Chapter 1: Morning Routine
Pops Benson's boots hit the hardwood floor at 5:15 a.m., same as every morning for the past fifty years. He scratched his gray stubble, pulled on his jeans, and shuffled out of his bedroom on the second floor. The hallway smelled like old wood and coffee already brewing downstairs—Tom must be up.
He stopped at the command center door, saw the glow of standby lights through the crack, then moved on to the frat house.
Pops didn't knock. He never knocked.
"Get your asses up!" He slammed his palm against the doorframe. "Sun's burnin' daylight and you sons of bitches are burnin' my time!"
A groan came from the top bunk on the left. Billy.
"Five more minutes, Pops," Jake mumbled from the bottom bunk, face buried in his pillow.
"Five more minutes my ass. Move it!"
Celeb sat up on the right top bunk, blinking. "Yes sir, Pops."
Billy Jr. rolled off his mattress between the two bunk beds, already half-dressed. The kid slept like a soldier—light and ready. "I'm up, I'm up."
"Good boy, Jr." Pops grinned. "Rest of you jackasses could learn somethin'."
Louisiana—nobody called Celeb's cousin by his real name—groaned from his own mattress between the bunks, on the other side of Jr.'s. "Lord have mercy."
"Lord ain't got mercy at 5 a.m., son. Get movin'."
By the time the five of them stumbled into the kitchen, Sarah was already at the stove, flipping eggs and frying bacon. Tom sat at the head of the long table with his coffee, reading something on his phone. Ray walked in behind them, clean-shaven and alert like he'd been up for hours. Josh was outside already—General Manager duties didn't wait for breakfast.
"Morning, boys," Sarah said without turning around. "Sit."
They sat.
Pops poured himself coffee, added a splash of brandy from the flask in his shirt pocket, and ignored Sarah's look.
"Pops, it's five-thirty in the morning," she said.
"And I'm seventy-six years old. I'll do what I damn well please."
Billy Jr. snickered. Jake grinned and reached for the orange juice.
Sarah turned, spatula in hand, and her eyes landed on Jake. She frowned.
"Jake Benson, is that the same undershirt you've been wearing for a week?"
Jake looked down at his white undershirt. It was tight across his chest and shoulders, the fabric stretched thin and gray at the collar. There were sweat stains under the arms and a smudge of grease near the hem.
"Uh…"
"It is," Billy said, grinning. "He ran out of clean ones four days ago."
"Three days," Jake muttered.
"A week," Sarah corrected, pointing the spatula at him. "I saw you in that same shirt last Sunday. Do your laundry, Jake."
"Yes ma'am."
"I mean it."
"Yes ma'am."
Pops chuckled into his coffee. "Boy smells like a work site."
"I don't smell," Jake said.
"You do," Celeb said.
"Little bit," Louisiana added.
Billy Jr. wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, you kinda do."
Jake scowled and grabbed a piece of bacon off the plate Sarah set down. "Y'all can kiss my ass."
"Language," Sarah said sharply.
"Sorry, ma'am."
Tom looked up from his phone. "Jake, you're at the north fence line today. Alone. Fixing posts."
Jake nodded. "Yes sir."
"Billy, you and Jr. are checking the irrigation system on the east pasture. Celeb, Louisiana, you're with Josh moving cattle."
"Yes sir," they all said in unison.
Pops leaned back in his chair, cigar unlit between his teeth. "And I'm supervising. From the porch. With my brandy."
"Damn right you are," Tom said with a grin.
Sarah set down plates of eggs, bacon, and toast. The boys dug in like they hadn't eaten in days. The kitchen filled with the sounds of forks scraping plates, coffee mugs clinking, and low conversation about the day's work.
It was a morning like any other.
Jake finished his eggs, drained his orange juice, and stood. "I'm headin' out."
"Take your radio," Tom said.
"Always do."
"And for the love of God," Sarah called after him, "do your laundry tonight!"
Jake waved over his shoulder as he walked out the door, the screen slamming behind him.
Pops watched him go, then took a long sip of his spiked coffee.
"That boy's gonna get himself in trouble one of these days," he muttered.
Nobody disagreed.
Chapter 2: The Abduction
Jake's truck bounced over the rough trail to the north fence line, kicking up dust in the morning heat. He had his radio clipped to his belt, a thermos of coffee in the cup holder, and a toolbox rattling in the truck bed. The fence posts out here had been leaning for weeks—wind damage from the last storm—and Tom wanted them fixed before they lost any cattle.
He parked near the damaged section, killed the engine, and stepped out into the Texas sun. It was already pushing ninety degrees and it wasn't even eight o'clock yet.
The surveillance camera mounted on his truck dashboard blinked its steady red light—standard equipment for all consortium vehicles. Jake didn't give it a second thought.
Jake grabbed his tools, set them down by the first post, and got to work. He dug around the base, reset the angle, packed in fresh dirt. Sweat soaked through his already-dirty white undershirt within minutes. He should've brought more water.
An hour passed. Maybe two. The sun climbed higher.
He didn't hear the truck approaching until it was close.
Jake looked up, squinting. A white pickup he didn't recognize rolled to a stop about thirty yards out. Two men got out. Both wearing jeans, work boots, and ball caps pulled low. One was tall and lean. The other shorter, stockier, with a thick beard.
"Help you?" Jake called out, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Yeah, actually," the tall one said, walking closer. "We're lost. Looking for Route 9?"
Jake frowned. Route 9 was nowhere near here. "You're about fifteen miles off. Head back the way you came, take a left at the—"
The shorter one rushed him from the side.
