Chapter 1: REVEILLE AT THE FRAT HOUSE
The roar came at 5:30 AM sharp, same as every goddamn morning.
"REVEILLE! REVEILLE! DROP YOUR COCKS AND GRAB YOUR SOCKS! LET'S GO, LET'S GO, LET'S GO!"
Pops' voice thundered down the second-floor hallway of the Benson Ranch house like incoming artillery. Seventy-six years old and the old bastard still had the lungs of a drill sergeant.
Billy Benson groaned and pulled his pillow over his head. Above him in the top bunk, his brother Jake didn't even stir.
"MOVE IT, LADIES! DAYLIGHT'S BURNING AND SO'S MY PATIENCE!"
A boot hit the door. Then another.
"Jesus Christ," Celeb muttered from the other bunk bed, his Louisiana drawl thick with sleep. "That man's gonna give me a heart attack one of these days."
"Get used to it, cousin," Colt mumbled from his mattress on the floor between the bunks. "Fourteen months and I still ain't."
Billy swung his legs out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cold hardwood. The frat house—that's what they called this room, had for years—was a disaster zone of dirty clothes, empty Gatorade bottles, and the faint smell of the Coors Light they kept hidden under the loose floorboard by the window. Two bunk beds, five grown men, and enough testosterone to fuel a small war.
"THAT MEANS YOU TOO, BILLY JR! I HEAR YOU PLAYING WITH THAT DAMN PHONE!"
From the bunk across the room, Billy's nephew—technically, though the sixteen-year-old worked the ranch harder than most grown men—called back: "I'M CHECKING THE WEATHER RADAR, YOU OLD FART!"
Billy grinned. Jr was the only one who could talk back to Pops and get away with it.
"WEATHER RADAR MY ASS! GET VERTICAL, SOLDIER!"
Jake finally moved above him, the bunk creaking. "Somebody shoot me."
"Can't," Billy said, yanking on his jeans. "Pops would make us bury you before breakfast and I'm hungry."
"Fuck you."
"Love you too, brother."
This was the routine. Had been since Billy was old enough to work the ranch. The Benson family didn't do gentle wake-ups or quiet mornings. They did chaos, volume, and constant shit-talking, all wrapped up in the kind of love that didn't need to be spoken out loud.
Jake dropped down from the top bunk, landing with a thud that shook the whole room. At twenty-two, Jake was built like a linebacker—all shoulders and attitude. Billy, just a year younger at twenty-one, was leaner, quicker, but they moved like mirror images. Always had. People called them the twins even though they weren't.
"I'm showering first," Jake announced, grabbing a towel.
"Like hell you are." Billy snatched the towel out of his hand. "I got the feed run this morning. I need to not smell like your sweaty ass."
"Boys," Celeb warned from his bunk, "don't make me get up and settle this."
"You couldn't settle a bar tab," Jake shot back, lunging for the towel.
Billy dodged, quick as a snake, and Jake crashed into the dresser. A picture frame fell over—their mom's attempt to make the frat house look civilized. It never worked.
"WHAT THE HELL'S GOING ON UP THERE?" Pops bellowed. "SOUNDS LIKE A DAMN WHOREHOUSE!"
"JAKE'S BEING A LITTLE BITCH!" Billy yelled back, darting toward the door.
"AM NOT!"
"ARE TOO!"
Jr sat up in his bunk, his dark hair sticking up in every direction. The kid looked like Josh—same sharp features, same intense eyes—but he had Pops' mouth. "Y'all are both bitches. Now shut up so I can think."
"Think about what?" Colt asked, finally sitting up on his mattress. At seventeen, he was the youngest in the frat house, still gangly and growing into himself. "It's five-thirty in the goddamn morning."
"The satellite uplink," Jr said, like it was obvious. "Me and the boys are installing the new relay system today. Gonna boost our range by thirty percent."
"The boys" were Jr's crew of teenage tech wizards from the other consortium ranches. Six families, six properties spread across Kings County, all connected by radios, satellite phones, and whatever the hell Jr and his buddies cooked up in the Command Center next door.
Billy gave up on the shower—Jake was already barricading himself in the bathroom—and pulled on a clean shirt. Clean-ish. It passed the smell test.
"Let me see the setup before we head down," he said to Jr.
The kid's face lit up. "Yeah? You actually wanna see it?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
Jr scrambled down from his bunk, stepping over Colt, and led Billy out into the hallway. The Command Center was right next door, what used to be a guest room before Josh's son turned it into mission control for the consortium.
The room was a mess of monitors, radio equipment, and enough cables to strangle a horse. Three computer screens glowed on a makeshift desk, showing maps, weather data, and what looked like security camera feeds from around the ranch.
"Check it out," Jr said, pointing to a new piece of equipment mounted on the wall. "Satellite relay. We can patch into the network from anywhere on the property now. Even the back forty."
"That's actually pretty cool," Billy admitted.
"Pretty cool? It's badass." Jr grinned, then his expression shifted to something more serious. "Hey, Uncle Billy? You think Pops is proud of this stuff? The tech?"
Billy looked at his nephew—this kid who could rebuild a tractor engine and code a website in the same afternoon, who cussed like a sailor and worked like a man twice his age. "You kidding? Pops brags about you to everyone. Calls you his 'secret weapon.'"
"Really?"
"Really. Now come on before he comes up here and drags us down by our ears."
They headed back to the frat house, where Jake had emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, and everyone was pulling on boots and hats. The morning uniform: jeans, work shirts, boots that had seen better days, and Stetsons that had seen worse.
"KITCHEN! NOW! MOVE YOUR ASSES!"
They thundered down the stairs like a herd of cattle, all five of them, boots pounding on the hardwood. The smell hit Billy halfway down—coffee, bacon, biscuits, and the unmistakable scent of his mom's breakfast gravy. His stomach growled.
The kitchen was the heart of the ranch house, a massive room with a table that could seat twelve and usually did. Sarah Benson stood at the stove, her graying hair pulled back, spatula in hand, completely unfazed by the chaos of her family descending like locusts.
"Wipe your feet," she said without turning around.
They wiped their feet.
Pops sat at the head of the table, coffee mug in one hand, cigar in the other, even though Sarah had banned smoking in the house twenty years ago. He got away with it before breakfast. The old man was all angles and leather skin, his white hair buzzed military-short, his eyes sharp as broken glass.
"About damn time," he growled. "Thought I was gonna have to send a search party."
"We were moving as fast as we could, Pops," Celeb said, sliding into a chair.
"Fast as you could? Son, I've seen turtles fuck with more urgency."
Billy snorted into his coffee. Tom Benson—Billy's dad, Pops' son, and the actual owner of the ranch—walked in from the mudroom, already dressed for the day. At fifty-four, Tom was the bridge between Pops' old-school military madness and the next generation's chaos. He kept the peace. Mostly.
"Morning, boys," Tom said, pouring himself coffee. "Everyone sleep okay?"
"Define okay," Jake muttered.
"I slept great," Jr announced, loading his plate with bacon. "Dreamed I punched Jake in the face."
"That wasn't a dream, dipshit. That was last week."
"Oh yeah."
Sarah set a platter of biscuits on the table. "Language."
"Sorry, Mama," Jr said, not sounding sorry at all.
Josh walked in next, the oldest of the four brothers at thirty-two, already looking tired. As General Manager, he carried the weight of the whole operation on his shoulders. "Morning. We need to talk about the south pasture fence. Found three posts down yesterday."
"After breakfast," Tom said. "Let your mother feed us first."
Ray appeared in the doorway, phone pressed to his ear, finger held up in a "one minute" gesture. At twenty-eight, Ray was the Business Manager, the numbers guy, always on a call with a buyer or a supplier or the bank. He mouthed "sorry" to Sarah and stepped back into the hallway.
"That boy's gonna grow that phone into his skull," Pops said. "Mark my words."
Billy loaded his plate—biscuits, gravy, bacon, eggs, hash browns. His mom cooked for an army because she fed one. The table filled up fast: Pops at the head, Tom to his right, Josh next to Tom, then Jake, Billy, Celeb, Colt, and Jr. Ray's empty chair waited for him to finish his call.
"So what's the plan today?" Tom asked, cutting into his eggs.
"I got the feed run," Billy said. "We're low on sweet feed and mineral blocks."
"Take the Chevy," Tom said. "The Ford's making that noise again."
"What noise?" Josh asked.
"The expensive noise," Pops said. "The 'this is gonna cost me a fortune' noise."
"I can look at it," Jr offered.
"You're installing that satellite thing," Josh reminded him.
"I can do both."
"Kid's a damn prodigy," Pops said, pointing his fork at Jr. "Gonna run this whole operation someday."
"Not if Jake runs it into the ground first," Billy said.
Jake kicked him under the table. "Shut up."
"Make me."
"Boys," Sarah said, her voice carrying that warning tone that could stop a charging bull.
They shut up.
Ray finally came back in, pocketing his phone. "Sorry. That was the buyer in Lubbock. He's taking the whole lot."
"Good," Tom said. "We need the cash flow."
"Always need the cash flow," Pops muttered. "Running a ranch ain't for the faint of heart or the light of wallet."
The conversation flowed like it always did—work talk mixed with insults mixed with laughter. Josh ribbed Jake about the fence posts. Jake blamed Billy for leaving a gate open. Billy blamed Colt for not checking it. Colt blamed Jr for distracting him. Jr blamed everyone for being idiots.
