to all sixteen iPads. "I've got continuous eyes on target. Thermal shows three hostiles, two hostages. No change in positions."

"Copy that, Jr.," Wade's voice came back through the system. "Keep us updated on any movement."

"Yes sir, Grandpa Wade."

Jr. watched the thermal images on his screen. One of the figures on the floor was moving more now, shifting position. Trying something.

"Uncle Billy or Uncle Jake is moving," Jr. reported. "Looks like they're trying to work on their bonds."

"That's my boys," Pops' voice came through the iPads, pride and determination mixed together. "They're fighters. They'll keep themselves alive until we get there."

Jr. stared at the screen as the convoy drove through the Texas countryside, eating up the miles. Somewhere ahead of them, in that barn, his heroes were tied up and hurting.

But they were coming. With technology, firepower, encrypted communications, real-time intelligence, and a whole consortium of people who would burn down the world to get them back.

The wiz kids had built this system for emergencies exactly like this. Now it was time to prove it worked.

"We're coming," Jr. said softly, watching those two thermal signatures on his screen. "We're coming."

Chapter 6

Billy's whole body was on fire.

Every breath sent knives through his ribs. His face throbbed where they'd hit him, his left eye swollen nearly shut behind the blindfold. His wrists screamed from the tight ropes cutting into them, his fingers tingling from lack of circulation. The ropes around his arms and torso were so tight he could barely expand his chest to breathe.

But he was alive. And so was Jake.

He could hear his brother a few feet away, breathing hard through his nose, the only sound Jake could make with the gag shoved in his mouth. Billy knew that breathing pattern—Jake was furious. Working himself up. Good. They'd need that anger.

Time had lost all meaning in the darkness. It felt like hours since the kidnappers had finished beating them and taking the photos. Billy had heard them talking, laughing about the million dollars they'd get. Then footsteps, a door slamming, and silence.

But not complete silence. Billy strained his ears. There—voices outside the barn. The clink of bottles. Laughter. The kidnappers were drinking.

Billy tested his bonds again, carefully. The rope around his wrists was brutally tight, his hands tied behind his back and then wrapped up to his elbows. More rope circled his arms and torso, layer after layer, pinning his arms completely to his sides. His legs were bound at the ankles, calves, and thighs.

But the ropes weren't tied to anything. They'd left them sitting on the barn floor, probably figuring two beaten men, bound blind and gagged, weren't going anywhere.

They were wrong.

Billy started to move. Slowly. Carefully. He rolled onto his side, biting back a groan as his bruised ribs protested. Then he inched forward, using his bound legs to push himself across the rough wooden floor.

Where was Jake? He had to find Jake.

His shoulder hit something solid. Warm. Jake.

Billy felt his brother jerk in surprise, then freeze. Then Jake understood. He was moving too, shifting his weight, turning.

It took several minutes of painful maneuvering, but finally Billy felt Jake's back against his. Their bound hands touched.

Jake made a muffled sound through his gag—relief, maybe, or determination.

Billy's fingers found the knots on Jake's wrists. They were tight, pulled so hard the rope felt like steel. But Billy had been working rope his whole life on the ranch. He knew knots.

He started picking at the binding, his numb fingers clumsy but persistent. Jake was doing the same, his fingers searching for the knots on Billy's wrists.

Outside, the voices got louder. More laughter. The kidnappers were getting drunk.

Good. Let them drink. Let them get sloppy.

Billy's fingers ached as he worked the rope. The knot was complex, pulled tight, but he found the end of the rope and started working it back through the loops. Millimeter by millimeter.

Jake was working on Billy's ropes too, both brothers moving in silent cooperation born of a lifetime together.

Time crawled. Billy's shoulders screamed from the awkward position, his arms twisted behind him. Sweat dripped down his face behind the blindfold, mixing with dried blood. But he kept working.

Then—give. Just a little. The knot loosened slightly.

Billy's heart pounded. He pulled harder, working the rope, feeling it start to come free.

Jake must have felt it too because his own efforts intensified on Billy's bonds.

Outside, one of the kidnappers started singing, badly and drunkenly. Another laughed so hard he sounded like he was choking.

They were wasted.

Billy's fingers burned as he finally, finally pulled the last loop free. Jake's wrists were still bound, but the rope was loose now. Jake could move his hands, flex his fingers.