Jake barely had time to turn before the man tackled him hard into the dirt. He threw an elbow, connected with something solid, heard a grunt. But then the tall one was on him too, pinning his arms.
"Get off me!" Jake roared, thrashing.
A fist slammed into his ribs. Then another. The air left his lungs in a rush.
They flipped him onto his stomach, wrenched his arms behind his back. Jake bucked and twisted, but the stocky one had his full weight on Jake's shoulders. Rough rope bit into his wrists, looping tight, cutting off circulation.
"Son of a bitch!" Jake snarled through gritted teeth.
The tall one grabbed his ankles, yanked them together, and wrapped more rope around his boots. Jake kicked hard, caught him in the knee. The man swore and punched Jake in the kidney. Pain exploded up his spine.
"Hold still, cowboy," the bearded one growled.
They rolled him onto his side. Jake opened his mouth to yell—and a filthy rag was shoved between his teeth. He gagged, tried to spit it out, but they wrapped duct tape around his head, sealing it in.
Jake's chest heaved, his breath coming hard through his nose. His eyes burned with rage.
The tall one leaned down, holding up a syringe.
"Nighty-night."
Jake's eyes went wide. He thrashed harder, but bound hand and foot, there was nothing he could do. The needle plunged into his forearm. The plunger went down.
His vision started to blur almost immediately. His body went slack despite every instinct screaming at him to fight.
They hauled him up, dragged him toward their truck. His radio lay in the dirt beside his tools. His truck sat there, door still open, dashboard camera recording everything.
The last thing Jake saw before the world went black was the dusty Texas sky spinning above him.
When Jake's eyes cracked open again, the first thing he felt was pain.
His shoulders screamed. His arms were wrenched behind him, elbows and forearms bound together so tight he couldn't feel his fingers. His wrists were lashed to his lower back, a rope around his waist keeping them pinned there. His upper arms were tied a few inches apart, and a rope ran between them, pulling him upward.
He was hanging.
His boots dangled a few inches off the concrete floor, all his weight pulling on his shoulders. The gag was still in his mouth, tape still wrapped around his head. His white undershirt had been pulled up over his head, exposing his bare chest and stomach, already slick with sweat.
Jake blinked hard, trying to focus through the haze.
The room was small. Concrete walls. A single overhead bulb. And directly in front of him—a video camera on a tripod, red light blinking.
Streaming.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He tried to twist, to get his feet under him, but the rope held him fast. Every movement sent fire through his shoulders.
The tall man stepped into view, smirking.
"Welcome back, cowboy," he said, looking straight at the camera. "Your boy's gonna hang here till we get our money. Half a million dollars. You got twenty-four hours."
He turned to Jake, still grinning.
"Say hello to your family."
Jake's blood ran cold.
They were watching.
Chapter 3: 911
Billy and Jr. finished checking the irrigation system on the east pasture by noon. The heat was brutal, the kind that made your shirt stick to your back and your throat feel like sandpaper.
"Let's swing by the north fence line," Billy said, wiping sweat from his face. "See if Jake needs help."
Jr. nodded and climbed into the passenger seat. They drove the twenty minutes across the property, windows down, radio off. Something felt wrong. Billy couldn't put his finger on it, but his gut was tight.
When they crested the hill and saw the empty space where Jake's truck should have been, Billy's stomach dropped.
Tools scattered in the dirt. A thermos lying on its side. No Jake. No truck.
"Jake!" Billy yelled, jumping out before the truck even stopped. "Jake!"
Nothing.
Jr. was already on the ground, circling the scene. His face went hard.
"Billy."
Billy turned. Jr. held up a piece of cut rope. Then another. A discarded syringe lay in the dirt near Jake's scattered tools. His radio was half-buried in the dust.
"No," Billy breathed.
Jr.'s hand went to the emergency button on his belt. He pressed it hard.
"911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr." The automated voice blasted out three times across the encrypted frequency, followed by a sharp tone.
Within seconds, voices crackled over the radio.
"Jr., what's wrong?" Tom's voice, sharp and urgent.
"Jake's gone," Jr. said, his voice steady but cold. "His truck's gone. Tools are here. Radio's here. We found cut rope and a syringe."
Silence.
Then Pops: "Where are you, boy?"
"North fence line. Near the old ridge."
"Stay put," Tom ordered. "We're coming to you."
"No sir," Jr. said. "We're heading back to the command center. We need to track Jake's truck GPS and pull any satellite we can get. Now."
Billy stared at Jr., his chest tight, his fists clenched. His twin brother was gone.
"Move," Jr. said quietly.
They didn't speak on the drive back.
By the time they pulled into the ranch house, vehicles were already converging. Tom and Ray. Josh from the south pasture. Sheriff Wade Nelson and his sons, Wilson and Ryan, arrived in their patrol trucks. The Beaumonts pulled up right behind them. Robert and Caroline looked grim.
Inside, the command center was already lit up. Jr. and his three buddies—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—were at the consoles, fingers flying over keyboards. Louisiana stood behind them, arms crossed, watching the screens.
"Got the truck's GPS," Renzo said. "Signal's still active. Moving south on County Road 47."
"How far?" Wade asked.
"Twenty miles out and increasing."
"Launch the drones," Jr. said. "Thermal and visual. I want eyes on that truck."
Mattern and Rodriguez were already on it. Two drones lifted off from the back of the property within minutes.
Then Jr.'s tablet buzzed. All their tablets buzzed at once.
A notification. A link.