Celeb, who'd been part of the family for fourteen months now—ever since the consortium brought him up from Louisiana—just shook his head. "Y'all are crazy."
"You're just figuring that out?" Billy asked.
"Nah, I knew it day one. Just still amazes me."
"Crazy keeps us sharp," Pops said. "You get soft, you get dead. That's what I learned in 'Nam."
"Here we go," Jake whispered.
"I heard that, smartass. And I'm right. You think Charlie gave a shit if you were tired or hungry or wanted to sleep in? Hell no. You stayed sharp or you came home in a bag."
"Pops," Tom said gently, "we're not in Vietnam."
"Could've fooled me with the way these boys operate. No discipline. No structure."
"We got structure," Josh protested. "I run a tight ship."
"Your ship's got more leaks than the Titanic, son."
Billy caught Jake's eye across the table and they both grinned. This was the rhythm of breakfast—Pops holding court, Tom playing referee, Josh trying to maintain order, and the rest of them just trying to eat without getting roasted too badly.
Sarah refilled coffee mugs, her presence a calm center in the storm. She didn't say much, but when she did, everyone listened. That was power.
"Billy," she said, "you need anything else from town besides the feed?"
"No, ma'am. Just the usual."
"Be careful on the highway. They're doing construction near the county line."
"I will."
"And don't speed."
"I won't."
"He will," Jake said.
"Shut up, Jake."
"Make me."
"I swear to God—"
"ENOUGH," Pops barked. "You two are worse than me and your Uncle Pete back in the day. And we actually threw punches."
"We throw punches," Billy said.
"Not good ones," Jr added.
The table erupted in laughter. Even Josh cracked a smile, which was rare before his second cup of coffee.
Tom stood, draining his mug. "Alright, let's get moving. Josh, you and Jake handle the south pasture. Ray, you got those calls with the feed lot?"
"All morning."
"Celeb, Colt, you're with me on the equipment maintenance. Jr, you and your tech squad do your thing but I want someone checking that Ford."
"On it, Grandpa."
"Don't call me Grandpa. Makes me feel old."
"You are old," Pops said. "Hell, I'm old. Difference is I earned it."
Billy pushed back from the table, grabbing his hat from the hook by the door. The Chevy keys hung on the board—each truck had its own hook, its own key, its own personality. The Chevy was reliable, steady, boring. Perfect for a feed run.
"I'll be back by lunch," he said.
"Grab some of those good tortillas from the mercado if you're near it," Sarah called.
"Yes, ma'am."
Jake followed him to the mudroom. "Hey."
"What?"
"You want company? I can ride along."
Billy looked at his brother—his best friend, his constant competition, his twin in everything but blood. "Nah, I'm good. You got fence duty anyway."
"Fence duty sucks."
"Everything sucks according to you."
"Not everything. Just most things." Jake grinned. "Drive safe, little brother."
"I'm only a year younger, asshole."
"Still counts."
They clasped hands, pulled into a quick hug—the kind men do when they love each other but won't say it out loud. Then Billy grabbed his work gloves and headed out the back door.
The morning air hit him clean and cool, that perfect Texas spring temperature before the heat rolled in. The sun was just clearing the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The ranch spread out before him—two thousand acres of pasture, cattle, equipment, and history. Four generations of Bensons had worked this land. Billy was the fourth.
The Chevy sat in the drive, dusty and dependable. He climbed in, fired up the engine, and let it warm for a minute. Through the kitchen window, he could see his family still moving around—Pops gesturing with his coffee mug, Tom pointing at something, Jake stealing another piece of bacon.
His family. His crazy, loud, loving, impossible family.
Billy put the truck in gear and rolled down the long driveway, past the barn, past the equipment shed, past the cattle pens. The radio crackled to life—Jr testing the new system.
"Uncle Billy, you copy?"
Billy grabbed the handset. "I copy. What's up?"
"Just testing range. You coming through clear."
"Roger that. I'll check in from town."
"Cool. Hey, bring me back a Dr Pepper?"
"You got it, kid."
The driveway met the ranch road, which met the county road, which met the highway. Billy turned right, heading toward town, toward the feed store, toward a completely normal, routine morning.
The sun climbed higher. The radio played old country. The truck hummed along at sixty-five.
Everything was normal.
Everything was fine.
Billy Benson had no idea that in twenty minutes, his entire world would explode into violence and chaos.
He had no idea this would be the last normal moment of his life.
He just drove, windows down, one hand on the wheel, thinking about feed orders and Dr Pepper and whether Jake would actually fix that fence or just half-ass it like usual.
The Benson Ranch disappeared in his rearview mirror.
The main road stretched out ahead, empty and quiet.
Just another morning in Kings County, Texas.
Just another day.
Chapter 2: THE AMBUSH
The bell above the door chimed as Billy walked into Henderson's Feed & Supply. The smell hit him first—grain dust, leather, fertilizer, coffee from the pot that had been brewing since dawn. Home smells. Safe smells.
"Billy Benson!" Old man Henderson looked up from his register, grinning. "Thought that was your truck. How's your granddaddy?"
"Mean as ever," Billy said, returning the smile. "Sent me for the usual order. Plus whatever you got on special for cattle mineral."
"Got a good deal on selenium blocks. Your daddy called it in yesterday." Henderson shuffled toward the back. "Give me ten minutes to load you up."
Billy wandered the aisles while he waited. Checked his phone—one bar of signal, typical for town. A text from Jake: fence is bullshit. wire's all rusted. need new rolls.
Billy typed back: tell pops. not my problem today.
Three dots appeared, then: coward
Billy grinned. The radio on his hip crackled—Jr again, probably bored already.
Everything normal. Everything fine.
Outside, three hundred yards down Main Street, a rusted-out Chevy Silverado sat in the Dairy Queen parking lot. Three men inside, watching.
"That's him," Ray said, pointing with a hand that shook. "That's the truck from the ranch."
Ray Kowalski was forty-two and looked sixty. Meth had eaten his teeth, his skin, his future. What was left was a scarecrow in a stained Metallica shirt, eyes too bright, jaw working constantly.
"You sure?" That was Deke—Deke Morrison, thirty-five, built like a linebacker gone to seed. Prison tattoos crawled up his neck. He'd been out three months and already violated parole twice. The vodka bottle between his legs was half-empty, and it wasn't even noon.
"I'm fucking sure. Saw it yesterday when we drove past. Big spread, nice equipment, that fancy gate system." Ray's fingers drummed the dashboard, rat-a-tat-tat, couldn't stop moving. "Heard about it at the bar. That consortium thing. Megabucks. They're sitting on millions."
The third man, Lyle Chen, laughed—high and nervous. Lyle was the youngest at twenty-eight, the smartest, which wasn't saying much. He'd been a community college dropout before the pills got him. Now he was just another lost soul with track marks and bad decisions.
"Millions," Lyle repeated. "In a fucking ranch house. Sure, Ray. That makes sense."
"I heard it from Tommy Vickers. He does electrical work out there sometimes. Says they got a whole command center, computers, security shit. You don't have that unless you're protecting something."
"Or you're just rich," Lyle said.
"Same thing." Ray took a hit off the glass pipe, held it, exhaled. The truck filled with chemical smoke. "Look, we do this clean. Grab the kid, make a video, ask for two-fifty K. They pay, we let him go, we disappear. Easy."
"Nothing's easy," Deke said, but he was already nodding. Already in. The vodka and desperation made it sound reasonable.
"We need this," Ray said. His voice cracked. "I need this. I'm three weeks from living in my fucking car. You're both in the same boat. This is it. This is our shot."
They watched Billy's truck through the feed store window.
"He's alone," Lyle said quietly.
"Yeah." Ray's jaw worked. "He's alone."
Billy helped Henderson load the last bag of feed into the truck bed. His phone buzzed—a text from Mama: Be careful. Love you.
He smiled, typed back: Always am. Love you too.
"Tell your family I said hello," Henderson said, wiping his hands on his apron.
"Will do. Thanks, Mr. Henderson."
Billy climbed into the truck, checked the radio one more time. "Jr, you copy?"
Static, then: "Copy, Uncle Billy. You heading back?"
"Yeah. Be there in twenty."
"Roger. I'll tell Grandpa."
Billy pulled out of the lot, turned left onto Main, headed for the highway. The Dr Pepper for Jr sat in the cup holder. The radio played Waylon Jennings. The morning sun was warm through the windshield.
In his rearview mirror, a rusted Silverado pulled out of the Dairy Queen lot.
Billy didn't notice.
"Stay back," Ray said. "Don't spook him."
"I know how to fucking tail someone," Deke growled.
They followed Billy through town, onto the county road, onto the empty stretch that led back toward ranch country. No other cars. No witnesses. Just heat shimmer on asphalt and scrub brush stretching to the horizon.
"This is it," Ray said. His heart hammered. The meth made everything sharp, electric, possible. "This is fucking it. Deke, you got the gun?"
Deke patted his waistband. "Yeah."
"Don't use it unless you have to. We're not killers."
"Speak for yourself," Deke said, but he was grinning. The vodka made him brave. Made him stupid.
"There's that turnoff coming up," Lyle said. "The one with the abandoned feed depot. We force him off there, nobody'll see."
