Chapter 1: Morning at the Benson Ranch
The explosion of sound came at 5:47 AM, same as every morning.
"UP AND AT 'EM, YOU SORRY SACKS OF POTATOES!"
Pops' fist hammered the door three times, each bang enthusiastic and rhythmic. Jake Benson jerked awake on the bottom bunk, his head cracking against the wooden slat above him. "Damn," he muttered, rubbing his skull.
"DAYLIGHT'S BURNING AND YOU LADIES ARE STILL DREAMING IN THERE!"
"We're up, Pops!" Billy called from the top bunk across from Jake, his voice thick with sleep.
"LIKE HELL YOU ARE! I HEAR SPRINGS SQUEAKING, NOT BOOTS HITTING FLOOR!"
The old man's boots stomped away down the hall, and Jake could hear him banging on the command center door next, probably waking up whoever had night watch. Seventy-six years old and the man had more energy than all of them combined.
"Jesus," Celab groaned from the top bunk above Jake. "Does he have to be so loud?"
"Every morning, brother," Jake said, swinging his legs off the bed. His bare feet hit the worn floorboards, still cool from the night. "You been here fourteen months. You should know by now."
"Doesn't mean I gotta like it."
Colt was already pulling on his jeans from the mattress on the floor between the two bunk beds, hopping on one foot. Celab's cousin from Baton Rouge had graduated high school and moved up here to work the ranch full time. "Watch it," he muttered as Billy Jr nearly stepped on his hand climbing down from the bottom bunk on the other side.
Billy sat up on his bunk, running a hand through his dark hair. The kid—well, not really a kid anymore at twenty-one, but Jake still thought of him that way—had the same lean build as Jake, same sharp jawline. People who didn't know better sometimes asked if they were twins. They weren't, but they might as well have been. Eleven months apart and closer than most brothers ever got.
"You sleep for shit last night?" Billy asked, looking down at Jake.
"Bad dreams."
"About what?"
"Your mama."
"Screw you," Billy grinned, throwing a dirty sock at Jake's head.
Jake caught it and whipped it back. "Screw you harder."
From the bottom bunk on Billy's side, Billy Jr sat up, his muscled shoulders broad and thick. The kid was sixteen but built like a brick shithouse, all that ranch work packing muscle onto his frame. "Y'all gonna throw socks or get dressed? Pops is gonna come back."
"Listen to the child," Celab said, climbing down from his bunk. "Dispensing wisdom."
"I ain't a child," Billy Jr said, standing up with a presence that made the room feel smaller. "I can outwork any of you old men."
"Old men?" Jake pulled his shirt over his head. "Boy, I will tie you in a knot."
"You could try."
There was that Benson confidence, that edge that ran through all of them. Jake saw himself in his nephew, that same cocky tilt of the chin, that same refusal to back down. It was gonna get Billy Jr in trouble someday, same as it got Jake in trouble. But that was a problem for later.
The room smelled like sweat and boot leather and the faint ghost of beer from the stash they kept under the loose floorboards by the window. Five men in one room—it was bound to smell ripe. But it was their space, their corner of the ranch house, and Jake wouldn't trade it.
Colt was already lacing up his boots, moving carefully to avoid getting kicked by someone climbing down. "We got that fence line to check on the north forty," he said. "Josh mentioned something about coyotes getting through."
"Coyotes," Celab said, pulling his belt through the loops. "Always something with those things."
"Either way, we gotta fix the fence," Jake said.
He grabbed his own boots from under the bed, the good Justins he'd bought last year when he actually had money in his pocket. The leather was broken in perfect now, molded to his feet. He pulled them on, stamping his heels to settle them.
"Jake, you gonna wear that shirt?" Billy asked from his bunk.
Jake looked down at the faded gray t-shirt. "What's wrong with it?"
"It's got a hole in the armpit the size of a baseball."
"So?"
"So you look like a bum."
"I am a bum," Jake said. "We work on a ranch, not a fashion show."
Billy Jr laughed, pulling on his own shirt. "He's got a point."
The door swung open and Pops stood there, all five-foot-nine of him, white hair sticking up like he'd been electrocuted, holding a mug of coffee. His face was weathered like old saddle leather, but his eyes were bright and warm.
"Well, look at this," Pops said, a grin spreading across his face. "Five pretty princesses finally decided to join the living."
"Morning, Pops," they chorused, except for Jake who just grunted.
"Morning my ass. It's almost six o'clock. When I was in 'Nam, we were up at oh-four-hundred, full gear, ready to hump through the jungle before breakfast." He took a sip of his coffee, eyeing them with affection. "But I suppose you boys clean up decent enough."
"We do our best," Colt said.
"That you do, son. That you do." Pops stepped into the room and ruffled Billy Jr's hair as the kid walked past. "How's my great-grandson this morning? You ready to show these old dogs how it's done?"
Billy Jr grinned, ducking away from the hand but clearly pleased. "Always, Pops."
"That's my boy." Pops clapped him on the shoulder. "Now get yourselves downstairs. Your grandma's making breakfast and if you're late, I'm eating your share."
"You wouldn't," Billy said.
"Try me, boy. I'm old, not dead. I can still put away a stack of pancakes that'd make you weep."
They filed out of the room, boots thumping on the old floorboards, Colt stepping carefully over his mattress. Pops waited at the door, giving each of them a pat on the back or shoulder as they passed—his way of saying good morning, really. When Billy Jr came through last, Pops pulled him into a quick side hug.
"You're doing good, Junior. Real good."
"Thanks, Pops."
The smell of bacon and coffee drifted up the stairs, and Jake's stomach growled. They clomped down the wooden staircase, the old house creaking under their weight, following the scent into the kitchen.
The kitchen was the heart of the ranch house—a big, warm room with yellow walls and white cabinets that had been there since the seventies. Sarah stood at the stove, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, flipping pancakes on the griddle. She was fifty-two but looked younger, still lean and strong from years of ranch work. Tom's wife, mother to Josh, Ray, Jake, and Billy—the backbone of the family.
Rebecca sat at the long wooden table, already dressed in her scrubs for her shift at Kings County Hospital. Josh's wife had her blonde hair pulled back in a neat bun, and she was buttering toast while keeping an eye on the bacon. Next to her, Josh sat with a mug of coffee and a clipboard, already reviewing the day's work schedule. At thirty-two, he had their father Tom's steady presence and their mother's sharp mind—the perfect combination for running the ranch operations.
Tom Benson sat across from Josh, reading the morning paper with a cup of coffee at his elbow. At fifty-four, he had the same build as his sons—lean and strong, with dark hair going gray at the temples. He'd been running the ranch with Sarah and Pops for thirty years, and it showed in the weathered lines around his eyes and the capable way he held himself. He looked up as the boys filed in, a slight smile crossing his face.
"There they are," Sarah said without turning around. "I was about to send a search party."
"Pops got us up," Billy said, sliding into a chair.
"I heard. I think the whole county heard." Sarah glanced over her shoulder with a smile. "Morning, boys."
"Morning, Mama," Jake and Billy said in unison.
"Morning, Sarah," Celab and Colt added.
"Morning, Dad," Jake added, and Billy echoed him.
Tom nodded, folding his paper. "Morning, sons. You two ready to tackle that tractor today?"
"We'll figure it out," Jake said.
Billy Jr went straight to his mother, kissing her on the cheek. "Morning, Mom."
"Morning, baby. You sleep okay?"
"Like a rock."
Rebecca smiled up at her son. "That's because you work like a horse. Sit down, breakfast is almost ready."
The boys settled around the table—Jake and Billy on one side, Celab and Colt across from them, Billy Jr at the end near his parents. Pops took his usual seat at the head of the table, his coffee mug already refilled. Josh stayed where he was, still making notes on his clipboard. Tom set his paper aside, making room for the food.
The door from the attached wing opened and Ray walked in, his dark hair still damp from the shower, wearing a button-down shirt and jeans. At twenty-eight, he was the numbers guy—kept the books, managed the finances, made sure they stayed in the black. "Morning, everyone," he said, heading straight for the coffee pot.
"Morning, Ray," Sarah said. "You want pancakes or eggs?"
"Both, if you're offering."
"I'm always offering. Sit down."
Sarah brought over a platter stacked with pancakes, and Rebecca followed with the bacon and eggs. The table filled quickly with food—scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, golden pancakes, toast, a bowl of fresh fruit, and a pitcher of orange juice.
"Dig in before it gets cold," Sarah said, finally sitting down next to Tom with her own plate.
They didn't need to be told twice. Hands reached for serving spoons, plates filled up, and the sound of forks on plates mixed with contented sighs.
"Rebecca, you working a double today?" Pops asked, drowning his pancakes in syrup.
"Just a single, thank God. I'm on the day shift, home by seven."
"Good. You work too hard as it is."
"Says the man who ranched for sixty years," Rebecca said with a smile.