Jr. opened it.
The screen filled with live video.
Jake. Hanging by his arms. Shirt pulled up. Sweating. Gagged. A man's voice off-camera.
"Your boy's gonna hang here till we get our money. Half a million dollars. You got twenty-four hours."
The feed didn't cut. It stayed live. Jake's chest heaving. His boots dangling. His face twisted in pain.
Sarah turned away, her hand over her mouth. Tom's knuckles went white on the back of Jr.'s chair.
Billy stared at the screen, his jaw locked, his breath coming hard.
Pops stepped forward, cigar clenched between his teeth.
"Find him," he growled. "Find my boy. Now."
Chapter 4: Escalation
Jake's shoulders were on fire. Every breath sent jolts of pain through his chest and back. He'd tried twisting, tried getting his feet under him, but the rope held him suspended, boots swinging uselessly above the concrete.
The camera's red light blinked steadily. Watching. Recording. Streaming.
The tall one walked into frame, holding something. Scissors.
Jake's eyes went wide.
"Let's give 'em a better view," the man said, grinning at the camera.
He grabbed the hem of Jake's already-filthy white undershirt and started cutting. The fabric gave way easily, tearing up the front, exposing Jake's sweat-soaked chest and stomach. The man yanked the remains of the shirt higher, bunching it around Jake's neck and face.
Jake tried to yell through the gag, but it came out muffled and useless.
"There we go," the man said. "Now they can really see you sweat."
Command Center, Benson Ranch
"Drone One has visual on the truck," Mattern said, his eyes locked on the screen. "Abandoned warehouse, south side of County Road 47. No movement outside."
"Thermal?" Jr. asked.
Rodriguez pulled up the thermal feed. "Three heat signatures inside the building. Two moving. One stationary."
"That's Jake," Billy said, his voice tight.
Wade leaned over Jr.'s shoulder. "Can we get closer?"
"Not without tipping them off," Jr. said. "We need to know the layout first."
Tom paced behind them, his jaw set. Ray stood with his arms crossed, watching the live feed on the tablet. Sarah had left the room—she couldn't watch anymore.
Robert Beaumont stood beside Josh, both men's faces grim. Wilson and Ryan Nelson flanked their father, hands on their duty belts.
Pops stood in the corner, cigar unlit, flask in hand. His eyes never left the screen showing Jake.
"How long till we move?" Wilson asked.
"We're not moving till we know what we're walking into," Wade said. "These boys are armed. If we spook them—"
"They'll kill him," Tom finished.
Billy's fists clenched. "So we just sit here and watch?"
"We work," Jr. said quietly. "We find the angle. Then we move."
The Warehouse
The bearded one came back with more rope.
Jake's heart hammered. What now?
The man grabbed Jake's ankles and bent his legs back sharply. Jake grunted in pain, his body arching. The rope looped around his ankles, then pulled taut, connecting to the bindings at his wrists.
Hogtied. While hanging.
The pressure on his shoulders doubled. His back screamed. He couldn't straighten his legs without yanking his arms. He couldn't relax his arms without his legs pulling them tighter.
He was trapped in his own body.
Sweat dripped off his nose, his chin, pooling on the concrete below. His chest heaved with each breath, ribs straining against the unnatural position. The dirty undershirt bunched around his head half-blinded him, soaked through with sweat.
The tall one stepped into view again, holding something small. Wires. Electrodes.
No.
Jake thrashed, but there was nowhere to go. The man pressed the sticky pads onto Jake's bare chest. One on each side of his ribcage. Another just above his navel. A fourth lower on his stomach.
"Let's see if this gets their attention," the man said, holding up a small battery pack.
Jake's eyes went wide above the gag. He shook his head violently, tried to twist away. The ropes bit deeper.
The man flipped the switch.
The shock hit Jake like being kicked by a horse.
Every muscle in his body locked. His back arched violently, straining against the hogtie. His fingers splayed. His toes curled in his boots. The scream that tore from his throat was swallowed by the gag, coming out as a strangled, animalistic sound.
His vision whited out.
Three seconds. Five. Ten.
When it stopped, Jake's body went limp, swinging slightly on the rope. His chest heaved, gasping for air through his nose. Sweat poured off him in sheets. His muscles twitched involuntarily.
The camera kept recording.
"That's one," the tall man said to the camera. "You got twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes. Every hour, he gets another."
Command Center
The room exploded.
"Those sons of bitches!" Billy roared, lunging toward the screen.
Josh caught him, held him back. "Easy, Billy. Easy."
"I'm gonna kill them," Billy snarled. "I'm gonna kill them both."
Sarah had come back to the doorway. When Jake's body convulsed on screen, she let out a choked sob and turned away. Caroline Beaumont put an arm around her, leading her out.
Tom's face had gone pale, then red, then stone-cold. His hands gripped the back of Jr.'s chair so hard his knuckles were white.
"Tell me we have something," Tom said, his voice deadly quiet.
Robert Beaumont spoke up, his Texas drawl tight with anger. "We got guns. We got men. Let's go get him."
"And walk into what?" Wade said, his sheriff's training overriding his fury. "We don't know how many are in there. We don't know their positions. We go in hot, Jake's dead."
"He's gonna be dead if we sit here and watch!" Billy shouted.
Ryan Nelson stepped forward. "Dad's right. We need intel first. Then we move fast."
"Working on it," Renzo said, his voice tight. He was pulling satellite images, cross-referencing with the drone footage. "Building's got two entry points. Front and back. Windows are boarded."
"Power lines?" Wade asked.