"How do we force him off?"
"Blow his tire. I got the rifle."
Ray looked back. Lyle held up a .22—barely more than a pellet gun, but enough.
"Do it," Ray said.
Billy was thinking about the fence wire when he heard the crack.
Not a gunshot. Not in his mind. Just a sound, sharp and wrong.
Then his truck lurched.
The steering wheel jerked in his hands. The rear end fishtailed. Billy's training kicked in—don't overcorrect, ease off the gas, control the skid—but the shoulder was soft and the ditch was deep and the truck was already going.
"Shit—"
The world tilted. His head cracked against the window. The radio flew off his hip. His phone launched from the cup holder. The truck slammed into the ditch with a crunch of metal and breaking glass.
Billy's vision swam. Blood in his mouth. Ringing in his ears.
Move. Get out. Something's wrong.
He fumbled for the door handle. His fingers wouldn't work right. Everything was sideways, tilted, wrong.
The door was ripped open.
Hands grabbed him. Dragged him out. Billy swung, connected with something soft. Someone grunted.
"Fuck—he's fighting—"
Billy's boots hit dirt. He swung again, caught someone in the jaw. His vision cleared enough to see three men, strangers, eyes wild and wrong.
"Radio—" Billy gasped. Had to call home. Had to—
A fist caught him in the temple. The world exploded into stars.
Billy went down. Tried to get up. A boot caught him in the ribs. Another in the gut. He curled up, tried to protect himself, but there were too many of them and his head was still ringing from the crash.
"Get the rope—"
"He broke my fucking nose—"
"Just hold him—"
Billy bucked, threw one of them off. Got to his knees. Someone hit him from behind, a bottle maybe, glass breaking against his skull.
The world went soft and dark.
When Billy woke up, he couldn't see.
Couldn't see, couldn't talk, couldn't move.
Panic hit like ice water. He tried to scream but something was in his mouth, rubber and awful, strapped tight around his head. He tried to move his hands but they were behind his back, bound to his ankles, his whole body bent backward in a position that already made his shoulders scream.
Hogtied.
Blindfolded.
Gagged.
Billy's breath came in short, sharp gasps through his nose. Don't panic. Don't panic. Breathe. Think.
Where was he? The ground was old linoleum, cold. The air smelled like oil and rot and bird shit. Abandoned building. Somewhere remote.
His truck. His radio. His phone. All back at the crash site.
His family would find it. They'd know something was wrong. Jr would try to radio him. When he didn't answer, they'd come looking.
But how long would that take?
"He's awake," someone said.
Billy froze.
Footsteps. Multiple people. The smell of chemicals and alcohol.
"Good," another voice said. Higher pitched. Nervous. "We need him awake for the video."
Video?
"Take his shirt off first," the first voice said. "They need to see we're serious."
Hands grabbed Billy. He thrashed but the hogtie made it impossible. They cut his shirt away. The linoleum was freezing against his bare skin.
"You got the camera?"
"Yeah. Lyle, do the voice thing."
"I'm trying—hold on—"
Billy's heart hammered. His shoulders burned. The gag made him want to vomit but he couldn't, he'd choke, he'd die.
Stay calm. Stay alive. They want money. They'll keep you alive.
"Okay, it's recording."
A pause. Then a voice, mechanical and distorted: "We have Billy Benson. If you want him back alive, you will pay two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. We will contact you with instructions. You have twenty-four hours. If you call the police, he dies. If you don't pay, he dies. This is not a negotiation."
Silence. Then footsteps coming closer.
"Now they need to see we're serious," someone said.
Billy heard the snick of a blade opening.
No. No no no—
The knife bit into his chest. Not deep, but enough. Billy screamed into the gag, the sound muffled and pathetic. The blade dragged across his skin, a line of fire from his collarbone to his ribs.
"Jesus, Ray—"
"Shut up. They need to see."
Another cut, across his stomach. Billy's whole body convulsed. Tears soaked into the blindfold.
"One more. The arm."
The blade traced down his bicep. Billy couldn't stop shaking. Blood ran warm down his skin, pooled beneath him on the linoleum.
"That's good. That's enough."
"Is it? I think we should—"
A boot slammed into Billy's crotch.
The pain was white-hot, total, obliterating. Billy couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only exist in the agony.
Laughter. High and wrong.
"Got that on camera?"
"Yeah. Yeah, that's good."
"Alright. Send it. Let's get out of here."
"What about him?"
"Leave him. We'll come back after they pay."
"What if he gets loose?"
"Look at him. He's not getting loose."
More footsteps. A door opening. Voices fading.
"You think they'll pay?"
"They'll pay. You see that spread? They got money."
"Two-fifty K though—"
"They'll pay. They have to."
The door slammed shut.
Silence.
Billy lay on the linoleum, bleeding, bound, blind. Every breath was agony. His shoulders were dislocating. The cuts burned. His balls felt like they'd been crushed.
But he was alive.
He was alive, and he was a Benson, and Bensons didn't quit.
His family would come. They'd find the truck. They'd get the video. They'd come.
He just had to stay alive until they did.
Billy forced himself to breathe slowly through his nose. Forced himself to think past the pain. The hogtie was tight but not impossible. The blindfold was thick but not perfect—he could see a sliver of light at the bottom.
The gag was the worst. But he could breathe. He could survive.
Hours stretched ahead. Dark hours. Painful hours.
But Billy had been raised by Tom Benson and trained by Pops. He'd been woken at 5:30 AM his whole life. He'd worked cattle in hundred-degree heat. He'd learned to push through pain, through exhaustion, through fear.
He could do this.
He had to do this.
Outside, a truck engine started. Drove away. The sound faded into nothing.
Billy was alone in the dark, bleeding and bound.
But he was already planning.
Already fighting.
Already surviving.
The Bensons were coming.
He just had to last until they did.
Chapter 3: 911 BILLY JR
The satellite relay was giving them trouble again.
Billy Jr stood on a stepladder in the Command Center, his hands buried in a nest of cables while Pops held the ladder steady and called out diagnostics from the tablet below.
"Try the green one," Pops said.
"Which green one? There's like forty green ones."
"The one that looks important."
Jr grinned despite himself. "That's not how this works, Pops."
"Worked in 'Nam."
"You didn't have satellite relays in 'Nam."
"Had radios. Same principle. Wiggle shit until it works."
Jr wiggled the connection. The status light flickered, then held steady green. "Got it."
"See? Told you."
Jr climbed down, wiping his hands on his jeans. The Command Center hummed around them—servers, monitors, the encrypted radio system they'd spent two years building. His design, mostly. His code. His baby.
Pops had been teaching him the old systems all morning. The backup radios. The manual overrides. The stuff that would work even if the power grid went down and the satellites fell out of the sky.
"You never know," Pops had said. "Technology's great until it isn't. Then you need to know how to make smoke signals and bang rocks together."
Jr's phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out, glanced at the screen. Unknown number. Video message.
"Spam probably," he muttered, but he opened it anyway because he was sixteen and curious and had no reason to think the world was about to end.
The video loaded.
Jr saw his Uncle Billy tied up, blindfolded, gagged.
He saw the cattle prod.
He heard his uncle's muffled screaming.
The phone slipped in his hand. He caught it, but his fingers had gone numb. Cold. Everything had gone cold.
"Jr?" Pops's voice came from far away. "What is it?"
Jr couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't look away.
The video kept playing. The laughter. The voice: "Two hundred fifty thousand dollars. You have twenty-four hours."
"Jr." Pops was beside him now, hand on his shoulder. "What—"
Pops saw the screen.
The change was instant. The old man—the grandfather who made pancakes and told bad jokes—vanished. What replaced him was something else. Something hard and cold and dangerous.
"Give me the phone."
Jr handed it over. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking.
Pops watched the video once, his face carved from stone. Then he looked at Jr, and for just a second, the grandfather came back. "You okay, son?"
Jr nodded. He wasn't okay. He'd just watched his uncle—his uncle—get tortured. But he was a Benson, and Bensons didn't fall apart.
Not yet.
Not when there was work to do.
His hand moved to the console. To the red button under the protective cover. The one they'd installed and tested and prayed they'd never actually need.
The 911 button.
Jr flipped the cover up.
"Do it," Pops said quietly.
Jr pressed the button.
The mechanical voice echoed through every radio, every satellite phone, every device on the consortium network:
"911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr."
Three times. Exactly as programmed.
Then Jr grabbed the microphone, and his voice—cracking, breaking, but clear enough—cut through the silence:
"Help. My Uncle Billy has been kidnapped and being held for ransom!"
Jake was halfway through cutting a fence post when the radio on his belt came alive.
"911 Billy Jr."
He froze, wire cutters in hand.
"911 Billy Jr."
The mechanical voice. The one they'd programmed for emergencies. The one that meant everything had gone to hell.
"911 Billy Jr."
Then Jr's voice, young and terrified: "Help. My Uncle Billy has been kidnapped and being held for ransom!"
The wire cutters hit the ground.
Jake was running before he knew he'd decided to move. Sprinting across the pasture toward his truck, his radio clutched in his hand, his heart trying to punch through his ribs.
Billy. His twin. His brother.
Kidnapped.
Celeb's voice crackled through: "Jake, wait—"
Jake didn't wait. He hit the truck at full speed, yanked the door open, fired the engine. The tires spun in the dirt as he floored it toward the main house.