Jake immediately went to work on Billy's ropes with renewed vigor. Within minutes, Billy felt his own bonds give way.

His hands were free.

Billy pulled them around to his front, gasping through his nose at the pain in his shoulders. His fingers were numb, useless. He flexed them desperately, trying to get feeling back.

Jake was doing the same, both brothers massaging their hands, getting circulation flowing again.

Billy reached up and pulled the blindfold off his head. The barn swam into view—dark, lit only by moonlight streaming through gaps in the walls. He blinked, his swollen eye making it hard to see, but he could make out shapes. Jake beside him, also pulling off his blindfold. The barn door about twenty feet away. Jake's truck visible through a gap in the walls.

Jake reached up and pulled the gag out of his mouth, gasping. "Fuck," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Billy pulled his own gag free. "You okay?"

"Been better." Jake's face was a mess—lip split open, one eye swollen, blood crusted on his cheek. But his eyes were alive with rage and determination.

"We need to get these ropes off," Billy whispered.

They went to work on the ropes around their arms and torsos. With their hands free, it was easier, but the bindings were still tight, wrapped multiple times. They worked quickly but carefully, trying not to make noise.

Outside, the singing had stopped. One of the kidnappers was telling a story, words slurred. Glass bottles clinked.

Billy finally pulled the last rope free from his torso. He moved to his legs, untying his ankles, then his calves, then his thighs. The rope had left deep marks in his jeans, cutting into his skin.

Jake was doing the same, his hands shaking with rage and pain but moving with purpose.

They were free.

Billy slowly stood, his legs wobbling. Every muscle in his body protested. His ribs felt like broken glass grinding together. But he was up. He was mobile.

Jake rose beside him, equally unsteady. They looked at each other in the dim light—two brothers, beaten to hell, but unbroken.

"Where are they?" Billy whispered.

Jake pointed toward the barn door. "Outside. Front of the barn."

Billy moved carefully to a gap in the wall and peered out. There—all three kidnappers, sitting around a fire pit about thirty feet from the barn entrance. Empty beer bottles littered the ground. One of the men was passed out, slumped against a log. The bearded leader was drinking from a whiskey bottle. The third man, the gunman, had his pistol lying on the ground beside him while he fumbled with a pack of cigarettes.

They were completely wasted.

Billy turned back to Jake. "They're drunk. Maybe passed out."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Jake's battered face. "Good."

They looked around the barn. Tools hung on the wall—old, rusted, but useful. Billy grabbed a length of pipe. Jake picked up a shovel handle.

"We take them quiet," Billy whispered. "One at a time. You ready?"

"Born ready," Jake said.

They moved to the barn door, their stockinged feet silent on the floor. The kidnappers had taken their boots off while they worked on the ropes—another mistake.

Billy eased the door open just enough to slip through. The cool night air hit his face. He could hear the bearded man muttering to himself, taking another swig from the bottle.

Billy and Jake crept forward, using the darkness and the firelight's blinding effect to their advantage. Years of hunting on the ranch had taught them how to move silently.

The passed-out kidnapper was closest. Billy approached from behind, pipe raised. The man never knew what hit him. Billy brought the pipe down hard on the back of his head, and the man collapsed forward without a sound.

One down.

The gunman was fumbling with his lighter, cursing. Jake moved in fast, swinging the shovel handle like a bat. It connected with the man's temple with a sickening thud. He dropped like a stone.

Two down.

The bearded leader looked up, his drunken brain finally registering something was wrong. His eyes went wide as he saw Billy and Jake—battered, bloody, and very much free—standing over his unconscious partners.

"What the—"

Jake didn't let him finish. He lunged forward and caught the man with a punch that snapped his head back. The whiskey bottle flew from his hand. Jake hit him again, and again, years of pent-up rage unleashing in his fists.

"Jake," Billy said quietly. "We need him alive."

Jake hit him one more time, then stepped back, breathing hard. The bearded man collapsed, blood streaming from his nose, barely conscious.

"Get the rope," Billy said.

They found their rope—the same rope that had bound them—and went to work. Billy tied the first kidnapper's hands behind his back, then his ankles, then wrapped rope around his arms and torso just like they'd done to him and Jake. Tight. Really tight.

Jake did the same to the gunman, his hands working with vicious efficiency.