"That's different. That's honest work, not dealing with sick people all day."
"Somebody's gotta do it."
Tom reached for the bacon, passing it to Sarah first. "She's right, Dad. Hospital work's just as honest as ranch work. Just different."
"I suppose," Pops grumbled, but there was affection in his voice.
Sarah passed the bacon to Celab. "How are you boys holding up in that room? I know it's cramped with five of you."
"It's fine, Mama," Jake said. "Like a barracks."
"Like a frat house," Billy corrected.
"A smelly frat house," Colt added, and everyone laughed.
"Well, if it gets too bad, let me know. We can figure something out." Sarah looked at Billy Jr. "You doing okay up there, Junior? Your uncles treating you right?"
"They're alright," Billy Jr said, grinning. "Except Uncle Jake snores."
"I do not!"
"You absolutely do," Billy confirmed. "Like a chainsaw."
"You're both liars."
Tom chuckled, cutting into his pancakes. "Your Uncle Jake's been snoring since he was ten. Nothing new there."
"Dad!" Jake protested.
"It's true. Your mother and I could hear you down the hall."
Rebecca laughed. "Sounds like you boys are bonding just fine."
Josh looked up from his clipboard, a slight smile on his face. "Alright, let's talk about today while we eat." He had that calm authority that came natural to him, the kind that made people listen without him having to raise his voice. "Colt, Celab—I need you two on the north fence. We've got coyotes getting through, and I want it patched before we lose any more chickens."
"On it," Colt said.
"Jake, Billy—that tractor's still making noise. Think you can figure out what's wrong with it?"
"We'll get it sorted," Jake said.
Tom nodded his approval. "If you need parts, let Ray know. We've got an account at Henderson's."
"Will do, Dad," Billy said.
"Good." Josh looked at his son. "Junior, you're with Ray today. He's gonna show you the inventory system, teach you how we track everything."
Ray nodded, cutting into his pancakes. "Gotta learn the business side, not just the muscle work."
"He's got plenty of both," Rebecca said, pride evident in her voice.
Pops reached for another pancake. "That's my great-grandson. Smart as a whip and strong as an ox. Benson genes, through and through."
Tom smiled at his grandson. "He's doing real good, Dad. You should be proud."
"I am. Proud of all of them." Pops gestured around the table with his fork. "Four generations of Bensons, all working together. That's something special."
Billy Jr's ears turned red, but he was smiling.
They ate and talked, the conversation flowing easy—plans for the day, gossip about neighbors, Pops telling a story about a horse he'd had in 1972 that could open gates with its teeth. Tom and Sarah exchanged glances across the table, that wordless communication of couples who'd been together for decades. The kitchen was warm, filled with the smell of coffee and bacon and the sound of family.
Jake looked around the table—at his brother Billy, at Celab and Colt, at his nephew Billy Jr growing into a man, at his oldest brother Josh running things with quiet competence, at Ray already thinking three steps ahead, at his mother and Rebecca, at his father Tom sitting solid and steady, at Pops holding court at the head of the table. This was it. This was everything.
Just another morning at the Benson Ranch. Just another day of work and family and being together.
Just another day before everything went to hell.
Chapter 2: The Work Day
The sun was already heating up the morning by the time they headed out, boots crunching on gravel. Billy Jr rode with Celab and Colt in the old Ford, heading north to check the fence line where Josh had spotted the coyote damage. Jake and Billy took the Gator, loaded with tools and wire, heading east toward the back forty where that goddamn tractor had been acting up for three days straight.
"You want to take a look at it first, or should I?" Billy asked, one hand on the wheel.
"I'll do it," Jake said. "You check the irrigation pump while you're out there. Thing was making a weird noise yesterday."
"Everything on this ranch makes a weird noise."
"Yeah, well, when the weird noise stops, that's when we're fucked."
Billy grinned and dropped Jake off at the equipment shed near the eastern pasture. The tractor sat there like a sulking animal, red paint faded to pink in spots, one tire looking a little low. Jake had rebuilt the engine on this bastard twice. He knew every bolt, every hose, every temperamental quirk. And right now, it was refusing to start worth a damn.
He climbed up, settled into the seat, and turned the key.
Click. Click. Nothing.
"Come on, you son of a bitch."
He tried again. Same thing. He could smell fuel, so it wasn't the line. Battery was new as of last month. Had to be the starter or the solenoid, which meant crawling underneath in the dirt to get at it.
"Perfect. Just perfect."
He dropped down, grabbed his toolbox from the Gator, and slid under the tractor. The ground was still cool, but it wouldn't be for long. He found the starter, checked the connections—tight—then traced back to the solenoid. There. One of the wires had vibrated loose, just barely, enough to break the connection.
"Fucking piece of shit equipment."
He reconnected it, tightened it down, then wiggled back out and climbed up to try again. This time the engine turned over, coughed, and caught. The whole tractor shuddered to life, belching black smoke.
"That's what I thought."
He let it run, listening to the rhythm, making sure everything sounded right. The engine smoothed out after a minute, settling into that familiar diesel rumble. Good enough. He'd need to bush-hog the back pasture before the grass got any higher, and this old girl was the only tractor with enough power to handle it.
He was about to shut it down when he noticed the hydraulic fluid pooling underneath, dark and slick on the dirt.
"You have got to be kidding me."
He killed the engine and dropped down again. Sure enough, one of the hydraulic lines had a split in it, probably from age and pressure. Fluid was leaking out steady, and if he tried to run the bush-hog like this, he'd blow the whole system.
The anger came up hot and fast, the way it always did. He grabbed the wrench from his toolbox and threw it, hard, watching it bounce off the shed wall with a satisfying clang.
"Goddamn it!"
He kicked the tire, which hurt his foot and did exactly nothing to fix the problem. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. This was the third thing this week. Third. The fence, the pump, now this. It was like the whole ranch was falling apart one piece at a time, and he was the only one who seemed to give a shit about keeping it together.
He pulled out his phone to call Billy, then saw he had no signal out here. Of course not. The eastern pasture was a dead zone, always had been. He'd have to drive back to get the parts, which meant losing half the morning, which meant falling behind on everything else.
"Son of a bitch."
He stood there for a minute, breathing hard, trying to get the anger under control. It wasn't the tractor's fault. Wasn't anybody's fault. Things broke. That was ranch life. But knowing that didn't make it any less infuriating.
He grabbed his toolbox and headed for the Gator. He'd drive to the main barn, get the hydraulic line from the parts room, and come back. Hour round trip, maybe. He could still salvage most of the day.
He was halfway to the Gator when he heard the truck.
Not one of theirs. The engine sounded wrong—smoother, newer. He turned and saw it coming up the access road, a dark blue Chevy Silverado with tinted windows. Probably someone lost, looking for directions. Happened sometimes, people using the ranch roads thinking they were public.
The truck pulled up and stopped about twenty feet away. Two men got out of the front. A third stayed in the back seat—Jake could see his silhouette through the tinted glass.
"Help you?" Jake called out.
The driver was tall, maybe six-two, with a shaved head and sunglasses. The passenger was shorter, stockier, wearing a baseball cap pulled low. Neither one smiled.
"Jake Benson?" the driver said.
That's when Jake knew something was wrong. The way they stood. The way they'd positioned themselves, one on each side. The way the driver's hand stayed near his waistband.
"Who's asking?"
"Need you to come with us."
"Like hell I do." Jake's hand moved toward his phone, then remembered—no signal. "You boys need to get back in that truck and get off this property."
They moved fast. Faster than Jake expected. The stocky one came at him from the side while the driver went straight. Jake got his hands up, caught the driver with an elbow to the jaw that snapped his head back, but then the stocky one hit him low, driving him into the side of the Gator. The air went out of his lungs in a rush.
He fought. God, he fought. Got the stocky one in a headlock, threw a punch that connected with something—nose, mouth, he couldn't tell. But there were three of them now, the third one out of the truck, and they knew what they were doing. They weren't trying to hurt him, just control him. One got his arm twisted behind his back, another got his legs, and then something pressed against his neck—not choking, just pressure, cutting off the blood flow to his brain.
"Stop fighting," someone said. "We don't want to hurt you."
Jake's vision started to tunnel. He tried to throw them off, but his body wasn't responding right. Everything was getting fuzzy at the edges.
"Just business," another voice said. "Your family's got money. They'll pay. You'll be home in a few days."
The last thing Jake saw clearly was the sky, that big Texas sky, impossibly blue. Then they had him in the truck, hands zip-tied behind his back, something being pulled over his head—a hood, rough fabric that smelled like oil and dust.
The truck started moving.
Jake tried to keep track of the turns, the time, anything that might help. But his head was still fuzzy from whatever they'd done to his neck, and the hood made everything disorienting. He could hear them talking in the front seat, voices low and calm, like they were discussing the weather.
"Clean," one said. "Nobody saw."