"Active," Rodriguez said. "But we can cut them if needed."
Jr. pulled up a schematic on his tablet. "If we cut power, we lose the feed. We lose eyes on Jake."
"And they panic," Ray added. "We need them calm. Thinking they're in control."
Wilson crossed his arms. "So we play along. Make them think they're winning."
Pops finally spoke, his voice low and deadly. "Then we give 'em what they want."
Everyone turned.
"We send the money," Pops said. "Or make 'em think we did."
Tom nodded slowly. "A fake transfer."
"Ray, can you do it?" Wade asked.
Ray was already on his phone. "I'll call the bank. We can set up a dummy account, make it look like half a million moved. It'll buy us time."
"How much time?" Billy demanded.
"Enough," Jr. said, his eyes still on the screen where Jake hung limp, chest still heaving. "Enough to get him out."
On the tablet, the tall man walked back into frame. Reached for the battery pack again.
"No," Tom breathed.
The shock hit. Jake's body seized again, harder this time. His muffled scream filled the audio. His muscles strained so hard against the ropes that blood appeared at his wrists where the bindings cut into skin.
When it stopped, Jake didn't go limp. He hung there shaking, head down, chest pumping like a bellows.
Josh looked away. "Jesus Christ."
Robert's jaw was set. "I'm in. Whatever you need. My guns, my truck, my life. I'm in."
"We all are," Wilson said quietly.
Billy stared at the screen, tears running down his face, his whole body trembling with rage.
"We're coming, Jake," he whispered. "Hold on, brother. Just hold on."
Chapter 5: The Gambit
Ray hung up his phone and looked at Tom. "It's done. Dummy account's active. Transfer shows half a million moved from the consortium's holdings to an offshore account. Soon as they check, they'll see it."
"How long before they realize it's fake?" Wade asked.
"Long enough," Ray said. "Bank says maybe two, three hours before anyone could verify the funds aren't really there."
Tom nodded. "Send them the confirmation."
Jr.'s fingers flew across the keyboard. "Sending now."
On the screen, Jake hung motionless, his body still trembling from the last shock. His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. Blood dripped from his wrists onto the concrete below.
Billy couldn't look away. His brother. His twin. Hanging there like a piece of meat.
"Come on," Billy muttered. "Take the bait. Take it."
The Warehouse
The tall man's phone buzzed. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, then grinned.
"We got it," he said to his partner. "Transfer's confirmed. Half a million."
The bearded one stepped closer, looked at the phone. "You sure?"
"Look for yourself. It's there."
They both turned to look at Jake, still hanging, still shaking.
"Cut him down," the tall one said.
"What?"
"We got the money. Cut him down and let's go."
The bearded one pulled out a knife and sawed through the rope between Jake's upper arms. Jake's body dropped hard to the concrete floor with a sickening thud. He landed on his side, still hogtied, still gagged, unable to break his fall.
Jake grunted, the air forced from his lungs. His vision blurred. Pain screamed through every nerve.
The tall one kicked Jake's shoulder, rolling him onto his back. "Enjoy the concrete, cowboy."
They grabbed their gear, unplugged the camera, and headed for the door. Within minutes, the sound of their truck engine roared to life outside, then faded into the distance.
Jake lay alone in the silence, his body a mass of pain, still bound hand and foot.
Command Center
"Truck's moving," Rodriguez said, watching the GPS tracker. "Heading west on County Road 47, picking up speed."
"They took it," Wade said. "They actually took it."
"Drones, stay on them," Jr. ordered. "I want eyes the whole way."
"On it," Mattern confirmed.
Tom was already moving. "Everyone, load up. We're going to that warehouse. Now."
"What about the thermal?" Billy asked.
Rodriguez checked. "Still one signature inside. On the ground. Minimal movement."
Billy's stomach dropped. "Minimal?"
"He might be unconscious," Wade said grimly. "Or worse. We need to move."
They grabbed weapons—rifles, shotguns, sidearms. Wade and his sons checked their duty weapons. Robert Beaumont pulled a hunting rifle from his truck. Even Pops strapped on a pistol.
"Let's go get our boy," Tom said.
The Warehouse
Jake lay on his side in a pool of his own sweat, his body screaming. But his mind was clearing. The shock of hitting the floor had jolted him awake.
They were gone.
He was alone.
Get free. Get up. Move.
Jake's eyes scanned the room through the sweat and blood. Concrete walls. Nothing. Wait—there. A nail jutting from the wall about two feet up, rusty and bent.
He rolled onto his stomach, cursing through the gag—muffled sounds of rage and pain. His arms were still bound behind him: elbows and forearms lashed together, wrists tied to his lower back, upper arms roped a few inches apart. His ankles were still bound tight.
But the hogtie was cut. He could move his legs.
Jake inched himself across the concrete like a worm, every movement sending fresh agony through his shoulders. Sweat poured off him, mixing with the blood from his wrists. He reached the wall, rolled onto his side, and positioned his bound elbows against the nail.
He started sawing.
The rope was thick. The nail was dull. But Jake worked it back and forth, back and forth, his face contorted with effort. Sweat dripped into his eyes. His muscles trembled. Through the gag, he cursed—wordless, furious sounds.
Come on. Come on, you son of a bitch.
A strand frayed. Then another.
Jake sawed harder, ignoring the screaming in his shoulders. The rope at his elbows started to give. One loop loosened. Then another.
His elbows separated.
Jake gasped through his nose, nearly blacking out from relief and pain. His forearms were still bound, but his elbows were free. That meant he had some play in his upper arms.