The bearded leader was coming around, groaning. Billy and Jake hauled him up and tied him even tighter than the others, wrapping layer after layer of rope around him until he couldn't move.

"Welcome to our world, asshole," Jake muttered.

They dragged all three men into the barn. Inside, they found what they were looking for—the nooses. Three of them, already prepared, hanging from the barn's support beams.

Billy and Jake exchanged a look.

"Poetic justice?" Jake asked.

"Damn right," Billy said.

They positioned each kidnapper under a noose and slipped the loops around their necks. Not tight enough to choke them—yet—but tight enough to make the message clear.

The bearded man's eyes went wide with fear as he realized what was happening. He tried to yell through his gag, struggling against the ropes.

"How's it feel?" Jake said coldly, his split lip pulling into a grim smile.

Billy found the kidnappers' stash—beer, whiskey, food. His stomach growled. He grabbed two beers and tossed one to Jake.

"We earned these," Billy said.

They walked out of the barn, leaving the kidnappers tied and noosed exactly as they'd planned to hang Billy and Jake. Outside, the fire was still burning. Billy and Jake sat down on the old barn porch, cracked open their beers, and drank.

Every part of Billy's body hurt, but he'd never tasted anything better than that beer.

Jake found one of the kidnappers' phones on the ground near the fire. He picked it up, scrolled through, then dialed.

"Who you calling?" Billy asked.

"Dad."

The phone rang twice. Then Tom's voice, tight with tension: "Who is this?"

"Dad," Jake said. "It's Jake."

Silence. Then: "Jake? JAKE? Where are you? Are you—is Billy—"

"We're both here. We're good. We got ourselves out."

Billy heard a commotion through the phone—shouting, people talking over each other.

"You're—you escaped?" Tom's voice cracked.

"Yeah. And we got a present waiting for you. Three assholes all tied up with their own nooses around their necks, right where they wanted to put us."

More shouting. Then Pops' voice, booming: "That's my boys! Where are you?"

Jake looked around. "Old barn, middle of nowhere. But I bet Jr. knows exactly where we are, doesn't he?"

"We're ten minutes out," Tom said. "You boys stay put. We're coming."

"We'll be here," Jake said. "We're not going anywhere. Got some beers to finish."

He hung up and took another long drink.

Billy grinned despite the pain. "Think they're going to be pissed we didn't wait for the rescue?"

Jake laughed, then winced, his hand going to his ribs. "Oh, they're gonna be pissed. But they're gonna be proud too."

They sat on the porch in the moonlight, two brothers—beaten, bloody, bruised, but free. Behind them in the barn, their kidnappers hung in their own nooses, exactly as they'd planned for Billy and Jake.

Justice, Texas ranch style.

In the distance, Billy heard engines. A lot of engines.

The cavalry was coming.

But Billy and Jake had already won.

Chapter 7

The convoy was roaring down the logging road when Jake's call came through. Jr. had just repositioned the drone for another sweep when Tom's voice exploded over the iPad network.

"THEY'RE FREE! BILLY AND JAKE GOT THEMSELVES OUT!"

Jr.'s whoop of joy nearly made Renzo drop his laptop. "WHAT?"

"Jake just called," Tom's voice was shaking with emotion and relief. "They escaped. Tied up the kidnappers with their own rope. They're sitting on the barn porch drinking beer!"

The convoy erupted. Cheers, shouts, Pops' voice roaring over everyone else's. Jr. was laughing and crying at the same time, pounding Renzo on the shoulder.

"Those crazy bastards!" Renzo yelled. "THEY DID IT!"

Jr. grabbed his iPad, switching the broadcast to include Sarah and the women back at the ranch. "Grandma Sarah! Aunt Rebecca! They escaped! Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake got out on their own!"

Sarah's sob of relief came through the speakers, followed by cheers from the women.

"They're okay?" Edna's voice, desperate and hopeful.

"They're okay!" Jr. said, his voice cracking. "They're beat up but they're okay. They got the kidnappers tied up!"

"ETA five minutes!" Tom announced over the network.

The convoy picked up speed, caution thrown to the wind now that they knew Billy and Jake were safe. Jr. pulled up his camera phone, setting it to broadcast live to the ranch.

"You're all going live," Jr. said over the network. "Grandma Sarah, Aunt Rebecca, Edna, Mary—you can see everything now."