"Check in when we get to the first stop."
"Kid did good staying in the truck."
The truck hit a pothole and Jake's shoulder slammed into the door. Pain shot through his arm, sharp and clarifying. This was real. This was happening. He was tied up in the back of a truck, being driven away from his family, from the ranch, from everything.
He thought about Billy, probably still checking that irrigation pump, not knowing anything was wrong. Thought about the family back at the house, going about their day. How long before someone noticed he was missing? An hour? Two?
The truck turned onto what felt like a highway, the ride smoothing out, the engine settling into a steady hum. They were putting distance between him and home, every minute taking him farther away.
Jake tested the zip ties. Tight. Professional. These weren't amateurs.
Under the hood, in the dark, Jake Benson did something he hadn't done since he was a kid.
He prayed.
3
Chapter 3: The Dark
The darkness was absolute.
Not the darkness of a bedroom at night, where your eyes adjust and you can make out shapes. Not even the darkness of the ranch on a moonless night, where starlight gives you something. This was the darkness of a tomb. Complete. Total. Suffocating.
Jake's screams echoed off metal walls, bouncing back at him, mocking him.
"YOU FUCKING COWARDS! COME BACK HERE! UNTIE ME, YOU PIECES OF SHIT!"
His voice cracked. His throat was already raw from screaming in the truck, from cursing them while they'd tied him up. The ropes bit into his wrists, his forearms, his elbows, his biceps, his torso, his legs, his crossed ankles. Every breath pushed against the rope around his bare chest, making his ribs ache.
He yanked at the bindings. Nothing. They'd done this before—that much was obvious. The hogtie was tight, professional, designed to make any movement painful and futile. His wrists were bound together behind his back, then his forearms lashed together, then his elbows cinched tight. Even his biceps were tied, though not quite touching—a few inches apart, just enough to give the illusion of space while providing none. His entire arm structure was locked into place, his forearms pressed flat against his spine. More rope circled his shirtless torso, pinning everything in place. His legs were bound together over his jeans, and his bare ankles—crossed and lashed tight—were tied back to his wrists in a classic hogtie. The position arched his back severely, put crushing pressure on his shoulders, made everything hurt.
"FUCK!"
He thrashed anyway. Rolled onto his side, the concrete floor scraping his bare shoulder. Hot. Everything was hot. The air was thick, stale, like breathing through a wet blanket. Sweat was already forming on his forehead, running down his temples and bare chest.
How long had they been tying him up? Five minutes? Ten? They'd made him strip down—shirt, belt, boots, socks. Made him empty his pockets while they watched. He'd protested, tried to keep some dignity.
"What the fuck? Just lock me in here. You don't have to tie me up!"
They hadn't answered. Just worked efficiently, professionally. Started with his wrists, binding them together behind his back. Then his forearms, wrapping rope around and around until they were pressed together. Then his elbows, cinching them until they touched. His biceps next, tied but left a few inches apart—he'd thought that was mercy until he realized it changed nothing. Then rope around his bare chest, multiple loops that pinned his bound arms against his spine and made breathing an effort. He'd cursed them the whole time, called them every name he could think of. They'd just kept working.
Then the legs, bound together over his jeans from thighs to ankles. They'd crossed his bare ankles deliberately before tying them, then connected them back to his wrists. The hogtie. The camera flash as they photographed him, trussed up and helpless, still spitting curses.
Then the door. The lock. The darkness.
Jake rolled onto his stomach, tried to get his knees under him. The hogtie made it impossible. His crossed ankles pulled at his wrists, which pulled at his forearms, which were already crushed against his spine. Every movement just tightened something else, made the ropes dig deeper. He could feel them cutting into his skin at eight different points—wrists, forearms, elbows, biceps, torso, legs, and his crossed ankles where the rope bit into bare flesh.
"Okay," he said out loud, his voice strange in the darkness. "Okay. Think."
But thinking was hard when every breath was an effort, when the heat was already making him dizzy, when the darkness pressed in from all sides like a physical weight.
He forced himself to stop moving. Lay still on his side, breathing hard, sweat running down his face and bare chest. The concrete was warm beneath him. Everything was warm. Hot. How hot was it in here?
The walls were metal—he'd seen that much before they'd closed the door. Some kind of old safe, maybe, or a vault. That's why it was so dark. No windows. No cracks. Just metal walls and a metal door and him tied up in the middle of it.
Time passed. He didn't know how much. Could've been ten minutes. Could've been an hour. In the darkness, time lost meaning. There was only the heat, the ropes, the sound of his own breathing.
His thoughts started to spiral.
Billy would notice he was gone. Had to. They were supposed to work on that tractor together. Billy would come looking, wouldn't find him, would tell Pops. Then what? Would they call the sheriff? Start searching?
But searching where? Jake had no idea where he was. Could be ten miles from the ranch. Could be a hundred. The truck ride had felt long, but he'd been disoriented, hooded, his sense of time all fucked up.
"They'll find me," he said out loud. "They'll find me."
But the darkness swallowed his words, gave nothing back.
He tested the ropes again. Still tight. His wrists were going numb—not completely, but that tingling sensation that meant the circulation was getting cut off. His forearms ached where they were pressed against his spine. His elbows screamed. Even his biceps hurt where the rope held them a few inches apart, the position somehow worse than if they'd been tied completely together. He tried to flex his fingers, couldn't tell if they were moving. His bare feet flexed involuntarily, the crossed ankles pulling at the hogtie rope, which pulled at everything else.
Panic fluttered in his chest. He shoved it down.
"Don't," he said. "Don't fucking panic. Stay calm. Think."
But what was there to think about? He was tied up in a metal box in the middle of nowhere. Nobody knew where he was. The men who'd taken him were professionals—they'd planned this, executed it perfectly. And he was just a ranch hand who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Or was he?
That thought had been nagging at him since they'd grabbed him. Why him? Why Jake Benson? They'd known his name. The driver had said it: "Jake Benson?" Like they'd been looking for him specifically.
But why?
The heat was getting worse. He could feel sweat pooling beneath him, soaking into his jeans where his bare back pressed against the concrete. His bare chest was slick with it. His mouth was dry. How long had it been since he'd had water? Breakfast. Coffee. That was hours ago now.
Hours.
How many hours?
He didn't know. Couldn't know. The darkness made everything impossible.
Jake rolled onto his back, stared up at where the ceiling should be. Saw nothing. Just black. His shoulders screamed in protest, the hogtie forcing his back into a severe arch, his bound arms crushed beneath him. The ropes around his bare torso dug into his ribs from the new angle. He rolled back onto his side, gasping.
"Billy," he said. "Come on, brother. Notice I'm gone. Tell Pops. Get help."
But even as he said it, doubt crept in. What if they didn't notice for hours? What if they thought he'd just gone into town, or was working on the far side of the ranch? The Benson spread was huge. You could lose a whole day just checking fence lines.
No. Billy would notice. They were supposed to work together. Billy would know something was wrong.
Unless Billy thought Jake had just bailed. Gone off to blow off steam. Jake had done that before—taken off when he was pissed, driven into town, come back hours later. Billy might just think he was being a hothead again.
"Fuck," Jake whispered.
The ropes were really cutting in now. He could feel wetness at his wrists—blood or sweat, he couldn't tell. His forearms burned where they pressed against his spine. His elbows felt like they might dislocate. His crossed ankles throbbed. The rope around his bare chest made every breath a conscious effort.
And the heat. God, the heat.
He was going to die in here. That thought came suddenly, clearly, and with it came a wave of pure terror. He was going to die tied up in the dark, and nobody would find him until it was too late.
"No," he said. "No. Stop it. Stop."
He forced himself to breathe. Slow. Steady. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Like Pops had taught him when he was a kid and his temper would get the best of him.
"Control what you can control," Pops always said. "Let go of the rest."
But what could he control? Nothing. He couldn't move. Couldn't see. Couldn't do anything but lie here in the dark and wait.
Wait for what?
He didn't know.
Time passed. More time. How much, he couldn't say. The darkness made everything elastic, stretching and compressing until he couldn't tell if he'd been here for hours or days.
His thoughts drifted. Back to the ranch. To breakfast this morning—had it only been this morning? Sarah's biscuits. Rebecca's coffee. Pops at the head of the table, giving out assignments for the day. Billy grinning at him across the table.
Billy.
"I'm sorry, brother," Jake whispered. "I'm sorry."
For what, he wasn't sure. For getting taken. For not being there. For whatever was about to happen.
Because something was about to happen. Men didn't kidnap you, strip your shirt off, tie you up in eight different places, and lock you in a metal box for no reason.
Jake closed his eyes—not that it made any difference in the darkness—and tried to hold onto the image of his family. Tried to remember what the sun felt like. What fresh air tasted like.
Tried not to think about how long he could survive in here.
Tried not to break.
Not yet.