He worked his shoulders, twisting, pulling. The rope binding his upper arms started to loosen. Inch by inch, he worked it down, his muscles burning, fresh sweat pouring off him.
The upper arm ropes came free.
Now his hands. Still bound at the wrists, still tied to his lower back by the waist rope. But with his elbows and upper arms free, he had mobility.
Jake took a breath, then did something he'd learned as a kid on the ranch—the back flip escape.
He brought his knees up to his chest, threaded his bound hands under his boots, and rolled backward. His body flipped, his bound wrists passing under his feet. He landed hard on his back, his hands now in front of him.
"Mmmph!" The sound through the gag was half-curse, half-triumph.
Jake sat up, his hands shaking in front of him, still bound at the wrists but finally where he could see them. His fingers were bloody, slick with sweat, barely responsive. But they could move.
He attacked the knot at his wrists with his teeth and fingers. It was tight, soaked with sweat and blood. He pulled. Twisted. Cursed through the gag.
The knot shifted. One loop came free.
Jake worked faster, his fingers fumbling, slipping. More sweat poured down his face, dripping onto his bound wrists.
Another loop. Another.
The rope fell away.
His hands were free.
Jake ripped the tape off his head in one savage motion, then yanked the gag from his mouth. He sucked in huge gulps of air, coughing, spitting out the taste of oil and sweat.
"Sons of bitches," he rasped.
He bent forward and attacked the rope around his ankles. His fingers worked fast now, fueled by rage. The knot came loose. The rope fell away.
Jake stood. His shoulders screamed. His wrists throbbed. But his legs—his legs were strong. Ranch work, years of riding, running fence lines—his legs held.
He heard engines. Multiple trucks. Close.
Jake ran for the door.
Outside the Warehouse
Six trucks skidded to a stop fifty yards from the building. Doors flew open. Men poured out, weapons raised.
"Wade, you and your boys take the back," Tom ordered. "Robert, Josh, with me on the front. Billy, Jr., stay with—"
"I'm going in," Billy said, chambering a round.
Tom didn't argue.
They moved fast and low, fanning out. Wade, Wilson, and Ryan circled around back. Tom, Robert, Josh, and Billy approached the front door, weapons up.
"On three," Tom whispered. "One... two—"
The warehouse door burst open.
Jake ran out—shirtless, bloody, rope burns around his wrists and ankles, sweat pouring down his face—but running hard, running strong.
Every gun swung toward him.
"Don't shoot!" Billy screamed. "Don't shoot! It's Jake!"
Jake kept coming, eating up the ground between them. Billy dropped his rifle and ran to meet him.
They collided hard, Billy catching his brother in a fierce embrace.
"I got you," Billy said, his voice breaking. "I got you, brother."
Jake held on for a moment, breathing hard, then stepped back. His eyes were clear. Hard. Furious.
Tom reached them, his hand gripping Jake's shoulder. "Son—"
"I'm okay," Jake said, his voice rough but strong. "I'm okay."
Wade and his sons came running from the back of the building. Sarah appeared from one of the trucks with water and a blanket. She draped it over Jake's shoulders. He drank deep, then wiped his mouth.
Pops stepped forward, cigar in his mouth, eyes wet. "Tough son of a bitch."
Jake looked up at Jr., who stood nearby with his tablet.
"Where are they?" Jake asked.
Jr. met his eyes. "We're tracking them. Drones have eyes on their truck. They're heading west on 47."
Jake's jaw set. Blood and sweat still dripped down his face, but his stance was solid. Strong.
"Good," he said. "Then let's go get those bastards."
Billy looked at him. "Jake, you just—"
"I'm going," Jake said, his voice like iron. "They hung me up like an animal. Shocked me. Streamed it to my family."
He looked around at the men—his father, his brothers, Pops, the consortium.
"I'm going," Jake repeated. "And I'm bringing the ropes."
Tom looked at his son—battered, bloody, unbroken—and nodded slowly.
"Then let's finish this."
Chapter 6: The Hunt
Jake sat in the passenger seat of Billy's truck, wrapped in Sarah's blanket, water bottle in hand. His wrists were wrapped in gauze—Sarah had insisted on at least that much. The rest of the convoy followed behind: Tom and Ray, Josh and Robert, Wade and his sons, Pops riding shotgun with Wilson.
Jr. was in the back seat with his tablet, coordinating with the other three wiz kids back at the command center.
"Drone Two has them," Jr. said. "They stopped at a gas station off Highway 83. Filling up."
"How far?" Tom's voice came through the radio.
"Twenty-two miles. They're not in a hurry. They think they're free and clear."
Jake's jaw tightened. His hands gripped his knees, knuckles white despite the gauze.
Billy glanced at his brother. "You sure you're good?"
"I'm good," Jake said flatly.
"Drone feed shows two subjects," Jr. continued. "White Chevy Silverado, plates covered. They're inside the station now. Buying snacks."
"Snacks," Billy muttered. "Sons of bitches."
"ETA twelve minutes at current speed," Jr. said. "What's the play?"
Tom's voice came back. "We box them in. No shooting unless they shoot first. Wade, you're taking point on the arrest."
"Copy that," Wade said.
Jake leaned forward. "I want first contact."
Silence on the radio.
"Jake—" Tom started.
"I want first contact," Jake repeated, his voice cold and hard. "They see me walk up to that truck, they'll know it's over."
Billy looked at his brother, then keyed his radio. "Dad, he's right. They think Jake's still tied up in that warehouse. They see him standing, they'll fold."