The trucks roared into the clearing around the old barn, headlights illuminating the scene—Jake's truck parked to the side, the dying fire pit, and there on the barn porch, two battered figures sitting side by side, holding beer bottles.

Billy and Jake.

Tom's truck hadn't even fully stopped before Pops was out, moving faster than Jr. had ever seen the old man move. Josh and Ray were right behind him.

Jr. jumped out with his phone, capturing everything for the women back home.

Billy and Jake stood up, wincing with pain, and then they were swarmed. Pops grabbed both of them in a crushing hug, not caring about their injuries, just holding his grandsons.

"You crazy sons of bitches," Pops said, his voice thick. "You beautiful, crazy sons of bitches."

Tom was next, pulling his boys close, his shoulders shaking. "You scared ten years off my life."

"Sorry, Dad," Billy said, his voice hoarse.

Josh grabbed Jake in a bear hug. "Never. Again."

"Can't promise that," Jake said with a bloody grin.

Ray wrapped his arms around Billy. "Thought we lost you."

"Not that easy to get rid of us," Billy said.

Caleb was there, pounding both of them on the shoulders. "You guys are fucking legends!"

Jr. kept the camera running, making sure the women could see everything. He zoomed in on their faces—Billy's left eye swollen almost shut, Jake's lip split wide open, both of them covered in bruises and blood.

"Let me see them," Edna's voice came through the iPad. "Jr., show me Billy."

Jr. moved closer, focusing on Billy's battered face.

"I'm okay, Edna," Billy said directly to the camera. "Looks worse than it is. Promise."

"You better be," Edna said, her voice breaking.

Wade Nelson approached, Horse and Ryan flanking him. The Sheriff took one look at the brothers and shook his head in amazement. "You two are something else."

"Where are they?" Wade asked, nodding toward the barn.

"Inside," Jake said, grinning despite his split lip. "All three. Tied up real nice with their own rope. Even put their nooses around their necks. Figured turnabout's fair play."

Wade's grin was fierce. "Now this I gotta see."

They all moved into the barn, Jr. filming everything. The sight stopped them cold.

Three men, bound hand and foot with layers of rope, arms pinned to their sides, sitting on the floor with nooses around their necks. The bearded leader was conscious, eyes wide with fear and fury. The other two were groaning, slowly coming around.

Pops walked around them slowly, examining the rope work. Then he burst out laughing. "Nice rope work, boys! REAL nice! Taught you well!"

Wade was grinning ear to ear. "No need for handcuffs," he said, looking at the thoroughly trussed kidnappers. "They're not going anywhere."

Jr. narrated for the women back home. "The kidnappers are completely tied up. Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake used their own rope on them. And Pops says the rope work is perfect."

Sarah's laugh came through the speakers, slightly hysterical with relief.

Wade stood in front of the three men, pulling out his badge. His voice shifted to formal and professional. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..."

As Wade continued reading their rights, the bearded man tried to curse through his gag. Wade ignored him, finishing the Miranda warning with practiced ease.

"Horse, Ryan," Wade said when he finished. "Get Billy and Jake over here. Jr., bring that phone."

"Sir?" Jr. asked.

"We're taking a picture," Wade said with a grin. "For the case file. And because this is the damnedest arrest I've ever made in twenty years as Sheriff."

Horse and Ryan positioned Billy and Jake in front of the three trussed-up kidnappers. Wade took Jr.'s phone and held it up high for a selfie angle.

"Everybody say 'justice,'" Wade said.

The camera flashed. The photo captured it all—Billy and Jake, battered and bloody but grinning like crazy, standing over their would-be killers who were bound in their own nooses. Wade, Horse, and Ryan in their uniforms, official but smiling. And in the background, Pops laughing his ass off.

Wade took several more shots from different angles.

"That one's going on my office wall," Wade said, handing the phone back to Jr.

"That one's going EVERYWHERE," Pops said. "Might get it on a damn t-shirt."

Tom stepped forward, his relief shifting to concern as he really looked at his sons' injuries. "Boys, we need to get you to the hospital. You're both—"

"No," Billy said immediately.

"Absolutely not," Jake agreed.

"Boys—" Tom started.

"Rebecca can handle it," Billy said firmly. "We're not going to any hospital."

Tom looked at Josh, who shrugged. "Dad, they're conscious, mobile, and stubborn as hell. They're definitely Bensons."