Tom was in the barn checking the new calf when the alert came through.
"911 Billy Jr."
He straightened, hand going to his radio.
"911 Billy Jr."
His son. His youngest son.
"911 Billy Jr."
Then Jr's voice, and Tom was already moving. Out of the barn, across the yard, his boots pounding dirt. Sarah appeared on the porch, her face white.
"Tom—"
"I heard it. Get inside. Lock the doors."
"What's happening—"
"Now, Sarah."
She went. Tom kept moving, his mind already racing through scenarios, through options, through the training they'd done for exactly this kind of nightmare.
His radio crackled with voices. Everyone responding. Everyone converging.
The system was working.
But his son was gone.
Josh was three miles out when the alert hit.
"911 Billy Jr."
His son's designation. His son.
"911 Billy Jr."
Josh's hand tightened on the steering wheel.
"911 Billy Jr."
Then Jr's voice: "Help. My Uncle Billy has been kidnapped and being held for ransom!"
Josh's foot slammed the accelerator. The truck fishtailed on the dirt road, then caught traction. He grabbed his radio.
"Jr, this is Dad. I'm coming. Hold tight."
Jr's voice came back, steadier now: "Copy, Dad. We're in the Command Center. Pops is with me."
Thank God. Thank God Pops was with him.
Josh pushed the truck harder. The engine screamed. He didn't care.
His son had just watched his uncle get tortured.
His sixteen-year-old son.
Josh was going to kill someone. But first, he had to get to Jr.
Sheriff Wade Nelson was in his kitchen making a sandwich when his satellite phone lit up.
"911 Billy Jr."
He dropped the sandwich.
"911 Billy Jr."
Wade grabbed the phone, his cop instincts already firing.
"911 Billy Jr."
Jr's voice: "Help. My Uncle Billy has been kidnapped and being held for ransom!"
Wade was out the door in seconds, his duty belt already on, his truck keys in his hand. He hit the radio as he drove.
"This is Sheriff Nelson. Jr, I'm two minutes out. Who else is responding?"
Jr's voice, calmer now but still shaking: "Everyone, sir. The whole consortium."
"Good. Don't touch anything. Don't delete anything. I'm coming."
Wade's mind was already working the case. Kidnapping. Ransom. Federal crime, but the Bensons wouldn't want the FBI involved. Not yet. Not until they knew what they were dealing with.
He'd seen the video by now—it had forwarded to his phone automatically. He'd watched thirty seconds before he had to stop.
Billy Benson. Good kid. Solid rancher. Didn't deserve this.
Nobody deserved this.
Wade pushed his truck to eighty on the county road. His neighbor was in trouble. His friend was in trouble.
The law could wait. Right now, he was just a man helping his people.
Billy Renzo was in his workshop when the alert came through.
"911 Billy Jr."
He grabbed his radio, his heart rate spiking.
"911 Billy Jr."
Ryan Mattern's voice cut in: "I'm rolling. Five minutes."
"911 Billy Jr."
Jr's voice: "Help. My Uncle Billy has been kidnapped and being held for ransom!"
Renzo was already moving. He grabbed his laptop bag, his toolkit, his go-bag. The one they'd all prepared for emergencies.
Daniel Rodriguez's voice: "On my way. Colt, you copy?"
"Copy. Three minutes out."
The wiz kids. All of them converging. All of them ready.
This was what they'd built the system for. This exact scenario.
Renzo just never thought they'd actually have to use it.
He hit his truck at a run, his mind already racing through protocols. Digital forensics. Trace analysis. Location tracking.
They'd find Billy.
They had to.
The Benson ranch house had never seen this many vehicles at once.
Trucks poured in from every direction. The consortium families. The wiz kids. Sheriff Wade. Everyone who'd heard the alert and dropped everything to respond.
Jake's truck skidded to a stop in the yard, and he was out before the engine died. He hit the porch at a dead run, burst through the door.
"Where is he? Where's Billy?"
Tom caught him. "Jake—"
"Where the fuck is my brother?"
"We don't know yet. Jr got a video—"
"Show me."
"Jake, you don't want to—"
"Show me the goddamn video!"
Pops appeared in the doorway to the Command Center. His voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "Kitchen. Now. All of you."
They moved. Jake, Tom, Sarah, Josh—who'd just arrived and immediately went to Jr. The kid was sitting at the console, his face pale but his hands steady on the keyboard.
"You okay, son?" Josh's hand on Jr's shoulder.
"Yeah, Dad. I'm okay."
He wasn't okay. None of them were okay. But they were Bensons, and there was work to do.
The others filed in. Ray from the office. The wiz kids—Renzo, Ryan, Daniel, Colt. Sheriff Wade, his face grim. More consortium members. The kitchen filled until there was barely room to breathe.
Pops stood at the head of the table. "Jr, show them."
Jr's fingers moved across the keyboard. The video appeared on the main monitor.
Nobody spoke.
They watched Billy tied up, blindfolded, gagged. They watched the cattle prod. They heard the screaming.
Jake made a sound like a wounded animal. Tom's hand gripped the table edge hard enough to leave marks. Sarah turned away, her hand over her mouth.
The voice on the video: "Two hundred fifty thousand dollars. You have twenty-four hours. We'll send instructions. If you call the police, he dies. If you don't pay, he dies. This is not a negotiation."
The video ended.
Silence.
Then Jake: "I'm going to kill them. I'm going to find them and I'm going to kill every single one of them."
"Get in line," Tom said quietly.
Sheriff Wade stepped forward. "We need to talk about how we handle this."
"No police," Tom said immediately. "They said no police."
"I am the police, Tom. And I'm telling you, we can keep this quiet. No FBI. No state boys. Just us. But we do this smart."
Pops nodded. "Wade's right. We go off half-cocked, Billy dies. We do this smart, we bring him home."
Jr's voice, quiet but steady: "His truck was found. Highway 83, about ten miles south. Blown tire, signs of a struggle. Deputy Martinez called it in an hour ago."
Everyone turned to look at him.
"How do you know that?" Wade asked.
"I'm monitoring all police frequencies. I set up alerts for anything involving our vehicles."
Pops's hand landed on Jr's shoulder. Pride and pain mixed in his eyes. "Good work, son."
Ryan Mattern leaned over Jr's shoulder, studying the screen. "Can you trace the video?"
"Working on it. They used a burner phone, routed through multiple proxies. But they made mistakes. Everyone makes mistakes."
"How long?" Tom asked.
"Give me an hour. Maybe two."
Renzo was already setting up his laptop. "I'll help. We'll find them."
Sheriff Wade pulled out his notebook. "Okay. Here's what we know. Billy was taken sometime this morning. Video was sent—" he checked his watch "—forty-three minutes ago. They want two hundred fifty thousand in twenty-four hours. That gives us time."
"Time for what?" Jake demanded. "Time to watch them torture him again?"
"Time to find him," Wade said evenly. "Time to plan. Time to do this right."
Tom looked around the room. His family. His friends. His consortium. Everyone who'd dropped everything to help.
"We're not paying the ransom," he said quietly.
Sarah's head snapped up. "Tom—"
"We're not paying because we're going to find him first. We're going to find him, and we're going to bring him home, and then we're going to deal with the people who did this."
Pops nodded. "Agreed."
Wade sighed. "I should probably object to that on legal grounds."
"But you won't," Tom said.
"No. I won't." Wade closed his notebook. "Okay. We do this as a consortium operation. I'm here as a neighbor, not as law enforcement. Officially, I don't know anything about this. Unofficially, I'm helping you find your son."
"Thank you, Wade."
"Don't thank me yet. We've got work to do." Wade turned to the room. "We need teams. Search team to process the truck site. Tech team to trace the video. Intelligence team to figure out who these assholes are. And we need someone coordinating everything."
"War Room," Pops said. "Like we planned."
They'd built the Command Center for this. For emergencies. For the worst-case scenario.
They just never thought they'd actually need it.
Tom looked at his grandson. Jr was sixteen years old, and he'd just watched his uncle get tortured, and he'd kept his head and hit the button and called for help.
"Jr," Tom said. "You're the tech lead. Whatever you need, you get."
Jr nodded. His hands were still shaking, but his voice was steady. "Yes, sir."
Josh squeezed his son's shoulder. Pride and fear and love all mixed together.
Jake was pacing like a caged animal. "I can't just sit here. I need to do something."
"You will," Pops said. "But right now, we plan. We organize. We get ready. When we move, we move smart."
"Pops is right," Tom said. "Billy's counting on us to keep our heads. So that's what we're going to do."
The room settled. The chaos crystallized into purpose.
Sheriff Wade started assigning teams. The wiz kids clustered around Jr's workstation. Pops pulled up maps on the big screen. Tom got on the phone with the other consortium ranches, coordinating resources.
Sarah moved through the room with coffee and sandwiches that nobody wanted but everyone needed.
Jake stood at the window, staring out at the ranch. His twin was out there somewhere. Hurt. Scared. Alone.
But not for long.
The Bensons were coming.
The whole damn consortium was coming.
And God help the people who'd taken Billy, because there wouldn't be anywhere far enough to run.
Jr's fingers flew across the keyboard, lines of code scrolling past. Ryan and Renzo worked beside him, three of the best tech minds in Kings County focused on one goal.