Another pause.
"Fine," Tom said. "But Wade's boys stay on him. Anything goes sideways, they pull Jake out."
"Yes sir," Wilson and Ryan said in unison.
Jr. looked up from his tablet. "They're back in the truck. Pulling out. Heading south on 83."
"We'll intercept at the junction," Tom said. "Three trucks front, three trucks back. Nowhere to run."
"Copy," everyone responded.
Jake stared out the windshield, his breathing steady, his eyes burning with cold fury.
"Jake," Billy said quietly.
"What."
"You did good back there. Getting yourself out."
Jake didn't respond for a moment. Then: "They made a mistake leaving me alive."
Highway 83, Junction with County Road 47
The white Silverado rolled down the empty highway, the two men inside laughing, music playing. The tall one drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The bearded one scrolled through his phone, checking the bank transfer again.
"Half a million," he said, grinning. "Easiest money we ever made."
"Told you these ranch boys would pay," the tall one said. "Probably sitting around crying right now."
They didn't see the trucks until it was too late.
Three vehicles came from the north, three from the south, converging fast. The Silverado was boxed in before the driver could even hit the brakes.
"What the—"
Doors flew open. Men poured out, weapons drawn. Sheriff's deputies, ranchers, all armed, all advancing.
"Hands! Let me see your hands!" Wade shouted, his service weapon aimed at the driver's side window.
The tall one froze, hands raised. The bearded one reached for something under the seat.
"Don't do it!" Ryan Nelson yelled.
The bearded one stopped.
"Out of the truck! Now! Driver first!"
The tall one opened the door slowly, hands up. He stepped out, eyes wide, scanning the armed men surrounding him.
Then he saw Jake.
Walking forward. Shirtless under a blanket draped over his shoulders. Rope burns visible on his wrists. Blood still streaked across his chest. But walking. Standing. Staring.
The tall one's face went white.
"No," he breathed. "No way. You were—"
"Tied up?" Jake said, his voice like gravel. "Yeah. I was."
He let the blanket drop to the ground.
The tall one saw the rope burns, the electrode marks, the bruises. All of it.
"Passenger, out!" Wade ordered.
The bearded one climbed out, hands raised, his eyes locked on Jake.
"How did you—"
"Doesn't matter," Jake said, stepping closer. Wilson and Ryan flanked him, weapons trained on the kidnappers. "You made a mistake."
"We got the money," the bearded one said, his voice shaking. "The transfer went through. We were leaving. We weren't gonna hurt—"
"You already hurt him," Billy said, stepping up beside Jake. "We all watched."
Tom moved forward with zip ties. "On your knees. Hands behind your head."
The tall one dropped to his knees. The bearded one hesitated.
"Now," Wade said, his voice deadly calm.
He knelt.
Tom zip-tied their hands behind their backs, then stepped back.
Jake looked at Jr. "You bring the rope?"
Jr. held up a coil of rope—the same rope they'd found at the work site, cut from Jake's body.
Jake took it.
"Jake," Wade said carefully. "They're in custody. We'll take them in."
"I know," Jake said. "But first—"
He knelt in front of the tall one, held up the rope so the man could see it.
"This look familiar?" Jake asked.
The tall one's face went pale.
Jake looped the rope around the man's upper arms, pulled it tight, then lashed his elbows together behind his back. The man grunted in pain.
"That's what you did to me," Jake said quietly. "Remember?"
He moved to the bearded one, did the same. Elbows bound. Arms wrenched back. Both men gasped as the ropes bit into their flesh.
"Wait," the bearded one said, panic rising in his voice. "Wait, we gave him back. The money's transferred. We—"
Pops stepped forward, cigar clamped between his teeth, grinning like a wolf.
"About that money," Pops said.
The tall one looked up. "What about it?"
"It was fake," Pops said, taking the cigar from his mouth. "Dummy account. Not a penny of real money in it."
The color drained from both men's faces.
"What?" the bearded one whispered.
"You heard me," Pops said, leaning down. "Fake. Bank set it up special for us. By now, it's already been flagged and frozen. You got nothing."
"No," the tall one said. "No, I saw it. I checked the account—"
"You saw what we wanted you to see," Ray said, stepping forward. "Takes about three hours for anyone to verify funds that size are actually real. You boys took the bait and ran before you checked."
The bearded one's mouth opened and closed. "But... but we..."
"You kidnapped a rancher's son," Tom said, his voice cold. "Tortured him. Streamed it. Demanded ransom. That's aggravated kidnapping, assault, extortion." He looked at Wade. "What's that carry in Texas, Sheriff?"
"Life," Wade said flatly. "Without parole if the DA wants to push it. And trust me, he will."
The tall one's face went slack. "No. No, this can't—"
"Oh, it can," Pops said, grinning wider. "And it will. You boys are gonna spend the rest of your miserable lives in Huntsville. And you won't see a dime for it."
He took a long pull from his flask, then leaned down close to the tall one's face.
"How's it feel, son?" Pops asked. "Getting nothing but rope and hard time?"
The tall one's eyes filled with tears. The bearded one hung his head, his body shaking.
Pops straightened up, chuckling. "Dumb sons of bitches."
Jake stood, looking down at the two men bound with the same rope they'd used on him. His face was hard, but there was satisfaction in his eyes.
"Wade," Jake said. "They're yours."
Wade nodded. "Wilson, Ryan, load them up."
The Nelson brothers hauled the two men to their feet and marched them toward the patrol truck. Both kidnappers stumbled, their arms bound painfully behind them, the reality of their situation sinking in.