"Rebecca's going to kill you both," Tom said, but he was smiling through his worry.

Wade coordinated with Horse and Ryan to load the kidnappers into one of the trucks. It took some doing—three grown men tied up that tight weren't easy to move—but they managed, keeping the ropes and nooses in place.

"Evidence," Wade said with satisfaction. "And damn good evidence at that."

Jr. kept the video feed running. "We're bringing them home now. Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake are coming home."

"Tell my boys I love them," Sarah's voice came through, stronger now.

"Grandma says she loves you," Jr. said.

"Love you too, Mom," Billy and Jake said in unison toward the camera.

The convoy reformed. Billy and Jake rode in Tom's truck with Pops driving and Jr. beside them, still filming. Tom sat in the back with his sons, just needing to be close to them.

As they pulled out, Pops glanced in the rearview mirror at Billy and Jake.

"You know," Pops said, "back in Vietnam, we had a couple guys get captured by the VC. Took us three days to find them. When we did, they were still tied up, praying we'd get there in time."

He paused, his weathered hands steady on the wheel.

"You boys didn't wait. You saved yourselves. Took down your captors. That takes guts. Brains. And a whole lot of Benson stubbornness." His voice went thick. "Damn proud of you."

"Thanks, Pops," Billy said quietly.

"Don't thank me. You did the work." Pops shook his head in wonder. "But I'm gonna tell this story till the day I die. My grandsons, beaten to hell, tied up and facing a noose, escaped on their own and turned the tables. Goddamn heroes, both of you."

Jake leaned his head back against the seat, exhausted. "Just glad it's over."

"Not quite," Jr. said, grinning despite still filming. "Wait till Aunt Rebecca sees you. She's gonna tear you both a new one for refusing the hospital."

"Worth it," Billy said, managing a smile through his swollen face.

The convoy drove through the night toward home. In Wade's truck, three kidnappers sat hogtied with nooses around their necks, their million-dollar ransom plan turned into their own nightmare.

In Tom's truck, two brothers sat bruised and bleeding but victorious, heading home to their family.

Jr. kept broadcasting everything to Sarah, Rebecca, Edna, and Mary. He could hear them crying and laughing on the audio feed, relief and joy and worry all mixed together.

"Fifteen minutes," Jr. said to the camera. "We'll be home in fifteen minutes."

Behind them, the old barn faded into the darkness, empty now except for cut pieces of rope and the memory of what might have been.

But Billy and Jake were coming home.

And that was all that mattered.

Chapter 8

The Benson Ranch was ablaze with lights when the convoy pulled in. Every vehicle in the consortium was still there, families waiting in the yard despite the late hour. When Tom's truck came to a stop, the crowd surged forward.

Sarah was first, pushing through everyone to get to her sons. She grabbed Billy and Jake, pulling them close despite their injuries, tears streaming down her face.

"My boys," she whispered. "My boys."

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

Rebecca was right behind her, and her practical nurse instincts kicked in immediately. She took one look at their battered faces and pointed toward the house. "Living room. Now. Both of you."

"Yes ma'am," they said in unison.

Edna appeared, throwing her arms around Billy's neck. He winced but held her tight. "Don't you ever scare me like that again," she said fiercely.

"I'll try not to," Billy said.

Mary hugged Jake carefully, mindful of his injuries. "You Benson boys are going to give us all heart attacks."

The whole consortium crowded into the house. The living room had been transformed into a makeshift medical station—Rebecca had laid out bandages, antiseptic, ice packs, everything she'd need.

"Sit," Rebecca commanded, pointing to two chairs she'd positioned in the center of the room.

Billy and Jake sat, too tired and sore to argue.

Rebecca started with Billy, gently cleaning the blood from his face. His left eye was swollen nearly shut, the skin around it purple and black. His nose had bled but wasn't broken. His lip was split. Bruises covered his jaw and cheekbones.

"You're lucky nothing's broken," Rebecca said quietly, dabbing antiseptic on the cuts. Billy hissed at the sting. "Ribs feel cracked, though. We'll wrap them."

She moved to Jake next. His injuries were similar—split lip, swollen eye, bruised face. The pistol whip had left a nasty cut across his jaw that she cleaned carefully.

"You two took a hell of a beating," Rebecca said.

"Should see the other guys," Jake muttered.

That got a laugh from the assembled crowd.