Chapter 4: The Network
Billy checked his watch for the third time in ten minutes. 2:47 PM. Jake was supposed to meet him at the north fence line over an hour ago.
He keyed his radio. "Jake, you copy? This is Billy."
Static.
"Jake, come on, brother. Where you at?"
Nothing.
Billy frowned, scanning the horizon. Jake was never late. Not for work. The guy was annoyingly punctual, always giving Billy shit about being five minutes behind. For Jake to just not show up? That wasn't right.
He tried again. "Jake, if you're screwing with me, it ain't funny."
The silence that came back made his stomach tighten.
Billy climbed into his truck and headed toward the back pasture where Jake had been working on the tractor. Maybe the radio battery died. Maybe Jake got caught up in the repair and lost track of time. Maybe—
He saw Jake's truck before he got there. Parked at an odd angle near the equipment shed, driver's door hanging open.
Billy's foot hit the brake. He sat there for a moment, staring at that open door, and something cold slid down his spine.
"Jake?"
He got out, walked toward the truck. Tools scattered on the ground. Jake's radio on the seat, battery full. The tractor sitting there, hood up, wrench on the ground like it had been dropped.
"JAKE!"
Billy spun in a circle, searching. Nothing. No one. Just the wind moving through the grass and that open truck door swinging slightly.
His hand went to his radio, but he hesitated. If he called this in and Jake was just taking a piss behind a tree somewhere, he'd never hear the end of it. But if something was wrong—
The hell with it.
"Josh, you copy?"
"Go ahead, Billy."
"I'm at the back pasture. Jake's truck is here, door open, tools on the ground. No sign of Jake."
A pause. "Say again?"
"Jake's gone. His truck's here but he's not."
"On my way. Don't touch anything."
Billy stood there, radio in hand, staring at his brother's abandoned truck. That cold feeling in his gut was spreading, turning into something worse.
Something was very wrong.
Josh arrived first, Tom right behind him. They stood around Jake's truck, taking in the scene with the kind of silence that said everything.
"Could he have gone for a walk?" Tom said, but his voice had no conviction.
"Jake doesn't go for walks during work hours," Josh said. He crouched down, studying the ground. "Tire tracks here. Not ours."
Billy felt his chest tighten. "What are you saying?"
Josh stood up, his face grim. "I'm saying we need to activate the network. Now."
Billy Jr had arrived with his grandfather Tom, standing a few feet away from Jake's abandoned truck. He looked at his father Josh, then at his grandfather, his hand moving to the radio clipped to his belt.
"Everyone ready?" Billy Jr asked, his voice steady despite the gravity of the moment.
Josh nodded. "Do it."
Billy Jr unclipped his radio, his thumb hovering over a red button on the side. He pressed it.
For a moment, nothing. Then a mechanical voice—flat, emotionless, impossible to ignore—echoed across every radio in the consortium network:
"911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Billy Jr."
The voice repeated twice more, and Billy felt the hair on his arms stand up. This was real. This was happening.
Billy Jr lifted his radio to his mouth, his voice steady despite his age. "All stations, this is Billy Jr. I'm here with my dad and grandfather at the back pasture. Uncle Jake is missing as of approximately 1:30 PM. His truck was found abandoned here, tools scattered, no sign of struggle but evidence of unknown vehicle tire tracks. We're treating this as a possible abduction. Everyone converge on the ranch house command center."
The radios erupted.
"Nelson here, I copy. What's the situation?" Wade Nelson's voice, sharp and immediate.
"Horse Nelson copies. We're rolling now." Wilson Nelson.
"Ryan Nelson, I'm on duty but heading your way." The deputy sheriff's voice was tight.
"Beaumont here. Robert and Caroline are with me. We're coming." Ray Beaumont.
"Renzo family copies. What do you need?" Marco Renzo.
"Mattern here. We're ready." Carl Mattern.
"Rodriguez checking in. We're with you." Miguel Rodriguez.
Then Pops' voice crackled through, rough and raw with fury. "Goddammit to hell! Those sons of bitches took my grandson? I'm on my way and somebody better have answers when I get there or I'll shoot every motherfucker in a fifty-mile radius myself!"
One by one, all the consortium families responded, their voices overlapping on the encrypted frequency. Billy Jr stood there, radio in hand, coordinating the initial responses.
Wade's voice came back, different now. Not Sheriff Nelson. Wade, their friend and consortium member. "Copy that, Billy Jr. I'm twenty minutes out. Don't call this in official yet—let's see what we're dealing with first."
"Understood," Josh said, keying his own radio. "Everyone head to the ranch house. We'll coordinate from the command center."
"On our way," came the chorus of responses.
They drove back to the main house fast. Tom was already on his phone, calling Celab and Colt to get back to the ranch. Josh's jaw was set, his hands tight on the wheel.
When they pulled up, Josh headed straight for the command center—the room next to what everyone called the Frat House, where Billy Jr and his buddies had set up their tech operation.
The room was impressive, Billy had to admit. Four workstations with multiple monitors each, satellite equipment, radio gear that looked like it belonged in a military installation. Billy Jr and his three friends—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—had built this over the past year, convincing all the consortium families to invest in a private communications network.
Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel were already at their stations when they entered, having heard the 911 call on their radios. They looked up as Josh, Tom, Billy, and Billy Jr came through the door, their faces serious.
Billy Jr moved to the main console while the other three powered up additional systems.
"All stations, this is Billy Jr from the command center," he said into the main radio. "We're coordinating search operations from here. Stand by for assignments."
The radios crackled with acknowledgments as consortium members began arriving or reporting their positions.
"Nelson here, I copy. What's the situation?" Wade Nelson's voice came through again, clearer now.
"Horse Nelson copies. We're five minutes out." Wilson Nelson.
"Beaumont here. We've got four men ready to deploy. Where do you want us?" Ray Beaumont.
Billy Jr pulled up a map on the main screen, marking sectors. "Sending grid coordinates now. We're dividing the search area into six zones."
"Mattern family has two trucks ready," Carl's voice. "We can cover the eastern boundary."
"Rodriguez family taking the southern access roads," Miguel added.
The command center hummed with activity. Four teenagers coordinating a multi-family search operation like they'd trained for this, which Billy supposed they had. Billy Jr worked the console, calling out coordinates, managing drone feeds, keeping everyone connected on the encrypted frequency.
"Deploying drones one through four," Ryan said, pulling up the drone interface on his screen. "Thermal and night vision active."
Daniel worked his station, pulling up satellite imagery. "I've got the back pasture on screen. Marking the location now."
Billy Renzo had sixteen iPads spread across his desk, each one linked to a different consortium member. "All families have visual access to the drone feeds. Pushing the data now."
Tom stood behind them, his face pale. Sarah and Rebecca had come in, standing in the doorway. Nobody said anything, but Billy could see his mother's hands shaking.
"Celab and Colt are en route to the back pasture," Josh said into the radio. "Wade, what's your ETA?"
"Fifteen minutes. I'm bringing tracking gear."
The command center hummed with coordinated activity. Billy watched his nephew work the console, calling out coordinates, managing drone feeds, keeping everyone connected on the encrypted frequency.
"Drone one has eyes on the back pasture," Ryan said. "Confirming Jake's truck, no heat signatures in immediate area."
"Drone two sweeping north," Daniel added. "Nothing yet."
Billy stood there, feeling useless. Everyone was doing something—coordinating, searching, working—and he was just standing here with his hands in his pockets and his brother missing.
"Billy," Josh said, turning to him. "I need you here. You know Jake better than anyone. When that ransom call comes—"
"If it comes," Tom said.
"When it comes," Josh repeated, his voice hard, "you're going to be the one who knows what to say."
Billy nodded, his throat tight.
The radio chatter continued. Wade arrived, his voice calm and professional as he examined the scene at the back pasture. Celab and Colt reported in, confirming the tire tracks, finding a cigarette butt that didn't belong to any of them.
"Bag it," Wade said. "We might need it."
The drones swept wider, their thermal cameras finding nothing but cattle and wildlife. The ground teams reported in from their sectors. Nothing. No sign of Jake. No sign of anything.
An hour passed. Then another. The sun was starting to sink toward the horizon, and Billy felt the weight of every minute pressing down on him.
"Come on, Jake," he whispered. "Where are you?"
Billy Jr's phone buzzed. Then Ryan's. Then Daniel's.
"We've got incoming," Billy Jr said, his voice tight. "Email. Sent to all consortium addresses simultaneously."
"Put it on screen," Josh said.
Billy Jr hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. "You sure? Everyone's going to see—"
"Do it."
The main screen flickered, and an email appeared. No text. Just a photo attachment.
Billy Jr opened it.
The room went silent.
Jake. Shirtless, bound with rope in so many places Billy couldn't count them all. Wrists behind his back, ankles together, everything connected in some kind of elaborate hogtie. A hood over his head. Lying on what looked like a metal floor.