"No money," the bearded one muttered. "No money. Oh God, no money..."
"Shut up," Wilson said, shoving him forward.
Jake watched them go, his chest heaving, his fists slowly unclenching.
Billy put a hand on his shoulder. "It's over."
Jake nodded slowly. "Yeah. It's over."
Pops walked up, flask in hand, still grinning. "That was fun."
Tom shook his head but couldn't hide a slight smile. "You enjoyed that way too much."
"Damn right I did," Pops said. He offered the flask to Jake.
Jake took it, drank deep, then handed it back.
"Proud of you, boy," Pops said, his tone softening. "Damn proud."
Tom stepped forward, pulled Jake into a rough embrace. "Let's go home."
Jake nodded against his father's shoulder.
"Yeah," he said. "Let's go home."
Chapter 7: Home
The sun was setting by the time the convoy rolled back onto Benson Ranch. Orange and purple streaked across the Texas sky, and the air had finally started to cool.
Jake sat in Billy's truck, still wrapped in Sarah's blanket, but his eyes were clearer now. Sharper. The shock was wearing off, replaced by exhaustion and a bone-deep weariness.
"You need the hospital?" Billy asked as they pulled up to the house.
"No," Jake said. "I need a shower. And a beer."
Billy grinned. "I can work with that."
Inside, Sarah had already started cooking. The smell of pot roast, potatoes, and fresh bread filled the kitchen. She looked up when Jake walked in, her eyes immediately going to his bandaged wrists, the rope burns on his arms, the bruises on his chest.
"Jake—"
"I'm okay, Mom," Jake said quietly.
She crossed the room and pulled him into a tight hug. He stood there for a moment, then wrapped his arms around her.
"I'm okay," he repeated.
She held him a moment longer, then stepped back, wiping her eyes. "Go clean up. Supper's in thirty minutes."
Jake nodded and headed upstairs. Billy followed.
In the frat house, Jr., Celeb, and Louisiana were already there, sitting on the bunks. They looked up when Jake and Billy walked in.
Pops was there too, leaning against the doorframe, cigar in his mouth.
"Jake," Jr. said, standing.
Jake looked at his nephew—sixteen years old, but he'd handled the command center like a veteran today. "You did good, Jr. Real good."
Jr. nodded, his jaw tight. "I'm glad you're okay."
"We all are," Celeb said quietly.
Louisiana just nodded, his usual easy grin replaced with something more serious.
Jake moved toward his bunk to grab clean clothes, but Billy stopped him.
"Hold up," Billy said. He went to his own drawer and pulled out a crisp, clean white undershirt. He held it up, grinning. "Here."
Jake stared at it.
"What, you thought you were gonna wear another dirty one?" Billy said. "You wore that last one for a week. Then you got kidnapped in it. Then they cut it off you on camera. I think it's time for a fresh start."
Jr. snorted. Louisiana covered his mouth, trying not to laugh.
Jake reached for the shirt. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet," Billy said. "This means you gotta do your own laundry from now on. I'm not giving you any more of mine."
"I'll do my damn laundry," Jake muttered.
"Will you though?" Celeb asked, grinning now.
"Because you said that last week," Louisiana added.
"And the week before," Jr. said.
Pops chuckled from the doorway. "Boy went and got himself kidnapped in a dirty undershirt. Sarah about had a heart attack when she saw it on that video feed."
Jake's face reddened. "I was gonna wash it."
"When?" Billy demanded. "Next month?"
"Today, actually," Jake shot back. "If I hadn't been, you know, tied up."
The room went silent for a beat.
Then Pops barked out a laugh. "Tied up. That's good, boy."
Jr. started laughing. Then Celeb. Then Louisiana. Then Billy, shaking his head.
"Too soon?" Jake asked, but he was grinning now too.
"Way too soon," Billy said, still laughing. "But I'll allow it."
Jake took the clean undershirt and grabbed jeans from his bunk. "I'll be back in ten."
"And Jake?" Billy called after him.
Jake turned.
"Seriously. Do your laundry."
"Yeah, yeah."
Jake headed for the bathroom. Behind him, he could hear them still laughing, the sound mixing with Pops' rough chuckle.
The shower ran for a long time.
By the time everyone gathered around the long table in the kitchen, the whole consortium was there. Tom and Sarah at the head. Pops in his usual spot, flask and cigar nearby. Ray, Josh, and Rebecca. Billy, Jake, Jr., Celeb, and Louisiana. Wade and Mary Nelson. Wilson, Ryan, and Edna. Robert and Caroline Beaumont.
The Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes had been invited but declined—they knew this was a family moment. But they'd sent word: they were glad Jake was home.
The table was loaded with food. Pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, fresh bread, gravy. Sarah had cooked enough to feed an army.
Jake sat between Billy and Jr., his wrists still bandaged, wearing the clean white undershirt under a flannel shirt.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Pops stood up. He disappeared into the other room and came back carrying a bottle—Jack Daniel's Single Barrel, the expensive stuff he kept hidden for special occasions.
"Pops," Sarah said, eyeing the bottle.
"Hush, woman," Pops said, but his tone was gentle. "Today calls for it."
He started pouring shots, moving around the table. Small glasses for everyone. Even the ladies. Sarah opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. Mary Nelson looked at Wade, who just nodded. Caroline Beaumont smiled and accepted hers.
When everyone had a glass, Pops raised his own.
"Seventy-six years on this earth," Pops said, his voice carrying across the table. "I've seen a lot. Done a lot. Lost people. Found people. But today—"
His voice caught. He cleared his throat.
"Today we got our boy back. Not because we paid. Not because we begged. But because we're smarter, tougher, and meaner than the bastards who took him. And because Jake here—" he looked at his grandson, "—refused to quit."
Jake's jaw tightened, his eyes glistening.
"So here's to Jake," Pops continued, raising his glass higher. "Who got himself free. To the wiz kids who tracked him down. To Wade and his boys for taking those sons of bitches into custody. To Tom and Sarah for raising boys with backbones. And to all of us—" he gestured around the table, "—for being the kind of family that shows up armed and ready when one of our own is in trouble."
He paused, then grinned.
"And here's to those two dumbasses spending the rest of their lives in Huntsville with nothing but rope burns and regret."
Laughter rippled around the table.
"To family," Pops said. "To Jake. And to never backing down."
"To Jake!" everyone echoed.
They drank. The whiskey burned going down—smooth and expensive and worth every penny.
Sarah wiped her eyes. Mary Nelson squeezed Wade's hand. Caroline smiled at Robert. Tom nodded at his father, pride in his eyes.
Jake set down his glass, overwhelmed.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "All of you."
Billy clapped him on the back. Jr. raised his glass again. The table erupted in conversation—relief and joy mixing with the food and the whiskey.
Sarah finally passed the pot roast. Plates filled. Forks moved. And for the first time all day, it felt like everything might actually be okay.
After supper, the boys retreated to the frat house. Jr. pulled out the hidden beers from under the floorboards. Celeb grabbed the Jack Daniels from the back of the closet—not the expensive stuff, just the regular. Louisiana found clean glasses.
They sat on the bunks and the mattresses, passing the bottle, sipping beers, not saying much.
Finally, Jr. spoke. "I watched the whole thing. On the feed. I couldn't... I couldn't do anything but watch."
Jake looked at him. "You found me. You tracked the truck, launched the drones, set up the fake transfer. You did plenty."
"We all wanted to go in sooner," Billy said. "But we had to wait. Had to be smart."
"You were smart," Jake said. "You got me out alive."
Celeb raised his beer. "To the wiz kids. And to Jake getting free."
They drank.
Louisiana leaned back against the bunk. "Man, when you came running out of that warehouse, I about lost it. Thought you were gonna collapse."
"I almost did," Jake admitted. "But I wasn't gonna let them win. Not after what they did."
Billy looked at his brother. "You scared the hell out of me today."
"I know," Jake said quietly. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just... don't get kidnapped again."
Jake managed a small grin. "I'll try."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, passing the bottle, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up.
Jr. looked at Jake. "You gonna be okay?"
Jake nodded slowly. "Yeah. I will be."
"You need anything—" Billy started.
"I know," Jake said. "I got you. I got all of you."
He looked around the frat house—at Billy, his twin in everything but blood. At Jr., the nephew who was more like a little brother. At Celeb and Louisiana, who'd become family in just over a year.
"We're good," Jake said.
Pops appeared in the doorway, cigar in hand, flask in the other.
"You boys got room for an old man?" he asked.
"Always," Jr. said, making space on the bunk.
Pops settled in, took a pull from his flask, and passed it to Jake.
Jake drank, then handed it back.
They sat together—five boys and an old war vet—passing the bottle and the flask, talking about the day. About the warehouse. About the look on those kidnappers' faces when they realized the money was fake.
"You should've seen it," Billy said, grinning. "That tall one started crying."
"Like a baby," Pops said, chuckling. "Dumb son of a bitch."
Jr. leaned back. "I still can't believe they fell for it. The fake transfer."
"Greed makes men stupid," Pops said. "Always has."
Jake took another sip of beer. "I'm just glad it's over."
"Amen to that," Louisiana said.
The door suddenly swung open.
Sarah stood there, hands on her hips, eyes scanning the room—the beers, the Jack Daniels bottle, the flask making its rounds.
Everyone froze.
"Mom—" Jake started.
Sarah picked up the empty laundry basket sitting just outside the door and hurled it at Jake. It bounced off his chest and landed at his feet.
"If you can drink," Sarah said, her voice sharp but not without humor, "you can run a washing machine."
She turned on her heel and walked out.
The room was silent for three full seconds.
Then Billy burst out laughing. He jumped up, grabbed his pile of dirty clothes from under his bunk, and dumped them in the basket at Jake's feet.
"She's right," Billy said, grinning. "You heard the woman."
Jr. snickered and added his own dirty shirt to the pile.
"Me too," Celeb said, tossing in a pair of jeans.
Louisiana threw in socks. "Can't argue with Sarah."
Jake stared at the growing pile of laundry in the basket, then looked up at his roommates.
"You're all assholes."
"And you're doing our laundry," Billy shot back.
Pops was laughing so hard he had tears running down his face. He slapped his knee, cigar clamped between his teeth, wheezing with laughter.
"That woman," Pops gasped between laughs, "is a goddamn national treasure."
Jake looked down at the basket, then back up at Billy, then at Pops still howling with laughter.
And despite everything—despite the kidnapping, the torture, the fear, the pain—Jake started laughing too.
They all did.
The frat house filled with the sound of it—five boys and an old war vet, laughing until their sides hurt, until they couldn't breathe, until the day's darkness finally lifted.
Jake picked up the laundry basket, still grinning.
"Fine," he said. "But you're all helping fold."
"Deal," Billy said.
And for the first time since that morning, Jake felt like he could breathe.
He was home.
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