Rebecca pulled up their shirts next, and the room went silent. Their torsos were covered in dark bruises—ribs, stomach, chest—everywhere the kidnappers had hit them. The rope marks were still visible, deep red lines where the bindings had cut into their skin.

Sarah's hand went to her mouth. Edna was crying silently.

"Jesus," Josh breathed.

"We're okay," Billy said again. "Really. It looks worse than it is."

Rebecca wrapped their ribs with practiced efficiency, her hands gentle but firm. She checked their wrists and ankles where the ropes had been, applied ointment to the rope burns, bandaged the worst of them.

"You're both going to be sore for weeks," she said. "No heavy lifting. No ranch work. And if either of you starts coughing blood or having trouble breathing, you're going to the hospital whether you like it or not."

"Yes ma'am," they said.

"I mean it," Rebecca said, her voice sharp. "You might have cracked ribs. That's nothing to mess with."

"We'll be careful," Billy promised.

Sarah had been cooking while Rebecca worked. Now she brought out platters of food—sandwiches, chicken, biscuits, everything she could throw together quickly. Billy and Jake's eyes lit up.

"We're starving," Jake said.

"I bet you are," Sarah said, her voice thick with emotion. "Eat. Both of you."

The brothers ate like they'd been starved for days, which in a way, they had. The whole family gathered around them, talking, laughing, the tension of the day finally breaking into relief.

Stories were told and retold. How Jr. had tracked the truck. How the drones had found them. How Pops and Wade had mobilized the consortium. And over and over, how Billy and Jake had escaped on their own and turned the tables on their kidnappers.

"That photo Wade took," Robert Beaumont said, grinning. "That's going to be legendary."

"Already sent it to the county paper," Wade said with a smile. "They're running it tomorrow."

"Good," Pops said. "Let everyone know what happens when you mess with the Benson family."

It was nearly midnight when the consortium families finally started heading home. Handshakes, hugs, promises to check in tomorrow. The house slowly emptied until it was just the Bensons again.

"Bed," Sarah said firmly to Billy and Jake. "Both of you. Now."

They didn't argue. They were exhausted, every muscle screaming.

Jr., Caleb, and Colton followed Billy and Jake up the stairs to the Frat House. The five of them had barely been apart since the ordeal began, and none of them wanted to separate now.

Inside the Frat House, Billy and Jake collapsed onto their respective bottom bunks with groans of relief.

"Never thought I'd be so happy to see this room," Billy said.

"Amen," Jake agreed.

Jr. climbed into his bunk above Caleb, Colton settling onto his mattress between the beds. For a few minutes, they just lay there in the darkness, the weight of the day finally settling over them.

"You guys are crazy, you know that?" Jr. said quietly. "What you did. Getting out of those ropes. Taking down those guys. That was... that was incredible."

"We just did what we had to do," Billy said.

"No," Jr. said firmly. "You're heroes. My heroes."

Billy and Jake were quiet for a moment.

"Thanks, kid," Jake said finally. "But you saved us too. That GPS tracker you put in the truck? That's what would've led you to us. You and those drones and that whole command center setup. That was impressive as hell."

"The wiz kids came through," Jr. said, pride in his voice.

"Damn right you did," Billy said.

They lay there a while longer, comfortable in the silence, the brotherhood deepened by the day's events.

Then Jake suddenly sat up with a wince. "Wait here."

"Where you going?" Billy asked.

Jake grinned, despite his split lip. "Got an idea."

He crept out of the Frat House and across the hall. Pops' door was open—the old man was downstairs still, probably having a drink with Tom and Josh. Jake slipped into Pops' room.

There, on the dresser, was the bugle. That damn Civil War bugle that woke them up every single morning at 5:15 AM.

Jake grabbed it and crept back to the Frat House.

"What are you doing?" Caleb whispered.

Jake lifted the floorboard where they kept their secret beer stash and carefully placed the bugle inside, covering it with a six-pack.

"Payback," Jake said with a grin. "Let's see if that old man can wake us up without his precious bugle."

They were all laughing when they heard boots on the stairs. Heavy, familiar boots.

Pops.

The door to the Frat House opened, and Pops stood there, backlit from the hallway, a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand and a knowing grin on his weathered face.

"Evening, boys," Pops said.

"Evening, Pops," they chorused, trying to sound innocent.