But it was the way he was tied—the professional precision of it, the complete immobilization—that made Billy's blood run cold.
"Jesus Christ," Tom breathed.
Sarah made a sound, and Rebecca grabbed her arm.
The radio crackled. "Benson, this is Wade. We're seeing it too. Everyone on the network just got the same image."
Billy Jr scrolled down. Below the photo, a message:
$5,000,000. Instructions to follow. You have 48 hours. No police. No FBI. We're watching.
"Forty-eight hours," Josh said quietly.
Billy stared at the screen, at his brother tied up like an animal, and felt something break open inside him. Not panic. Not fear. Something colder. Harder.
"We're going to find him," he said.
Josh looked at him, and Billy saw the same thing in his brother's eyes.
"Yeah," Josh said. "We are."
The radio crackled again, and Wade's voice came through, steady and sure.
"All stations, this is Wade Nelson. We've got forty-eight hours to bring Jake home. Let's get to work."
Chapter 5: The Hunt
The command center had transformed in less than an hour.
What had been a storage room—dusty shelves and forgotten equipment—now looked like something out of a military operation. The $50,000 worth of equipment Billy Jr and his crew had just installed gleamed under the LED lights, still smelling like fresh electronics and new plastic. Three massive monitors mounted on the wall displayed split-screen feeds. Six high-end laptops sat open on the custom-built desk array, their processors humming. A professional-grade radio base station occupied the corner, its digital display showing active channels across the consortium network. Fiber optic cables ran along the walls in neat conduits—no expense spared. Eighteen iPads charged in a rack, ready to give every consortium member instant access to camera feeds, drone footage, and real-time updates.
They'd installed the system two weeks ago. Today was its first real test.
Billy Jr sat in the center, his fingers flying across a keyboard. To his left, Billy Renzo—no relation, but they'd been calling him "Renzo" since middle school to avoid confusion—monitored the drone feeds on dual screens. Ryan Mattern handled the surveillance footage review, scrubbing through multiple camera angles simultaneously. Daniel Rodriguez coordinated the radio traffic, logging every transmission in a digital database that updated across all eighteen iPads in real-time. And Colt—Celab's cousin, fresh out of high school and living in the frat house—managed the network infrastructure, making sure every feed, every camera, every iPad stayed connected.
Five tech-savvy kids running a search operation that would've made most police departments jealous.
"Drone One is airborne," Renzo said, his eyes on the screen showing a thermal feed. "Starting grid pattern over sector three."
"Copy that," Daniel said, keying the radio. "All stations, Drone One is active in sector three. Ground teams maintain your positions."
Josh stood behind them, arms crossed, watching the screens. Tom paced near the window. Pops sat in the corner chair, his weathered hands gripping the armrests. Billy couldn't sit. Couldn't stand still. He moved from screen to screen, watching, waiting, feeling like he was crawling out of his skin.
Wade Nelson stood near the door, his sheriff's uniform still on from his shift. He'd come as a consortium member, not in any official capacity. But Billy could see him analyzing everything with cop eyes.
"Talk to me about the photo," Josh said.
Billy Jr pulled it up on the main monitor. Jake, hogtied, hood over his head. The image was grainy but clear enough.
"I've run it through every enhancement filter I've got," Jr said. "The floor is definitely metal. Industrial, maybe. Could be a shipping container, warehouse, barn with metal flooring. The lighting is artificial—see the shadow pattern here?" He pointed. "Single source, probably overhead. LED based on the color temperature."
"What about metadata?" Wade asked.
"Stripped clean," Jr said. "They knew what they were doing. Sent through a VPN, bounced through three countries before it hit our server. I can't trace it back."
Billy felt his jaw clench. Professional. These people were professional.
"Drones Two and Three are up," Renzo reported. "Covering sectors one and four."
The wall monitor split into three feeds, each showing a different aerial view. Thermal imaging painted the landscape in shades of orange and blue. Cattle showed up as bright spots. Buildings glowed with residual heat. But no sign of Jake. No sign of anything unusual.
"Surveillance review," Josh said, turning to Ryan.
Ryan pulled up footage on his laptop. "I've got feeds from six consortium properties along the main roads. Checking every vehicle that passed between five and nine AM." He clicked through timestamps. "So far, nothing unusual. Normal traffic. Couple of delivery trucks, some ranch vehicles. Wait—"
Everyone leaned in.
"Here," Ryan said, pointing. "Seven forty-three AM. White panel van, no markings. Passes the Mattern property heading east."
"Can you get a plate?" Wade asked, moving closer.
Ryan zoomed in, enhanced the image. The license plate was visible but blurred. He ran it through a sharpening filter.
"Partial," he said. "Looks like... Texas plate, maybe starts with BK7 or BK1. Can't make out the rest."
"That's something," Josh said. "Jr, can you—"
"Already on it," Jr said, pulling up the DMV database access they technically weren't supposed to have. "Searching Texas plates starting with BK7 and BK1, white vans registered in a two-hundred-mile radius."
The search ran. Hundreds of results populated the screen.
"Shit," Tom said.
Billy's radio crackled. "Benson command, this is Horse Nelson. We've completed sweep of sector two. Nothing. Moving to sector five."
"Copy, Horse," Daniel said. "Sector five is clear for your team."
Colt's fingers flew across his keyboard. "Updating all iPads now. Everyone should see Horse's team moving to sector five on their maps."
Out in the field, eighteen iPads showed the update simultaneously. Every consortium member could see exactly where every team was, what sectors had been cleared, where the drones were flying. The system they'd just invested in was working flawlessly.
More voices came through. Carl Mattern reporting from sector six. The Rodriguez brothers checking in from the eastern boundary. The Hoffmans covering the northern properties. Everyone searching. Everyone finding nothing.
"Drone Four launching," Renzo said. "That's four in the air now. We're covering about sixty square miles."
Billy watched the thermal feeds on the massive monitors. Watched the ground teams' GPS markers moving across the digital map Jr had pulled up. Watched his brother's photo on the screen, that goddamn hood over his head.
Forty-eight hours. They'd already burned through four.
"What about the demand itself?" Wade said. "Five million. That's specific. Not round. Not negotiable-sounding."
"They know we have it," Josh said quietly. "Or close to it. That's consortium knowledge."
"Inside job?" Tom asked, his voice tight.
"Or someone who's been watching us," Wade said. "Someone who knows how we operate. The radios, the network, the resources."
Billy felt sick. Someone had been watching them. Studying them. Waiting.
"Jr, what about our own surveillance?" Josh asked. "The cameras on our properties?"
"Checked them first thing," Jr said. "Nothing unusual at the equipment shed. Jake's truck shows up at seven thirty-two. He gets out, walks toward the shed. Then—" He pulled up the footage. They watched Jake disappear around the corner of the building. "Camera angle doesn't cover that side. By the time he should've come back into frame, he's gone."
"They knew where the cameras were," Wade said.
"Yeah," Jr said. "They knew exactly where the cameras were."
The radio crackled. "Command, this is Wilson Nelson. We've got something at the old Pritchard place. Tire tracks, fresh. Looks like a vehicle pulled off the road, maybe sat here for a while."
Billy's heart jumped. "That's two miles from our property."
"Wilson, this is Wade," the sheriff said, keying the radio. "Don't touch anything. I'm sending a team to document it."
"Copy that."
Josh looked at Wade. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Surveillance point," Wade said. "They watched the ranch from there, waited for the right moment."
"Jr, get Drone Two over to the Pritchard place," Josh ordered. "Let's see what else is there."
"On it," Renzo said, adjusting the drone's flight path.
"Pushing the feed to all iPads," Colt said. "Everyone can watch."
Billy moved to the window, staring out at the darkening sky. The sun was setting, painting everything orange and red. Beautiful. Jake was out there somewhere, tied up in the dark, and the sky was beautiful.
"Billy," Pops said quietly.
Billy didn't turn around. "I should be out there. Searching."
"You are searching. We all are."
"I should be doing something."
"You are, son."
But it didn't feel like enough. Nothing felt like enough. He could feel Jake out there, could feel his brother's fear like it was his own. They'd always been like that. Connected. And right now, that connection was screaming.
"Drone Two is over the Pritchard place," Renzo said. "Thermal's showing... yeah, tire tracks. Recent. And—wait. There's something else."
Everyone crowded around the screen.
"What is that?" Tom asked.
"Cigarette butts," Renzo said, zooming in. "Three of them. Right where someone would've parked to watch the road."
"They sat there for a while," Wade said. "Watching. Waiting."
"Can we get DNA from cigarette butts?" Billy asked.
"If we make this official," Wade said carefully. "If we bring in the state lab. But that means FBI. That means the kidnappers' terms are broken."
"Fuck their terms," Billy said.
"Billy," Josh said, his voice sharp. "We do this smart. We find him first, then we worry about prosecuting these bastards."