Find Billy.
Bring him home.
Make them pay.
The War Room was forming. The hunt was beginning.
And in the Command Center, surrounded by his family, Billy Jr—sixteen years old and terrified and determined—did what Bensons always did.
He got to work.
Chapter 4: THE WAR ROOM
The Command Center had transformed into something out of a military operation.
Jr stood at the main console, Ryan and Renzo flanking him, Daniel and Colt pulling up additional workstations. Five teenagers who'd spent their lives building tech for ranch management were now weaponizing every system they'd ever created.
"Okay, listen up," Jr said, his voice steadier than he felt. "We've got twelve iPads here. Each one's linked to our central system. You'll have real-time access to everything we're seeing—traffic cameras, drone feeds, GPS tracking."
Sheriff Wade stepped forward, and the room quieted. "How's this work, Jr?"
"Simple interface." Jr held up one of the iPads. "Red dots are our people. Blue dots are consortium vehicles. Green dots are drones. You tap any dot, you get details. You see something, you tap the alert button, and we all see it."
"What about the kidnappers?" Jake's voice was tight.
"We're running facial recognition on every traffic camera in the county," Ryan said. "Plus vehicle recognition. We've got Billy's truck flagged—if it moves, we know."
"They switched vehicles," Renzo added. "But we're tracking backwards from the feed store. Every camera, every angle. We'll find what they're driving."
Pops moved closer to the screens. "How far back can you go?"
"Six hours so far," Jr said. "But we're pulling more. The county system keeps seventy-two hours of footage."
"That's a lot of data," Sheriff Wade said.
"That's what we're good at." Jr's fingers moved across the keyboard. "Daniel's writing a filter program right now. It'll flag any vehicle that appears near the feed store and then heads out of town. Cross-reference with known plates, eliminate locals."
"How long?" Tom asked.
"Twenty minutes," Daniel said, not looking up from his screen. "Maybe less."
Colt was already launching drones from the back porch. "I've got four in the air now. Flying grid patterns starting from the feed store, moving outward. Thermal imaging's active."
"Thermal won't help if they've got him inside," Jake said.
"No, but it'll show us every structure within a twenty-mile radius. We map everything, then we check everything."
Jr pulled up a map on the main screen. Red zones appeared, spreading outward from town. "These are priority search areas. Abandoned buildings, old homesteads, anywhere someone could hold a person without being seen."
"There's a lot of empty space out here," Sheriff Wade said quietly.
"Yeah." Jr's jaw tightened. "But we've got the tech, and we've got the people. We'll cover it all."
The adults started taking iPads, Sheriff Wade distributing them to his deputies and the consortium ranchers who'd arrived. Josh stood with Tom and Pops, studying the map.
"We need to be smart about this," Josh said. "They're watching for a response. If we go in loud, they might—"
"They might kill him," Jake finished. "I know. But we can't just sit here."
"We're not sitting." Tom's voice was firm. "We're hunting. But we're doing it right."
In the main house, the War Room had taken over the dining room.
Maps covered the table. Radios lined the sideboard. Sarah had set up a coffee station that was already running low.
Pops stood at the head of the table, Celeb and Ray on either side. Sheriff Wade had his deputies checking in via radio. The consortium ranchers—men who'd known the Bensons for decades—waited for orders.
"We've got three priorities," Pops said. "Find them. Get Billy out. Make sure these bastards never do this again."
"The FBI's been notified," Sheriff Wade said. "But they're hours out. This is our show until they arrive."
"Good." Jake's hands were fists. "Because I don't want them getting in the way."
"Jake." Tom's voice carried a warning.
"I'm fine."
"You're not. None of us are. But we need you thinking, not just reacting."
Jake's jaw worked, but he nodded.
The radio crackled. Jr's voice: "We've got something."
Everyone moved.
The Command Center screens showed traffic camera footage, grainy but clear enough.
"There." Jr pointed. "Silver Dodge pickup, older model. Passes the feed store at 10:47 AM. That's thirteen minutes after Billy's truck left Henderson's."
"Can you see the plates?" Sheriff Wade asked.
"Partial." Ryan zoomed in. "Running it now."
"Watch this." Jr scrubbed forward. "Same truck, county road 12, heading west. Then here—" Another camera. "County road 19, still heading west."
"That's toward the old Hutchins property," Celeb said. "Been abandoned for years."
"How many structures out that way?" Pops asked.
"Dozen, maybe. Scattered over forty square miles."
"Colt, you got drones in that area?" Jr called.
"Redirecting now. Give me five minutes."
The room held its breath.
Jr's fingers never stopped moving. Code scrolled. Cameras cycled. The map updated with new data points.
"Got the plates," Ryan said. "Registered to Raymond Kowalski, Amarillo address. Running his record now."
"Priors?" Sheriff Wade asked.
"Pulling it up—yeah. Theft, possession, assault. Did two years in Huntsville, released eight months ago."
"Associates?"
"Working on it."
The drone feeds came online. Colt's voice: "I've got visual on the Hutchins property. Main house is collapsed. Barn's still standing. There's—wait."
Everyone leaned in.
"Vehicle behind the barn. Can't see it clearly, but it's the right size."
"That's them," Jake said. "That's gotta be them."
"Hold on." Jr pulled up the thermal imaging. "I'm seeing heat signatures. Three, maybe four. Inside the barn."
"Is one of them Billy?" Tom's voice was tight.
"Can't tell. Thermal doesn't give us that kind of detail."
Pops turned to Sheriff Wade. "How fast can you get a team out there?"
"Fifteen minutes. But if we go in hard—"
"We go in smart," Tom said. "Surround the property. Eyes on all exits. Then we assess."
"I'm going," Jake said.
"We're all going," Pops said. "But Wade's people take point. This is a law enforcement operation."
Sheriff Wade nodded. "Agreed. But I want your people as backup. These boys know the land better than my deputies."
"Done."
The room mobilized. Men checking weapons, radios, gear. Sarah appeared with water bottles and protein bars. The wiz kids updated the iPads with the target location.
Jr pulled up the satellite view, marking approach routes. "Best access is from the north. There's a dry creek bed that'll give you cover to within two hundred yards."
"Colt, keep those drones high," Sheriff Wade said. "I don't want them spooked."
"Roger that."
Jake was already moving toward the door. Tom caught his arm.
"You stay controlled out there. You hear me?"
"I hear you."
"I mean it, Jake. We get Billy back alive. That's the only thing that matters."
Jake's eyes were hard, but he nodded.
The teams loaded into trucks. Radios crackled with check-ins. The Command Center became mission control, Jr coordinating everything from his console.
"All teams, this is Command. Target is the Hutchins barn, county road 19. Approach from the north. Maintain radio silence until you're in position."
"Copy that, Command."
The trucks rolled out, dust rising in the afternoon sun.
In the Command Center, Jr watched the red dots move across the map toward the blue target marker.
"Come on, Billy," he whispered. "Just hold on a little longer."
Billy had been working on the hogtie for what felt like hours.
His shoulders screamed. His wrists were raw and bleeding. But the rope connecting his ankles to his wrists had finally—finally—loosened enough.
He could straighten his legs.
The relief was so intense he almost sobbed into the gag.
Okay. Okay. Ankles next.
The knots were tight, but his fingers could reach them now. He worked blind, feeling each loop, finding the pattern. His hands were numb and clumsy, but he kept going.
Outside, he could hear voices. Drunk voices. Arguing about something stupid.
Good. Stay distracted.
The ankle rope gave. Billy kicked his legs free, feeling flooding back into his feet with pins and needles that made him want to scream.
The blindfold was easier. He rubbed his face against his shoulder, working the fabric up. It caught on his ear, then slipped.
Light.
Dim light, but after hours of darkness, it was blinding.
Billy blinked, his eyes adjusting. He was in a barn, old and half-collapsed. Hay bales stacked against one wall. A broken window showing twilight sky.
His wrists were still tied behind his back. The ball gag was still locked in his mouth, the strap tight around his head.
But he could see. He could move.
The voices outside got louder. Laughter. A bottle breaking.
Billy looked at the window. It was small, but he could fit.
He had to try.
Moving quietly, every muscle protesting, Billy got to his feet. His legs almost gave out, but he locked his knees and stayed upright.
The window was six feet off the ground. No way to climb with his hands tied.
But there was a hay bale beneath it.
Billy moved carefully, each step deliberate. The barn floor creaked. He froze.
The voices continued outside. Nobody came.
He reached the hay bale. Climbed onto it. The window was right there, broken glass still in the frame.
Billy turned his back to it, used his bound hands to clear the worst of the glass. It cut his palms, but he barely felt it.
He could fit through. He could—
The barn door rattled.
Billy didn't think. He dove through the window, glass tearing at his shirt, his shoulder hitting the ground outside hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
He rolled. Got his feet under him. Ran.
Behind him, shouting. "He's gone! The kid's fucking gone!"
Billy ran into the darkness, into the trees, his hands still bound behind his back, the gag still choking him, running blind because it was the only choice he had.
Branches whipped his face. Roots tried to trip him. He couldn't use his hands for balance, couldn't push branches away, couldn't do anything but run.
His lungs burned. The gag made breathing almost impossible.
But he ran.
Behind him, more shouting. Flashlight beams cutting through the trees.