Pops walked into the room, his eyes scanning. Then he looked directly at the floorboard where Jake had just hidden the bugle.

"You know," Pops said conversationally, "I was a Marine. Recon. You think I don't know about every hiding spot in this house?"

Jake's face fell.

Pops walked over, lifted the floorboard, moved the six-pack aside, and pulled out his bugle. "Nice try, though. Shows initiative."

He looked at the beer, then at the boys. "You earned these tonight." He pulled out five bottles, handing one to each of them. "Don't tell your grandmother."

"Yes sir," they said, grinning.

Pops settled into the old chair by the window, the bottle of Jack Daniels in hand. He took a swig, then raised the bugle to his lips.

"Now let me make sure this still works proper," Pops said with a wicked grin.

"Pops, no—" Jake started.

BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!

The bugle blast was deafening in the small room. Billy's hands flew to his ears. Jake jerked so hard he nearly fell off the bunk. Jr., Caleb, and Colton all yelped.

"JESUS CHRIST, POPS!" Billy shouted.

"OH GOD!" Jake groaned, holding his head. "This is worse than the beating! This is worse than the torture!"

"I'd rather be tied up!" Caleb yelled.

"My ears are bleeding!" Jr. said.

Colton just sat on his mattress, hands over his ears, shaking his head in disbelief.

Pops lowered the bugle, grinning like the devil himself. "Yep, still works perfect."

"You're trying to kill us!" Jake said. "After everything we went through today, you're gonna finish the job yourself!"

"Those kidnappers were more merciful than you!" Billy added, still holding his ringing ears.

Pops laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes. "You boys survive a kidnapping, escape on your own, and defeat three armed men. But you can't handle a little bugle?"

"That wasn't a little anything!" Jake protested. "That was a weapon of mass destruction!"

"Thought you boys were tough," Pops said, taking another swig of Jack Daniels.

"We ARE tough," Billy said. "But that thing should be illegal!"

"It's a family heirloom," Pops said with mock offense. "Your great-great-grandfather used this in the Civil War."

"To torture prisoners, we know!" Jake said. "We've BEEN saying that!"

Pops raised the bugle again.

"NO!" All five of them yelled at once.

"Pops, please!" Jr. begged.

"We'll do anything!" Caleb said.

"I'm sorry I stole it!" Jake said. "I'm sorry! I repent!"

Pops grinned and lowered the bugle. "Just wanted to make sure you boys remember—5:15 AM. Sharp. And after the day you've had, I'm gonna blow this thing extra hard tomorrow morning."

"You're the real villain in this story," Jake muttered.

"What was that?" Pops raised the bugle again.

"Nothing! Nothing, sir!"

Pops chuckled, tucking the bugle under his arm. "Thought you boys were dead today," he said, his voice going quiet. "When we found that blood and those cut ropes. Thought I'd lost you."

"We're okay, Pops," Billy said softly.

"I know. And I know why." Pops looked at them, his eyes reflecting decades of war and loss and love. "Because you're Bensons. And Bensons don't quit. They don't break. They fight."

He raised his bottle. "To Billy and Jake. The toughest sons of bitches in Kings County."

"To Billy and Jake," the others echoed, clinking their beer bottles together.

"Though not tough enough for my bugle, apparently," Pops added with a grin.

"Nobody's tough enough for that thing," Jake said.

"Damn straight." Pops stood, tucking his bugle protectively under his arm. "Get some sleep, boys. Tomorrow's a new day. And tomorrow morning, you're all gonna remember why you love this family."

"Because we're all crazy?" Caleb offered.

"Exactly right," Pops said. "Night, boys."

"Night, Pops," they said.

The old man left, closing the door behind him. They could hear his boots going back across the hall, then the sound of his door closing.

"I can still hear ringing," Jr. said.

"My good ear is gone," Jake said. "Just gone."

"Those kidnappers tied us up, beat us, and threatened to hang us," Billy said. "But Pops with that bugle? That's true suffering."

They all laughed despite themselves.

They finished their beers in comfortable silence, then one by one, drifted off to sleep. Billy and Jake in their bunks, finally safe. Jr. and Caleb above them. Colton on his mattress on the floor.

The Frat House was quiet. The Benson Ranch was quiet.

And tomorrow, at 5:15 AM sharp, Pops would blow that damn bugle.

But tonight, they were all just grateful to be home.

Even if their ears were still ringing.