Billy wanted to argue. Wanted to punch something. But Josh was right. Jake first. Everything else after.
"Drones Five and Six are up," Renzo reported. "That's all six in the air. We've got full coverage now."
The wall monitor showed all six feeds. Thermal images of the Texas landscape, grid patterns, search zones. Sophisticated. Professional. Exactly what they'd built the consortium to do. Fifty thousand dollars' worth of cutting-edge equipment, and they were finding nothing.
"Vehicle database search complete," Jr said. "Two hundred and forty-seven white vans matching our partial plate. I'm cross-referencing with known criminal databases, but without more information..."
He didn't finish. They all knew. It was a dead end.
The radio chattered with updates. Sector seven clear. Sector nine clear. The Hoffmans requesting permission to expand their search area. Daniel coordinating, logging, keeping everyone organized. Every update pushed instantly to all eighteen iPads.
Sarah appeared in the doorway with Rebecca, both carrying trays of sandwiches and coffee. Nobody had eaten since breakfast. Billy couldn't imagine eating now.
"You need to keep your strength up," Sarah said, setting the tray down. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were red.
"Thanks, Mom," Josh said, taking a sandwich he probably wouldn't eat either.
Rebecca moved to Billy, touched his arm. "Any news?"
"Tire tracks," Billy said. "Cigarette butts. Nothing that tells us where he is."
She squeezed his arm. Didn't say anything. What was there to say?
The sun finished setting. The room grew darker, lit only by the glow of screens and the blinking lights of equipment. Outside, six drones flew search patterns over sixty square miles of Texas ranch land. On the ground, twenty vehicles with forty men searched every building, every ravine, every place someone could hide a kidnapped man.
And they were finding nothing.
"They planned this," Wade said quietly, standing next to Josh. "Every detail. They knew our capabilities, our response, our resources. They knew exactly how to stay ahead of us."
"So what do we do?" Josh asked.
"We keep searching," Wade said. "And we start thinking like them. They want five million. They're watching us. They know we won't involve official law enforcement. So they're confident. Maybe too confident."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning they'll make contact again. They'll have to, to arrange the exchange. And when they do, maybe they'll slip up."
Billy turned from the window. "And if they don't? If we hit forty-eight hours and we still don't know where he is?"
Nobody answered.
The radio crackled. "Command, this is Horse. We're going to need lights soon. It's getting dark out here."
"Copy, Horse," Daniel said. "All teams, if you need to return for lighting equipment, coordinate with command first."
Billy Jr pulled up the timer on his screen. Forty-three hours and seventeen minutes remaining.
"We're going to find him," Josh said, but even he didn't sound convinced anymore.
Billy stared at the screens, at the thermal images, at the photo of his brother hogtied and hooded. Somewhere out there, Jake was waiting. Hoping. Believing his family would come.
They had forty-three hours to make sure that belief wasn't misplaced.
"Keep searching," Billy said. "We keep searching until we find him."
And in the command center, surrounded by technology and determination and desperate hope, the hunt continued into the night.
Chapter 6: Breaking Down
Jake woke to pain.
Not the sharp bite of rope cutting in—that had faded to background noise. This was deeper. His muscles screamed from hours locked in the same position, the hogtie rope pulling his ankles toward his bound wrists, arching his spine.
He tried to swallow. Couldn't. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth like leather.
Water. God, he needed water.
He shifted and fire shot through his shoulders. The hogtie pulled taut, yanked everything tighter. He gasped against the hood fabric.
His wrists burned where the rope bit deep. The bindings around his chest suffocated him. Every breath was work. Sweat ran down his sides, soaked into his jeans, made the ropes slick.
His legs cramped suddenly, violently. The muscles seized, knotted hard. He thrashed. The hogtie pulled everything tighter.
He forced himself still. Breathed shallow. The cramp slowly released.
The hood. He had to get the hood off.
Jake pressed his face against the concrete. Rough. Cold. He dragged his head sideways, felt the fabric catch and pull. Not enough. He tried again, harder. Pushed his cheek down and scraped across the floor.
The hood shifted. Maybe an inch.
He kept going. Scraped and pushed and dragged. The fabric bunched near his ear. His neck screamed but he didn't stop. This was something he could do.
His shoulder. He could use his shoulder.
Jake rolled slightly—as much as the hogtie allowed—and wedged his shoulder up. Pressed the hood against it. Rubbed his head back and forth. The fabric caught, pulled up another inch.
His throat burned. His muscles shook. But the hood moved.
He worked at it like an animal. Scrape, push, roll, press. Again. Again. The hood bunched higher. Past his ear. He could feel air on his jaw.
One more push. He arched his neck back and scraped forward hard. The hood caught on his nose, pulled up and over, and suddenly it was off.
Jake sucked in air. Still hot, still stale, but not filtered through fabric.
He blinked. Saw nothing. Still dark. Still blind.
But the hood was off.
His throat hurt like he'd swallowed glass. His tongue was swollen. When had he last had water? Morning. Coffee. The sun coming up.
How long ago was that?
He pulled against the ropes at his wrists. They didn't give. He tried to straighten his legs. The hogtie rope yanked his ankles back, arched his spine further. He gasped and went still.
The ropes around his chest were too tight. Each breath was shallow, insufficient. His back was raw against the concrete. The numbness in his hands spread up his arms.
The thirst was worse. A living thing inside him. His throat closed. He tried to work saliva into his mouth. There was none.
Time slipped.
He was at the ranch. No—he was here. The van. The men. The hood.
The darkness pressed in.
His body was failing. He could feel it. The cramps getting worse. The thirst like fire.
"Billy," he whispered, and his voice cracked. "I'm trying."
The darkness didn't answer.
So thirsty.
So tired.
His vision—what little there was in the absolute black—started to narrow. Gray at the edges. Or maybe that was just the dark getting darker.
He was still breathing. Still here.
Still waiting.
The darkness closed in.
Chapter 7: The Break
The command center smelled like coffee, sweat, and desperation.
Billy Jr had been staring at screens for so long his eyes felt like sandpaper. Beside him, Ryan Mattern was on his third energy drink, fingers flying across his keyboard. Daniel Rodriguez had his head down on the table, catching twenty minutes of sleep while Colt and Billy Renzo reviewed drone footage from the night shift.
Twenty-three hours. Twenty-three hours since Jake disappeared.
Billy stood at the window, same spot he'd been in for most of the night. He hadn't slept. Couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Jake's truck with the door hanging open. The tools on the ground.
His brother was out there somewhere. Hurt. Scared. Maybe worse.
"Billy, you need to rest," Sarah said quietly, appearing at his elbow with another cup of coffee.
"Can't."
She didn't argue. Just set the coffee on the windowsill and squeezed his shoulder before heading back to the kitchen where she and Rebecca were coordinating food for the search teams.
The radio crackled. "Zone Four clear. Moving to Zone Five." Horse Nelson's voice, tired but steady.
"Copy that, Horse," Josh said from his position at the main table. He'd been coordinating the ground search all night, dividing and redividing the search areas as they eliminated possibilities.
Tom sat beside him, working through the financial angle. The ransom demand. Five million dollars. They could raise it—between the consortium families, they could probably raise it—but Wade had been clear: paying didn't guarantee Jake's return.
"We need to find him," Wade had said. "Before that deadline hits."
Twenty-four hours left.
Billy turned from the window, watching the wiz kids work. Jr was reviewing traffic camera footage again. Ryan had the drone feeds up on three screens. Daniel was awake now, pulling up cell tower data. Colt was cross-referencing vehicle registrations. Billy Renzo was scanning surveillance from every business camera they could access.
Hours and hours of work, and they had nothing.
"Wait," Billy Renzo said suddenly.
Everyone looked up.
"Wait, wait, wait." Renzo was leaning forward, his face inches from his screen. "Jr, pull up the feed from Miller's Feed Store. Yesterday, 11:52 AM."
Jr's fingers flew. The footage appeared on the main screen.
A white pickup truck. Not Jake's, but similar make. Two men inside. Heading east on County Road 12.
"That's not—" Tom started.
"Keep watching," Renzo said.
Jr fast-forwarded. The same truck appeared on another camera fifteen minutes later. Then another. County Road 12 to Farm Road 8. North toward the old Hutchins property.
"The Hutchins place has been abandoned for years," Wade said, moving closer to the screen.
"Exactly," Renzo said. "Remote. No neighbors for miles."
Billy's heart was pounding. "Can we get eyes on it?"
"Deploying drones now," Ryan said, already working. "Unit Two is closest. Eight minutes out."
The room went quiet. Everyone watching the screens as Ryan redirected the drone. The feed appeared—aerial view of empty fields, fence lines, dirt roads.
"There's the access road," Daniel said, pointing.
The drone followed the road. Overgrown pastures. A collapsed fence. Then buildings came into view. An old barn, weathered and gray. A smaller outbuilding. And behind the barn, partially hidden—
"There," Billy said.