Billy veered left, then right, trying to lose them in the darkness. His boot caught on something and he stumbled, barely staying upright.
Keep going. Just keep going.
The ground sloped downward. Billy's momentum carried him faster, too fast, he couldn't stop—
The branches gave way beneath his feet.
Billy fell.
Down into darkness, into nothing, the world spinning, his body hitting dirt and rock and—
Everything went black.
Chapter 5: INTO THE PIT
Pain woke him.
Not the sharp kind—the deep, bone-grinding kind that meant something was very wrong.
Billy's eyes opened to darkness. Complete darkness. Not the barn darkness with its sliver of light under the door, but the kind of black that pressed against your eyeballs and made you wonder if you'd gone blind.
He tried to move. His shoulder screamed. His ribs screamed. Everything screamed.
The ball gag was still in his mouth, still choking him. His wrists were still bound behind his back with rope, the fibers cutting into his skin.
And he was cold. So goddamn cold.
Billy's shirt was gone—they'd cut it off him in the barn, and now his bare chest and shoulders were exposed to air that felt like ice. The cold bit into his skin, his muscles, settling deep into his bones.
He was lying on his side in mud. Wet, cold mud that soaked into his jeans and pressed against his bare torso.
Billy tried to sit up. The movement sent lightning through his ribs and he gasped against the gag, the sound muffled and pathetic.
Where was he?
He blinked, forcing his eyes to adjust. Slowly, shapes emerged from the darkness. Walls. Dirt walls rising up on all sides. Roots hanging down like skeletal fingers.
A pit.
He'd fallen into a pit.
Billy craned his neck back, looking up. The opening was maybe twelve, fifteen feet above him. A circle of slightly-less-black sky, clouds moving across it.
As he watched, the first raindrop hit his face.
Then another.
Then the sky opened up.
Rain poured down into the pit, cold and relentless. It hit Billy's bare chest and shoulders like needles, ran down his skin in icy rivulets. Within seconds he was soaked, shivering violently.
Water began pooling at the bottom of the pit. An inch. Two inches.
Billy forced himself to sit up, biting back the scream that wanted to tear through the gag. His ribs were definitely broken. His shoulder felt dislocated or close to it. His head throbbed where they'd hit him.
But he was alive.
And he had to stay that way.
The water was rising. Slowly, but rising. Billy could feel it soaking through his jeans, creeping up his legs.
He had to get out.
Billy looked at the walls. Dirt, mostly, with roots and rocks jutting out. Climbable, maybe, if he had the use of his hands.
But his hands were bound behind his back with rope that cut deeper every time he moved.
The shivering was getting worse. Billy's bare chest heaved with each breath, his muscles spasming with cold. His teeth chattered against the ball gag.
Hypothermia. The word floated through his mind, clinical and terrifying.
How long had he been unconscious? How long had he been lying in the cold mud?
Billy tried to think. Tried to focus. But his thoughts kept sliding away, fragmenting.
Mom's biscuits. Warm kitchen. Jake stealing bacon.
No. Focus.
Edna's laugh. Her hand in his.
Stop it.
Pops at the head of the table. "About damn time."
Billy shook his head, trying to clear it. The movement made the world spin.
The water was at his waist now. Cold enough to steal his breath.
He had to move. Had to do something.
Billy twisted his wrists against the rope. Pain flared, sharp and immediate. The rope was wet from the rain, but it held. Blood ran down his hands, warm against the cold.
Keep going.
He pulled harder, ignoring the pain, ignoring the way the rope cut deeper into his skin. His bare shoulders hunched forward with the effort, muscles straining.
The rope gave a fraction of an inch.
Billy pulled again. And again.
His vision was starting to blur. The cold was in his core now, making his movements sluggish, his thoughts slow.
Just rest. Just for a minute.
No.
So tired.
NO.
Billy thought of his family. Thought of Jr in the Command Center, fingers flying across keyboards. Thought of Jake and Pops searching. Thought of his dad coordinating teams.
They were looking for him. He knew they were.
He just had to last long enough for them to find him.
The water was at his chest now. Lapping at his bare skin, stealing what little warmth he had left.
Billy pulled at the rope with everything he had left.
The barn was exactly where Jr said it would be.
Three vehicles converged on the location—Sheriff Wade's truck, Josh's SUV, and Tom's pickup with Pops and Jake. They killed the lights a quarter mile out and approached on foot.
The barn was old, half-collapsed, the kind of structure that dotted abandoned properties all over Kings County. A single light showed through gaps in the walls.
Wade held up a fist. Everyone stopped.
Hand signals. Wade and Josh would take the front. Tom and Ray would circle around back. Pops, Jake, and Celeb would cover the sides.
They moved like shadows.
Wade reached the barn door. Listened. Voices inside—slurred, arguing.
He looked at Josh. Nodded.
Wade kicked the door open.
"SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!"
The scene inside was pathetic. Three men, drunk or high or both, scrambling for weapons they'd never reach. Ray Kowalski dove for a rifle. Wade had him on the ground in two seconds, knee in his back, cuffs clicking.
Deke tried to run. Josh clotheslined him, sent him sprawling.
Lyle just put his hands up, swaying on his feet. "We didn't mean—we just wanted—"
"Shut up," Tom said, his voice cold enough to freeze blood.
Jake was already moving through the barn, flashlight sweeping. "Billy! BILLY!"
Nothing.
The barn was small. One room. Rope on the floor where they'd tied him. The broken window with blood on the glass.
But no Billy.
"He's not here," Jake said, and the words came out strangled.
Pops was at the window, looking out into the darkness. Rain was starting to fall.
Wade hauled Ray to his feet, slammed him against the wall. "Where is he?"
Ray's eyes were wild, unfocused. "He ran! The kid ran! Into the woods!"
"When?"
"I don't know, man! Hour ago? Two hours? He just—he went through the window and ran!"
Jake grabbed Ray by the shirt, lifted him off his feet. "Which direction?"
"I don't know! It was dark! He just ran!"
Josh's hand on Jake's shoulder. "Easy. We need him coherent."
Jake dropped Ray. Turned away before he did something they'd all regret.
Tom was on the radio. "Jr, you copy?"
Jr's voice crackled back immediately. "Copy. Did you find him?"
"Negative. He escaped. He's in the woods somewhere, injured. We need every available body out here now."
A pause. Then: "Understood. Mobilizing everyone. Sending coordinates for search grid."
Pops looked out at the rain, at the vast darkness of the woods beyond the barn.
Billy was out there. Hurt. Alone. In the cold and the rain.
"Let's move," Pops said. "We're not leaving without him."
The Command Center door burst open.
Jr looked up from his screens, expecting another consortium member. Instead, a man in his forties stood there, rain dripping from his jacket, eyes sharp and urgent.
"Mr. Renzo?" Jr said.
Billy Renzo's father nodded. "Heard the 911 on the radio. Drove straight from Austin. Where do you need us?"
Jr's mind raced. The wiz kids had been coordinating from the Command Center, but Billy was in the woods now. Lost. The search area was massive.
"We need to be mobile," Jr said suddenly. "We're stuck here, but we should be in the field."
Ryan looked up from his station. "He's right. We can coordinate from anywhere with the iPads."
Renzo was already moving, unplugging his laptop. "Let's go."
Daniel grabbed battery packs. Colt snatched up the portable relay. Jr pulled three iPads from the charging station.
"What are you boys doing?" Mama's voice from the doorway.
"Going to find Billy," Jr said. "We can coordinate better from the field."
Sarah appeared behind Mama, her face tight with worry. But she nodded. "Be careful. All of you."
"Yes, ma'am."
Five minutes later, all five wiz kids—Jr, Ryan, Renzo, Daniel, and Colt—were loaded into Mr. Renzo's truck, gear piled around them. iPads glowing, radios crackling, the mobile command center rolling toward the search area.
Jr pulled up the map on his iPad. "Grid sections alpha through delta are covered. We need teams in echo through hotel."
"On it," Ryan said, fingers flying across his screen. "Sending coordinates now."
The truck bounced over the dirt road, rain hammering the windshield. Mr. Renzo drove with the calm focus of a man who'd done harder things than this.
"How many people do we have in the field?" he asked.
"Thirty-two," Jr said. "More coming. Drones are up with thermal imaging."
"Good. That's good."
But Jr's eyes were on the thermal feed, watching the heat signatures of the search teams moving through the woods. Looking for the one signature that mattered.
Hold on, Billy. We're coming.
The water was at Billy's neck.
His hands were still bound, but the rope was looser now. Wet. Slippery with blood and rain.
Billy pulled. Twisted. Ignored the pain that shot up his arms.
The rope gave another inch.
His bare chest was numb now. He couldn't feel his fingers. His thoughts were fragmenting again, sliding away into the cold.
Edna's smile. Sunday dinner. Jake's laugh.
Focus.
So cold. So tired.
FOCUS.
Billy pulled with everything he had. Every ounce of strength, every bit of stubborn Benson determination that Pops had drilled into him since he was old enough to walk.
The rope loosened.
Billy pulled harder, feeling skin tear, feeling blood run hot down his frozen hands.
The rope gave.
His hands came free.
Billy pitched forward into the water, gasping against the ball gag. His arms screamed as blood rushed back into them. He couldn't feel his fingers, couldn't make them work right.