A white pickup truck.
Ryan zoomed in. The license plate was visible.
Jr was already running it. "Registered to a shell company. Address is a PO box in Millerton."
"That's them," Billy said. His voice was shaking. "That's fucking them."
Wade studied the screen. The barn. The truck. The isolated location. "That's them," he confirmed.
Josh picked up the radio. "All units, we have a location. Old Hutchins property, Farm Road 8. Coordinates to follow. Assemble at the staging point."
The radio lit up with confirmations. Trucks starting. The consortium mobilizing.
Billy turned to Josh. "I'm going."
Josh looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "You follow orders. We do this smart."
Billy looked at the screen. The barn. The truck. His brother somewhere inside.
"We found him," he said.
Chapter 8: Coming Home
Pops opened the gun safe in his office without a word. The heavy door swung wide, revealing what three generations of Bensons had accumulated. Rifles. Shotguns. Handguns. All maintained, all ready.
"Take what you need," he said quietly.
Josh reached for a Remington 700. Tom took a shotgun, checked the action. Billy grabbed his grandfather's Winchester, the one he'd learned to shoot with. Wade and Horse Nelson were already armed. Robert Beaumont pulled a scoped rifle from his own truck—a precision instrument he'd carried in the Marines.
"Boys," Pops said to the wiz kids, who were gathering their iPads and equipment. "You stay in the truck. You're our eyes, not our boots. Understood?"
"Yes sir," Jr said. The others nodded.
"Josh's truck," Pops continued. "You five go mobile. Keep those feeds running. We need to know what we're walking into."
Billy Renzo, Ryan, Daniel, and Colt loaded into Josh's extended cab, iPads already syncing, portable hotspots active. The back seat looked like a mobile command center.
Outside, engines roared to life. Five trucks—Benson, Nelson, Beaumont, Mattern, Rodriguez—lined up in the driveway. Armed men. Determined faces. A family going to war.
Billy climbed into his father's truck. Tom was driving, jaw set, knuckles white on the wheel. In the back seat, Pops checked his rifle one more time.
The convoy pulled out.
Wade's voice came over the radio as they hit the main road, calm and authoritative. "Listen up. Rules of engagement. We go in quiet. Surround the structure. Confirm targets before firing. These men are armed and dangerous—they've already proven that. But we're not murderers. We defend ourselves and we get Jake out. That's the mission."
"Understood," came the chorus of responses.
"Robert and Pops, you're our overwatch. Find your positions. You see a threat, you eliminate it."
"Copy," Robert said.
"Copy," Pops echoed.
"Josh, you're primary entry with me. Tom, Billy, you're secondary. Everyone else holds perimeter. Nobody gets out."
Billy's hands were shaking. He gripped the Winchester tighter.
"Wiz kids, talk to me," Wade said.
Jr's voice crackled through. "Drone's holding position. Two heat signatures in the barn. One in the smaller building. No movement on the truck."
"Three hostiles," Wade confirmed. "Stay sharp."
The trucks ate up the miles. Farm Road 8 was empty, the sun climbing higher, heat already shimmering off the asphalt. Billy watched the landscape blur past, his mind on Jake. Tied up. Alone. Waiting.
"We're coming, brother," he whispered.
They parked a quarter mile out, pulled off into a grove of trees. Doors opened quietly. Men moved with purpose, checking weapons, pulling on gloves.
"Jr, give me positions," Wade said.
"Two signatures still in the barn, northeast corner. One in the outbuilding, stationary. Truck's cold—nobody inside."
"Pops, Robert, find your nests."
The two men moved off, rifles in hand. Pops headed for a rise with a clear view of the barn's entrance. Robert circled wide, finding an angle on the outbuilding.
"In position," Pops radioed.
"Set," Robert confirmed.
Wade hand-signaled the approach. Josh, Tom, Billy, and four others moved low and fast through the overgrown field. The barn loomed ahead, gray wood weathered by decades of Texas sun.
Billy's heart hammered. Fifty yards. Forty. Thirty.
A door opened on the outbuilding.
"Contact," Robert's voice, barely a whisper.
The crack of his rifle split the air. The man in the doorway dropped.
"Outbuilding clear," Robert said.
Shouting from inside the barn. Movement.
The barn door flew open. A man with a pistol, scanning wildly.
Pops' rifle spoke once. The man crumpled.
"Two down," Pops said, voice steady as stone.
Wade and Josh hit the barn door. Billy was right behind them, Tom at his shoulder. Inside, dim light, the smell of old hay and motor oil. And there—a man running for the back, reaching for a rifle.
Josh fired. The man went down hard.
"Clear!" Wade shouted, sweeping the space. "Clear!"
But Billy wasn't listening. He was staring at the back corner. A metal door, heavy and industrial, with a padlock and reinforced hinges.
"Jake!" he shouted. "JAKE!"
A muffled sound from behind the door. Weak, but there.
"He's in there!" Billy grabbed the padlock, yanked uselessly. "We need to get this open!"
Tom was already on the radio. "We need cutting equipment. Torch, grinder, something. That door's not coming down easy."
"Horse is bringing tools," Wade said. "Two minutes."
Billy pressed his face to the door. "Jake! We're here! We're getting you out!"
Another sound. A voice, hoarse and broken, but unmistakably Jake's. "Billy?"
"Yeah, brother. Yeah, it's me. Hold on. Just hold on."
Horse Nelson arrived with a plasma torch, tank on his back. "Move," he said, firing it up.
The torch screamed. Sparks flew. The metal glowed orange, then white. Horse cut through the hinges, then the lock mechanism. It took three minutes that felt like hours.
"Got it!" Horse kicked the door. It fell inward with a crash.
The smell hit them first. Sweat, urine, fear. Then Billy saw him.
Jake. On the floor. Rope binding his wrists behind his back, more rope wrapped around his forearms and cinched tight at his elbows. His torso was bound with rope across his chest. His legs were tied together, rope coiled around his ankles, then connected back to his wrists in a brutal hogtie. His face was bruised, lips cracked and bleeding. His eyes—God, his eyes—were sunken and desperate.
"Jesus Christ," Tom breathed.
Billy was on his knees, pulling out his knife. "I got you. I got you, brother."
He cut the rope connecting Jake's ankles to his wrists first, sawing through the thick fibers. Then he worked on the rope at Jake's wrists, the blade slicing through strand after strand. Jake's hands were purple, swollen. When Billy cut the rope binding his ankles, Jake gasped in pain.
"Easy," Tom said, kneeling beside them, his own knife out, cutting through the rope around Jake's torso and arms. "Easy, son."
Jake tried to sit up, couldn't. Billy and Tom lifted him, supporting his weight. Jake's legs wouldn't hold him.
"We need to get him to a hospital," Tom said. "Now."
"No." Jake's voice was a rasp, but firm. "No hospital."
"Jake, you need—"
"I NEED TO GO HOME." Jake grabbed his father's shirt, eyes fierce despite everything. "I NEED MY FAMILY. Please. Please, Dad. Take me home."
Tom looked at Josh. Josh looked at Wade. Wade nodded slowly.
"Rebecca," Tom said into the radio. "We have Jake. He's refusing hospital. Can you coordinate medical at the house?"
Rebecca's voice came back immediately, steady and professional. "Dr. Peterson is already here. We're setting up in the living room. Bring him home."
They carried Jake to the truck. Billy wouldn't let go of him, supporting his brother's weight, whispering reassurances. "You're okay. You're safe. We got you."
Jake's head lolled against Billy's shoulder. "Knew you'd come," he mumbled. "Knew it."
"Always, brother. Always."
The ride back was quiet. Tom drove carefully, avoiding bumps. In the back seat, Billy held Jake upright, one arm around his shoulders. Pops sat on Jake's other side, his weathered hand resting on his grandson's knee.
"You did good, boy," Pops said quietly. "You held on."
Jake's eyes were closed, but he nodded slightly.
Billy felt tears on his face and didn't care. His brother was alive. Breathing. Home.
The house came into view and Billy saw them all waiting. Sarah on the porch, hands clasped. Rebecca with her medical kit. Dr. Peterson, a silver-haired man in his seventies who'd delivered half the kids in the county.
They carried Jake inside. The living room had been transformed—the coffee table pushed aside, blankets laid out, medical supplies organized with Rebecca's characteristic efficiency.
"On the couch," Dr. Peterson directed. "Gently."
They laid Jake down. He groaned, eyes fluttering open.
Dr. Peterson began his examination, Rebecca assisting. Checking vitals, pupils, range of motion. Jake flinched when the doctor touched his wrists.
"Severe dehydration," Dr. Peterson said, prepping an IV. "Circulation damage to the extremities. Contusions, abrasions. But nothing broken. Nothing that won't heal."
He inserted the IV, taped it down. "You're a lucky man, Jake Benson."