But they were free.
Billy fumbled at the ball gag with numb, bloody hands. It took three tries to get the buckle undone. When it finally came free, he spat it out and sucked in air, great heaving gasps that hurt his broken ribs but felt like heaven.
"Help," he tried to say, but it came out as a croak. His throat was raw from the gag, from the cold, from everything.
Billy looked up at the opening of the pit. Fifteen feet. Might as well be a mile.
But he had to try.
The water was still rising. It was at his shoulders now.
Billy turned to the wall. Found a root. Grabbed it with hands that barely worked.
Pulled.
"Grid section echo clear," Jake's voice crackled over the radio.
Jr marked it on his iPad. "Copy. Move to foxtrot."
The truck was parked at the edge of the search area, all five wiz kids inside with their screens glowing in the darkness. Rain pounded the roof.
"Thermal's not picking up anything," Colt said, frustration in his voice. "Too much interference from the rain."
"Keep scanning," Jr said. "He's out there."
Ryan was coordinating the ground teams, sending them to new grid sections as each area came up empty. Daniel was monitoring the radio channels, making sure everyone stayed in contact. Renzo was running facial recognition on the kidnappers, building the case for when this was over.
But Jr's eyes were on the thermal feed, watching the ghostly heat signatures move through the woods.
Where are you, Billy?
"Wait," Colt said suddenly. "There. Grid section golf. Thermal signature, but it's... weird."
Jr leaned over. The signature was faint, flickering. "What do you mean weird?"
"It's below ground level. Like he's in a depression or—"
"A pit," Jr said. "He fell into a pit."
"How far?"
Jr pulled up the coordinates. "Quarter mile northeast of the barn."
"That's why we couldn't see him before," Ryan said. "The pit walls were blocking the thermal."
Jr grabbed his radio. "All teams, we have a possible location. Grid section golf, quarter mile northeast of the barn. Thermal signature in a depression."
"Copy," Jake's voice came back. "Moving now."
Jr looked at the other wiz kids. At Ryan, Renzo, Daniel, Colt. At Mr. Renzo in the driver's seat.
"We're closer," Jr said.
"Then let's go," Renzo said.
They didn't wait for permission. Didn't wait for the adults to catch up.
All five of them bolted from the truck.
Flashlights in hand, iPads stuffed in jackets, they ran into the woods. Rain lashed their faces. Branches grabbed at their clothes. They didn't slow down.
Jr led the way, iPad in one hand, flashlight in the other, following the coordinates. Ryan was right behind him. Renzo and Daniel flanking. Colt bringing up the rear.
"Jr!" Jake's voice on the radio. "Where are you?"
"Northeast! Quarter mile! Follow our lights!"
They ran harder.
Billy's hands were bleeding. Every handhold sent fresh pain shooting through his arms. His bare chest scraped against the dirt wall, roots tearing at his skin.
But he climbed.
One inch. One handhold. One impossible moment at a time.
His fingers found a rock. He pulled. His boot found a root. He pushed.
The water was at his waist now. If he fell back in, he didn't think he'd have the strength to try again.
So he didn't fall.
Billy's hand found another root. This one held. He pulled himself up another foot.
His vision was blurring. His body was shutting down, hypothermia stealing his coordination, his strength.
But he climbed.
Family. Home. Edna. Mom. Dad. Pops. Jake. Jr.
He climbed.
Not giving up. Never giving up.
His hand reached the edge of the pit.
Billy pulled with everything he had left. His broken ribs screamed. His dislocated shoulder felt like it was tearing apart.
But he pulled.
His chest cleared the edge. Then his waist. Then his legs.
Billy collapsed on the ground, rain pouring down on his bare back, mud soaking into his jeans.
He'd made it.
He tried to stand. His legs wouldn't hold him.
Tried again. Got halfway up before the world tilted.
Billy collapsed forward, barely conscious, the rain and the cold and the pain finally winning.
Sorry, guys. I tried.
Then he heard it.
Voices. Distant but getting closer.
Flashlight beams cutting through the trees.
"THERE!" someone shouted.
Billy tried to lift his head. Couldn't.
Footsteps. Running. Multiple people.
"Billy! BILLY!"
That was Jr's voice. Jr was here.
More footsteps. More voices. Ryan. Renzo. Daniel. Colt.
The wiz kids burst through the brush, flashlights swinging wildly.
"There!" Jr yelled, dropping to his knees beside Billy. "Oh God, there he is!"
Hands on him. Gentle hands. Jr's hands.
"Billy? Billy, can you hear me?"
Billy managed to open his eyes. Jr's face swam into focus, rain-soaked and terrified and so young.
"Hey," Billy croaked.
"Oh thank God," Jr said, and his voice broke. "You're okay. You're okay."
More flashlights. More people arriving.
"Jake! Pops! Over here!"
Billy heard his brother's voice, heard Pops shouting, heard the thunder of boots on wet ground.
Then Jake was there, dropping down beside Jr, his hands on Billy's face. "Jesus Christ, Billy. Jesus Christ."
"Language," Billy whispered.
Jake laughed, the sound half sob. "You asshole."
Pops arrived, Tom right behind him. Josh. Ray. Celeb. Wade. Others. The whole search party converging on this spot.
Billy tried to stand. His legs gave out.
He tumbled forward into Pops' arms.
Pops caught him, held him up, one arm around his bare shoulders. "I got you, son. I got you."
Jake was right there, his arm around Billy from the other side. Tom's hand on his back. Jr in front of him, still on his knees in the mud.
Everyone surrounding them. The wiz kids. The consortium. His family.
Rain pouring down on all of them.
"You're okay," Pops said, his voice rough. "You're okay now."
Billy leaned into his grandfather, into his brother, let them hold him up. His bare chest was pressed against Pops' jacket, finally warm, finally safe.
Someone draped a jacket over his shoulders. Billy couldn't tell whose.
"The women," Jr said suddenly. "They need to know."
He pulled out his iPad, fingers flying across the screen despite the rain. The video call connected.
The screen showed the ranch house living room. Sarah. Rebecca. Edna. Mary. Mama. Other consortium women. All of them crowded around the camera, faces tight with fear.
Jr turned the iPad so they could see Billy.
"We found him," Jr said.
The women's faces crumpled. Sarah's hand went to her mouth. Rebecca started crying. Edna reached toward the screen like she could touch him through it.
"Billy?" Edna's voice was shaking. "Billy, can you hear me?"
Billy lifted his head, looked at the screen. At his girlfriend's face, at his mom's face, at all the women who'd been waiting and praying.
"I'm okay," he managed. His voice was wrecked, barely audible over the rain. "I'm coming home."
"We love you, baby," Sarah said, tears streaming down her face. "We love you so much."
"Love you too, Mom."
The iPad screen showed them all—Billy in the center, muddy and bloody and barely standing, but alive. Pops and Jake holding him up. Jr kneeling in front with the iPad. The other wiz kids surrounding them. Tom and Josh and Ray and Wade and Celeb and all the others forming a circle around the family.
All of them in the rain. All of them together.
"Medic's on the way," Jr said, still coordinating even now. "ETA ten minutes."
"Can you walk?" Pops asked.
"Yeah," Billy said. "Yeah, I think so."
But he didn't have to. Jake and Pops kept their arms around him, took his weight, started moving him toward the vehicles.
The whole group moved with them. The wiz kids leading the way with flashlights. The consortium members flanking. Everyone together.
Billy's eyes were closing. The adrenaline was fading, leaving only exhaustion and pain.
But he was safe. He was with his family.
"Stay with us," Jake said. "Just a little longer."
"I'm here," Billy said. "I'm not going anywhere."
The rain continued to fall. The flashlights bobbed through the darkness. The radios crackled with updates.
But for this moment, in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the storm, the Benson family was whole.
Billy closed his eyes and let them carry him home.
Chapter 6: THE SUNDAY BBQ
4 DAYS LATER - SUNDAY
Billy sat in one of the lawn chairs near the main house, moving carefully as Rebecca unwrapped the bandages on his wrists. The rope burns were healing—angry red lines fading to pink, the raw edges starting to close.
"Looking better," Rebecca said, her touch gentle. "Another week and you'll barely see them."
"Thanks, Mom." Billy flexed his fingers. Still sore, but functional. Everything was sore, really. His ribs where they'd kicked him. His shoulder from the fall. The knot on his head that had finally stopped throbbing.
But he was alive. And four days out, that felt like a goddamn miracle.
"You need anything?" Rebecca asked. "Water? Something to eat?"
"I'm good. Really." Billy looked out at the yard. "This is perfect."
And it was.
The Benson ranch yard had been transformed into something warm and alive. Three smokers going, sending hickory smoke into the clear Texas sky. Tom at the main grill with Mr. Renzo and Celeb, flipping burgers and arguing about proper brisket technique. Tables loaded with food—Sarah's potato salad, Mary Nelson's famous beans, casseroles and cornbread and pies from all six families.
The consortium. The six ranch families who'd built the system together, who'd dropped everything when the 911 alert went out, who'd hunted through the night in the rain until they found him.
Benson, Nelson, Renzo, Mattern, Rodriguez, and Celeb's Louisiana crew. All of them here. All of them family.
Kids running around—the younger ones chasing each other, the teenagers clustered near the Command Center talking tech. Music playing from someone's truck. Laughter and conversation mixing with the smell of barbecue and the warm afternoon sun.
Billy closed his eyes for a moment, just breathing it in.
"You okay?" Rebecca's hand on his shoulder.
"Yeah." Billy opened his eyes. "Just... grateful."
Rebecca squeezed his shoulder, then moved off to help Sarah with the food tables.
Near the barn, Billy spotted what had to be Pops's latest project—a folding table with a hand-painted sign: "POPS BENSON FREE LIQUOR STORE"
Below it, in slightly smaller letters: "NO AGE LIMIT >>> GO AWAY WADE!!!"
The table was loaded. Jack Daniels. Wine bottles. Cases of beer on ice. Pops stood behind it like a bartender, pouring drinks and holding court.
Sheriff Wade walked up, read the sign, and burst out laughing.
"You're a menace, old man," Wade said.
"And you're off duty," Pops replied, already pouring two fingers of Jack into a red Solo cup. "Drink up, Sheriff. You earned it."
Wade took the cup, shook his head, but he was grinning. "You're lucky I like you."
"Luck's got nothing to do with it." Pops poured himself one too, raised his cup. "To finding our boy."
"To family," Wade said.
They drank, and then Wade moved off toward the grills, still chuckling at the sign.
Billy watched the whole exchange with a smile. Four days ago he'd been in a pit filling with water, thinking he might die. Now he was watching Pops run an illegal liquor operation at a family barbecue.
Life was weird. And beautiful.
"How you feeling, honey?"
Billy turned. Edna Nelson stood there, holding two plates of food. She'd been at the ranch every day since the rescue, helping Rebecca, sitting with Billy, just... being there.
"Better," Billy said. "Especially now."
Edna handed him a plate—brisket, beans, cornbread, potato salad. "You need to eat. Rebecca says you've barely touched anything today."
"I've been eating."
"Not enough." Edna sat down in the chair next to him, balancing her own plate. "Humor me."
Billy took a bite of brisket. It was perfect—smoky and tender, falling apart on his fork. "Okay, this is worth eating for."
"Your dad's been at that smoker since five this morning."
"Sounds about right."
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Around them, the party continued—kids laughing, adults talking, the sizzle of meat on the grill.
"I was scared," Edna said quietly. "When Jr called. When we saw the video. I was so scared, Billy."
Billy set down his fork, reached over with his bandaged hand to take hers. "I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just... don't do it again."
"Deal." Billy squeezed her hand. "I'm not going anywhere."
Edna leaned over, careful of his bruises, and kissed him softly. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She smiled. "Someone's gotta keep you out of trouble."
"Pretty sure that's a full-time job."
"Lucky for you, I'm committed."
Billy grinned, feeling something warm settle in his chest. Four days ago, he'd thought he might never see her again. Never hear her laugh. Never hold her hand.
But he was here. They were here. And that was everything.
"Billy."
He looked up. Jake stood there, hands in his pockets, looking uncharacteristically serious.
"Can I borrow him for a minute?" Jake asked Edna.
"He's all yours." Edna stood, took both their plates. "I'll get us seconds."
Jake waited until she was gone, then dropped into the chair she'd vacated. For a moment, he just sat there, staring out at the party.
"You okay?" Billy asked.
"I should be asking you that."
"I'm good. Really."
Jake turned to look at him. "You scared the shit out of me."
"I know."
"When Jr showed us that video..." Jake's jaw worked. "I wanted to kill them. All of them. I wanted to—"
"But you didn't," Billy said quietly. "You found me instead. You and Jr and the others. You brought me home."
"Barely. Another hour and—"
"But you didn't wait another hour. You came." Billy reached over, gripped Jake's shoulder. "You saved my life, brother."
Jake's eyes were bright. "You'd have done the same."
"In a heartbeat."
They sat there for a moment, twin to twin, brother to brother. No words needed.
Then Jake cleared his throat, stood up. "Alright, enough of this emotional shit. You're making me soft."
"You are soft."
"Fuck you." But Jake was grinning. "Come on. Dad's about to do the thing."
"What thing?"
"You'll see."
Jake helped Billy to his feet—careful, but Billy was moving better now. They walked toward the main gathering area where Tom was waving people over.
"Alright, everyone! Can I get your attention?"
The party noise settled. People gathered around—all six families, three generations, everyone who'd been part of the rescue.
Tom stood near the barn, Pops and Josh flanking him. Behind them, covered with a tarp, was something big.
"First," Tom said, "I want to thank everyone for being here. For dropping everything four days ago. For helping us bring Billy home."
Murmurs of agreement. Billy felt his throat tighten.
"We built this consortium because we believed in taking care of our own," Tom continued. "In being prepared. In having each other's backs. And four days ago, that system worked exactly like it was supposed to."
Pops stepped forward. "Those five boys—Jr, Ryan, Renzo, Daniel, and Colt—they did something extraordinary. They used their brains and their skills and their courage to track down my grandson. To coordinate a rescue in the middle of the night in a storm. They saved a life."
Billy looked over at the wiz kids. All five of them stood together—Jr, Ryan Mattern, Billy Renzo, Daniel Rodriguez, and Colt. They looked uncomfortable with the attention, shuffling their feet, but proud too.
"So we got them something," Tom said. "Something to say thank you. Something they can use together."
Pops grabbed the tarp. "You boys ready?"
The wiz kids exchanged glances, confused but excited.
Pops yanked the tarp off.
Underneath was a Polaris Sportsman XP 1000 Hunt Edition. Matte black with camo accents, massive tires, a cargo bed, and enough tech to make any gear-head drool.
The wiz kids' jaws dropped.
"Holy shit," Jr breathed.
"Language," Sarah called, but she was smiling.
"Is that—" Ryan started.
"For all five of you," Tom said. "For saving one of our own."
Pops pulled out a spec sheet, holding it up like he was reading a proclamation. "Polaris Sportsman XP 1000 Hunt Edition. ProStar 1000 engine, 89 horsepower, electronic power steering, 11 inches of ground clearance, 1,500-pound towing capacity, and enough storage to haul whatever you boys need for a hunting trip."
The wiz kids were already moving toward it, circling like sharks, touching the handlebars, checking out the cargo bed, pointing at features.
"This is insane," Renzo said.
"This is amazing," Daniel added.
"Can we—" Colt started.
"It's yours," Josh said. "All of you. You earned it."
Jr looked at Billy, his eyes bright. "Billy—"
"You saved my life," Billy said, his voice rough. "All of you did. This doesn't even come close to saying thank you, but..."
"But it's a damn good start," Pops finished. He walked over to his liquor table, grabbed five beers, came back. "You boys saved a life. You've earned this."
He handed each of them a beer. The wiz kids took them, looking stunned.
Their parents watched. No one objected. Even Wade just nodded.
These boys were heroes. They'd earned it.
"To the wiz kids," Pops said, raising his own cup. "To the consortium. To family."
"To family," everyone echoed.
The wiz kids stood there, beers in hand, looking at each other and the Polaris and back again.
Then Jr's eyes lit up. "Wait. Can we try it out?"
"Right now?" Ryan asked.
"Why not?" Colt was already moving toward the driver's seat. "Let's take it for a run!"
"Oh man, yes," Daniel said.
"We should test the suspension," Renzo added, because of course he would.
The five of them looked at each other, then at the Polaris, then at their beers.
Almost in unison, they set the beers down on the nearest table—barely touched, some completely untouched.
"Keys?" Jr asked.
Tom tossed them over. Jr caught them, grinned, and fired up the engine.
The Polaris roared to life—deep and powerful and beautiful.
"Everyone on!" Jr shouted.
They piled on and around it—Jr driving, Ryan in the passenger seat, the other three finding spots on the cargo bed and running boards.
"Hold on!" Jr yelled.
He hit the gas.
The Polaris shot forward, tires kicking up dirt, engine roaring. The wiz kids whooped and hollered as they tore across the yard and into the tree line, disappearing into the woods in a cloud of dust and noise and pure teenage joy.
The adults stood there watching them go.
"Well," Wade said. "That lasted about thirty seconds."
"Kids," Mary Nelson said, shaking her head but smiling.
"Still teenagers after all," Mr. Renzo added.
Sarah looked at the abandoned beers on the table and laughed. "They were more excited about the machine."
"As they should be," Pops said, grinning. "That's a hell of a machine."
The sound of the Polaris echoed through the woods—engine revving, the boys shouting, the occasional whoop of pure excitement.
Billy stood there, Rebecca's arm around him, Edna on his other side, Jake next to him, his whole family surrounding him.
Four days ago, he'd been in a pit. Alone. Scared. Thinking he might die.
Now he was here. Safe. Whole. Surrounded by the people who'd moved heaven and earth to bring him home.
The sound of the Polaris faded deeper into the woods, but the joy remained. The laughter. The warmth.
"You good?" Jake asked quietly.
Billy looked at his brother. At his family. At the consortium families who'd become something more than neighbors—they'd become the people you could count on when everything went to hell.
"Yeah," Billy said. "I'm good."
The Polaris engine roared somewhere in the distance, followed by more whooping.
Everyone laughed.
And for this moment, on this Sunday afternoon, with the sun warm and the barbecue smoking and the sound of joy echoing through the woods, everything was exactly as it should be.
The Benson ranch. The consortium. The family.
Home.
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