"Don't feel lucky," Jake rasped.
"You're alive," the doctor said. "That's lucky enough."
Rebecca cleaned the wounds on Jake's wrists and ankles, applied antibiotic ointment, wrapped them in gauze. Her hands were gentle, professional. When she finished, she squeezed Jake's hand.
"Welcome home," she said softly.
Pops stood in the doorway, watching. When Dr. Peterson stepped back, satisfied with his work, Pops shook his head slowly.
"One stubborn son of a bitch," he said, but his voice was thick with emotion. "Just like his grandfather."
Jake managed a weak smile. "Learned from the best."
The IV dripped. Color was already returning to Jake's face. His breathing steadied. After twenty minutes, he opened his eyes fully and looked around at his family—all of them crowded into the living room, watching him.
"I'm hungry," he said.
The room erupted. Laughter, tears, relief pouring out in a wave. Sarah pressed her hand to her mouth, crying and laughing at once.
"That's my boy," Tom said, his voice breaking.
Pops disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a stack of glasses. He poured generously—one for Tom, Josh, Wade, Robert, Horse, himself. Then he looked at the wiz kids, standing awkwardly by the door.
"You boys earned this," he said, pouring five more.
Jr's eyes went wide. "Sir, we're—"
"You're family," Pops said firmly. "And you helped bring him home. Drink."
He raised his glass. Everyone followed.
"To Jake," Pops said. "And to family. The only thing that matters."
"To Jake," they echoed.
The whiskey burned going down. Billy drained his glass, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. Beside him, Jake was already looking better, the IV working its magic.
In the kitchen, Sarah, Rebecca, and the other women were already moving. Pans clattering. The stove firing up. Within minutes, the smell of bacon and eggs filled the house.
"Someone's making breakfast at three in the afternoon," Jake said, his voice stronger now.
"Someone's making whatever the hell you want," Sarah called from the kitchen. "You want breakfast, you get breakfast."
Billy sat on the floor beside the couch, his hand on Jake's arm. Just touching him. Making sure he was real.
"Thought I lost you," Billy said quietly.
Jake turned his head, met his brother's eyes. "Never. You're stuck with me, brother."
"Good," Billy said. "That's good."
Around them, the house filled with noise and warmth. Family gathering. Food cooking. The wiz kids arguing about something technical, still riding the adrenaline high. Pops pouring another round. Tom sitting in his chair, just watching his son breathe.
Outside, the sun was starting its descent. The day was ending. But inside the Benson house, surrounded by the people who'd moved heaven and earth to bring him home, Jake was finally safe.
Finally home.
Chapter 9: The Frat House
Jake finished the last of his eggs and pushed the plate away. "I need my bed," he said. "My actual bed."
"You sure?" Tom asked. "Doc said you should rest easy."
"I'll rest easier upstairs," Jake said. "In the frat house."
Billy was already on his feet. "I got you."
They helped Jake up—Billy on one side, Celab on the other. Jake's legs were steadier now, the IV fluids and food working their magic, but he still moved like a man who'd been through hell.
The stairs were slow going. One step at a time, Billy and Celab supporting Jake's weight. Jr and Colt followed behind, ready to catch him if he stumbled.
"Almost there," Billy said as they reached the second floor landing.
The frat house was right there—first door at the top of the stairs. Their room. Two bunk beds against opposite walls, Colt's mattress on the floor between them, clothes everywhere, the faint smell of old pizza and teenage boy. Home.
They got Jake to his bunk—bottom left, same one he'd had since he was twelve. He sank onto the mattress with a groan that was half pain, half relief.
"Jesus, that's good," Jake said, lying back.
Billy sat on the edge of the bunk. Jr dropped into his desk chair. Celab and Colt sprawled on the floor. Within minutes, the wiz kids filtered in—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez. The room got crowded fast.
"Hell of a day," Colt said.
"Hell of a day," Jake agreed.
Celab glanced at Colt. Some silent communication passed between them. Then Celab grinned and moved to the window. He knelt down and worked his fingers under a floorboard.
"What are you doing?" Ryan asked.
The floorboard came up. Celab reached into the space beneath and pulled out a six-pack of Coors. Then another. And another.
"No shit," Billy Renzo said.
"The stash," Jr said, grinning. "Hell yes."
They started passing out beers. Jake got one. Billy got one. The wiz kids each took one, glancing at each other like they were getting away with something.
"To Jake," Celab said, cracking his open.
"To Jake," everyone echoed.
The door opened. Pops walked in, Tom right behind him. The room went silent. Every kid froze, beer in hand, caught red-handed.
"Uh," Jr said.
"We were just—" Colt started.
Pops looked at the beers. Looked at the open floorboard by the window. Looked at the guilty faces staring back at him. Then he started laughing. Deep, belly laughs that shook his whole frame.
"Who the hell do you think started that stash?" Pops said.
Dead silence. Then—
"What?" Billy said.
"You think you boys are clever?" Pops said, still grinning. "I've been restocking that thing every morning for two years."
Tom leaned against the doorframe, smirking. "I've been drinking from it too."
"You KNEW?" Jr said, his voice cracking.
"Of course we knew," Pops said. "You think I don't know every inch of this house? Hell, I built that hiding spot when your dad was your age."
"You're shitting me," Colt said.
"Language," Tom said, but he was laughing.
Pops walked over to the stash, reached in, and pulled out two beers. Tossed one to Tom. "You boys did good work today," Pops said. "Real good work. You earned it."
He cracked his beer open. Tom did the same. The wiz kids stared, mouths open.
"Well?" Pops said. "You gonna drink or just sit there looking stupid?"
They drank. All of them. Three generations in a crowded bedroom, drinking cheap beer and breathing easier than they had in two days.
Billy Renzo cleared his throat. "So," he said, looking at Jake. "What happened out there?"
The room went quiet. Everyone watching Jake.
Jake took a long pull from his beer. Set it down on the floor beside his bunk. "They grabbed me at the shed," he said. His voice was still hoarse, rough around the edges. "Two guys. Had me on the ground before I knew what was happening. Hood over my head. Zip ties. Threw me in a van."
He paused. Took another drink.
"Drove for maybe an hour. Maybe more. Couldn't tell. They dumped me in that warehouse. Tied me up like a goddamn calf. Hogtied. Couldn't move. Couldn't see. Just... dark. And hot. So fucking hot."
"Jesus," Celab said quietly.
"I kept thinking you'd come," Jake said, looking at Billy. "Kept thinking, Billy knows. Billy's gonna figure it out. Just gotta hold on." He smiled, tired but real. "And you did."
"We all did," Billy said.
"Yeah," Jake said. "You did." He picked up his beer again. "I heard the gunshots. Heard you guys yelling. Heard the grinder on the door. And I just—" His voice cracked. "I just knew I was going home."
He took another drink. His eyes were getting heavy. The adrenaline was gone. The fear was gone. All that was left was exhaustion.
"They didn't hurt you?" Tom asked.
"Not really," Jake said. "Just... left me there. In the dark. Waiting." He yawned. "God, I'm tired."
"Then sleep," Pops said.
"Yeah," Jake said. "Yeah, I think I will."
He lay back on his bunk, beer still in his hand. His eyes closed. Within seconds, his breathing evened out.
"Out cold," Jr said softly.
One by one, the others started to fade. Billy Renzo leaned back against the wall, eyes closing. Ryan slumped in the desk chair. Daniel stretched out on the floor. Jr curled up on his own bunk. Celab and Colt didn't even make it to their beds—just lay where they were, exhaustion finally catching up.
Billy stayed on the edge of Jake's bunk, hand on his brother's arm. His eyes drifted shut.
Pops looked around the room. Eight boys, all crashed out, empty beer cans scattered around them. He smiled.
"Come on," he said quietly to Tom. "Let's let them sleep."
They stepped into the hall. Pops pulled the door closed behind them, leaving it cracked just an inch. They walked down the hall together, their footsteps soft on the old wood floors.
"Hell of a kid you raised," Pops said.
"Hell of a family we raised," Tom said.
They reached the stairs. Started down. The house was quieter now. The search teams had gone home. The women were cleaning up in the kitchen. The command center was being dismantled.
"Thought we'd lost him," Tom said.
"But we didn't," Pops said. "Because those boys up there wouldn't let it happen. Because this family doesn't quit."
Tom nodded. His throat was tight. "He's tough. Jake's always been tough."
"Gets it from his old man," Pops said.
They reached the bottom of the stairs. Stood there for a moment, just the two of them, in the quiet house.
"You did good today, son," Pops said.
Tom looked at his father. "So did you."
Pops clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on. Let's go see if there's any of that breakfast left."
They walked toward the kitchen together. Behind them, upstairs in the frat house, eight boys slept. Safe. Together. Home.
Outside, the sun finally set over the Benson ranch. The day was done. The family was whole.
And that was enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment