NO DICE
Chapter 1: The Frat House Morning
The smell of bacon and burnt coffee filled the small bedroom they called the frat house. Billy Benson sat on the edge of the lower bunk, pulling on his boots while Jake, his brother, rummaged through a drawer looking for a clean shirt.
"You're not gonna find one," Billy said. "You wore your last clean one yesterday."
"Then I'll wear yours," Jake shot back, grabbing a flannel off Billy's bunk.
"The hell you will."
Celeb laughed from the top bunk, his Louisiana drawl thick even this early. "Y'all fight like an old married couple."
Louisiana—Celeb's seventeen-year-old cousin—rolled off his mattress on the floor between the bunks, still half asleep. "What time is it?"
"Time to work," Billy Jr. said, walking in with a plate of eggs. At sixteen, Jr. was built like a man, all muscle from ranch work and hunting. He dropped into the old leather chair in the corner—Pops' chair, the one the old man had dragged in here years ago and never moved. "Pops has me and Louisiana loading feed with Granddad Tom today at the main supply building."
Jake threw a boot at him. Jr. caught it without spilling his eggs.
"Lucky you," Jake said. "We got fence repair out on the south section. Middle of damn nowhere."
Billy stood, grabbing his truck keys off the hook by the door. "Could be worse. At least it's just the two of us. No babysitting."
"I heard that," Jr. said, grinning.
Billy looked at Jake. "Ready?"
"Let's go."
Chapter 2: The Drive
The kitchen was already chaos. Sarah stood at the stove flipping pancakes while Tom poured coffee. Celeb grabbed a handful of bacon off the counter, dodging Sarah's swat.
"Sit down and eat like a civilized human being," she said.
"Yes ma'am," Celeb said, not sitting.
Pops sat at the head of the table, cigar in one hand, brandy-laced coffee in the other. At seventy-six, he still looked like he could wrestle a steer. He eyed Billy and Jake as they walked in.
"About damn time you two princesses showed up," Pops said. "What'd you do, braid each other's hair?"
"Good morning to you too, Pops," Billy said, grabbing a biscuit off the table.
Jake poured himself coffee. "We're heading out to the south section. Fence repair."
"South section?" Pops grunted. "That's a shit job. Probably gonna take you all damn day in this heat. Don't forget water or I'll be scraping your dumb asses off the ground by sundown."
"We got it, Pops," Billy said.
"And don't fuck around out there," Pops added. "You break something, you're paying for it. And I mean that literally—out of your goddamn paychecks."
Jr. laughed from somewhere behind them.
Billy grabbed two more biscuits and a thermos. "We're gone."
"Love you too, Pops," Jake said, grinning.
"Get the hell out of here," Pops muttered, but there was a smile under the cigar.
Billy's truck—a 2019 Ford F-250 with over 150,000 miles on it—sat in the driveway, dusty and reliable. Jake climbed into the passenger seat, tossing his gloves onto the dash.
"You drive like an old man," Jake said.
"You complain like one," Billy shot back, turning the key.
The engine rumbled to life, and Billy pulled out onto the long dirt road that cut through the ranch. The morning sun was already heating up the cab, and the windows were down. Kings County stretched out around them—endless pasture, scrub brush, and sky.
"Think we'll actually finish today?" Jake asked.
"If you don't slow me down."
"If I don't slow you down?" Jake laughed. "Last time we worked fence together, you spent half the day arguing with a post hole digger."
"That digger was a piece of shit."
"It was user error."
Billy grinned. "Keep talking and I'll leave you out there."
They drove in comfortable silence for a while, the truck bouncing over ruts in the road. Jake fiddled with the radio, landing on a country station that crackled in and out.
"You talk to Edna this morning?" Jake asked.
"Texted her. Why?"
"Just wondering if you're gonna actually marry that girl or keep dragging your feet."
Billy shot him a look. "What about you and whoever you were talking to last night?"
"That was different."
"Sure it was."
Jake grinned. "I'm just saying, you're twenty-one. You got a good woman. Don't be an idiot."
"Thanks for the advice, Dr. Phil."
The south section was another fifteen minutes out, past the Nelson ranch and into the rougher country where the mesquite got thick and the roads turned to barely more than tracks. Billy slowed as they approached the turnoff.
"This is it," he said.
And then he saw the truck blocking the road.
Chapter 3: The Ambush
Billy's foot hit the brake instinctively. The truck blocking the road was an old Chevy, hood up, steam rising from the engine. A man stood beside it, waving them down.
"Looks like someone's got trouble," Jake said.
Billy didn't like it. Something felt off. The man was too calm, his wave too deliberate. And there was no reason for anyone to be out here—this road led nowhere except deeper into Benson land.
"Stay sharp," Billy said quietly.
He pulled the truck to a stop about twenty feet back, leaving room to maneuver. Both brothers had their sat radios clipped to their belts, cell phones in their pockets. Billy kept his hand near the gearshift.
The man walked toward them, friendly smile, hands visible. Middle-aged, work clothes, nothing threatening. But Billy's gut tightened.
"Morning," the man called. "Sorry to flag you down. Engine's overheated. You got any water I could borrow?"
Billy glanced at Jake. Jake's hand was already on the door handle.
"Don't—" Billy started.
Too late.
Two men came out of the brush on either side of the truck, moving fast. One had a shotgun leveled at Jake's window. The other had a pistol aimed at Billy's head through the windshield.
"Hands where I can see them!" the one with the pistol shouted.
Billy's hands went up slowly. His mind raced—sat radio, cell phone, the toolbox in the back with a tire iron. But the shotgun was six inches from Jake's face.
"You," the man with the pistol pointed at Billy. "Keep driving. Your buddy gets in the back seat. Any stupid moves and he dies first."
"Where are we going?" Billy asked.
"You'll find out. Drive."
The man with the shotgun yanked Jake's door open, shoving him into the back seat and climbing in beside him, the barrel pressed against Jake's ribs. The third man—the one who'd been waving—got in the passenger seat next to Billy, pistol aimed at his side.
"Head north. Don't do anything stupid."
Billy's hands gripped the wheel. In the rearview mirror, he could see Jake's face—fury barely controlled, jaw clenched. The shotgun never left his ribs.
They drove for what felt like forever. Twenty miles, maybe more. The road got rougher, the landscape more remote. Billy tried to track every turn, every landmark, but the pistol against his ribs and the fear for Jake made it hard to think straight.
Finally, the man in the passenger seat pointed. "Turn here."
A narrow track, barely visible, leading into thick brush.
"Now stop."
Billy stopped the truck. His heart was hammering.
"Out. Both of you."
Chapter 4: The March
"Out. Both of you."
Billy climbed out slowly, Jake behind him. The shotgun never left Jake's ribs.
"Phones. Sat radios. Hand them over."
Billy pulled his phone from his pocket, unclipped the sat radio from his belt. The man with the pistol took them, then took Jake's.
"Now shirts off."
Billy's hands moved to his shirt buttons, his mind still racing for options. But the shotgun pressed harder into Jake's ribs.
"Move faster," the man with the pistol said.
Billy pulled his shirt off. Beside him, Jake did the same, jaw clenched so tight Billy could see the muscle jumping.
"Hands behind your heads. Clasp them. You drop them, you get shot."
Billy laced his fingers behind his head. The position made his shoulders ache immediately.
"Walk."
The man with the pistol gestured toward the brush. Billy and Jake were shoved forward, off the barely-there track and into the mesquite. The branches tore at their bare chests and arms, scratching deep. The sun beat down on their exposed skin, already burning.
"How far?" Billy asked.
"Shut up and walk."
Billy tried to memorize landmarks—a dead oak split by lightning, a dry creek bed, an outcrop of red rock. The sun was on his left, so they were heading roughly north. He started counting steps, trying to calculate distance.
Sweat ran down Billy's face, his torso, stinging the scratches. His arms were already cramping from the position. Bugs swarmed them—flies, gnats, mosquitoes drawn to the sweat. One landed on his face and he couldn't swat it away. It crawled across his cheek, into his ear.
Behind him, Jake was breathing hard, fury and discomfort mixing.
The mesquite got thicker, the ground rockier. Billy's boots caught on roots, and once he stumbled. The man behind him shoved him forward.
"Keep moving."
The heat pressed down like a weight, and Billy's mouth was already dry. He thought of the thermos of water still sitting in his truck—wherever it was now.
They walked for what felt like an hour but was probably twenty minutes. Finally, through the brush, Billy saw it—an old farmhouse, half-collapsed, abandoned. The porch sagged, the windows were gone, but the structure still stood.
"Inside."
They were shoved through the doorway into what had once been a living room. The floor was dirt and rotted boards. The smell of dust and decay filled Billy's nose, but at least they were out of the sun.
"Hands behind your backs."
Rough hands yanked Billy's arms down, wrenching them behind him. Rope bit into his wrists—tight, cutting into skin. He tried to test it but there was no give.
Jake grunted as the same thing happened to him.
Then more rope. Billy felt it wrap around his upper arms, pinning them to his sides. The man frapping it around his torso, over and over, professional and methodical. Billy's chest compressed. His breathing got harder.
Hands grabbed his boots, yanking his ankles together. More rope, binding his boots tight.
Duct tape across his mouth. Wrapped around his head once, twice. He could barely breathe through his nose.
"Hold still."
Billy felt something cold on his chest. He looked down. A black Sharpie, writing on his skin in big letters: ODD.
Beside him, Jake had EVEN written across his torso.
Then the man pulled out two lengths of rope. He tied a noose in each one—careful, practiced—and looped them over hooks in the ceiling beam above. The nooses dropped down, and he slipped one over Billy's head, tightening it just enough to bite into his neck. Not choking. Not yet.
The same for Jake.
More duct tape. This time over Billy's eyes, wrapped around his head. Everything went dark.
"Smile for the camera."
Billy heard the click of a phone camera. Flash bleeding through the tape over his eyes. Another angle. Another flash.
"Best to stand still, boys," the man said. "You struggle too much, you'll hang yourselves."
Billy's breath came fast through his nose. The rope around his neck was tight but not deadly. As long as he didn't move. As long as he stayed perfectly still.
The man with the pistol spoke again. "Your family's gonna get these pictures. Half a million each. They follow instructions, you follow instructions, you live. They don't..." He paused. "We roll dice. Odd or even. One of you hangs."
Billy heard boots on the floor. Then the porch. Truck doors slamming. His truck—the engine started, rough and loud.
Then the sound faded into the distance, and Billy and Jake were alone in the dark.
Chapter 5: The Photo
Tom Benson was halfway through loading a pallet of feed bags when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and pulled it out, expecting a text from Sarah about lunch.
Instead, it was a message from an unknown number. No text. Just an image.
Tom opened it.
His blood went cold.
Billy and Jake. Shirtless, bound, nooses around their necks. The words ODD and EVEN written across their chests in black marker. Their eyes were taped shut, mouths covered. The rope around their necks was pulled taut to hooks in the ceiling beam above them.
"Jesus Christ," Tom whispered.
"Granddad?" Jr. looked up from where he and Louisiana were stacking feed. "What's wrong?"
Tom's hand was shaking. He couldn't speak.
Jr. walked over, looked at the screen, and went white. "Oh my God."
Louisiana came over. "What is it?"
Jr. grabbed the phone from Tom's hand, staring at the image. His jaw clenched. "Billy. Jake."
A second message came through:
$500,000 each. Instructions to follow. Contact police, they die. Tell anyone outside family, they die. You have 24 hours. If you don't follow instructions exactly, we roll dice. Odd or even.
Jr.'s hands were already moving. He unclipped his sat radio from his belt and hit the emergency button—three times, rapid.
The mechanical voice echoed across the ranch network: "911 Emergency Jr. 911 Emergency Jr. 911 Emergency Jr."
Tom found his voice. "Call your father. Call Pops. Get everyone to the house. Now."
Jr. was already dialing, his voice tight but controlled. "Dad. Get to the house. It's Billy and Jake. They've been taken."
Louisiana stood frozen, staring at the phone screen.
Tom grabbed his shoulder. "Louisiana, I need you with me. We're going to get them back."
The boy nodded, swallowing hard.
Tom's phone buzzed again. Another message:
Stand by for instructions. Do not move. Do not contact authorities. We are watching.
Tom stared at the screen, fury and fear warring inside him. His sons. His boys.
He looked at Jr., who was already speaking into his sat radio, alerting the consortium families. The command center would be operational in minutes.
"They picked the wrong family," Tom said quietly.
Chapter 6: The War Room
The Benson ranch house filled fast.
Josh arrived first, his truck kicking up dust as he skidded to a stop. He took one look at the photo on Tom's phone and his face went hard as stone.
"Where's Pops?" he asked.
"Already on the phone with Wade," Tom said.
Ray pulled up next, his business manager's calm cracking when he saw the image. "Jesus. How much?"
"Half a million each," Tom said. "We've got twenty-four hours."
"I'll call the bank," Ray said immediately. "We can move that kind of cash, but we need to make it look real while—"
"While we find them," Josh finished.
Cars and trucks kept arriving. Robert and Caroline Beaumont. The Matterns. The Renzos. The Rodriguezes. The consortium families converging like a small army.
Inside, Pops sat at the kitchen table, phone pressed to his ear, cigar between his fingers. Wade Nelson's voice was audible even from across the room.
"We go dark," Wade was saying. "No official response. My boys stay in civilian clothes. We treat this like a tactical op, not a law enforcement action."
"Agreed," Pops said. "Robert and I can handle long-range if it comes to that."
"It might."
Sarah stood at the counter, her hands gripping the edge, knuckles white. Rebecca Nelson—Josh's wife and Wade's daughter—had her arm around Sarah's shoulders.
"They're smart boys," Rebecca said quietly. "They'll find a way."
Jr. burst through the door, Louisiana right behind him. "Command center's up. We've got the sat network active, drones prepped, thermal imaging ready."
The other three wiz kids—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—were already in the room next to the frat house, iPads and screens lit up, fingers flying.
Tom followed Jr. in. The walls were lined with equipment—eighteen satellite phones on charging docks, six drones in cases, monitors showing maps of Kings County divided into grids.
"Show me what you've got," Tom said.
Jr. pulled up a map on the main screen. "We've been tracking Billy's truck route from this morning. Last known position was here—south section, near the property line. Cell signal dropped around 9:47 AM."
"Sat radios?" Tom asked.
"Same time. Both went offline simultaneously."
"They were taken together," Louisiana said quietly.
Tom nodded. "Start scanning. Thermal, visual, everything. They're somewhere within—what? A fifty-mile radius?"
"We'll find them, Granddad," Jr. said. His voice was steady, but his hands were shaking slightly on the keyboard.
Tom gripped his shoulder. "I know you will."
Back in the kitchen, Pops ended his call with Wade. He looked at Josh and Ray. "Wade and his boys are mobilizing. Robert's pulling his gear. I'm opening the armory."
Josh nodded. "What about the ransom?"
Ray pulled out his laptop. "I'll arrange a wire transfer—make it look legitimate. But we delay as long as possible. Buy the boys time."
"And if they push?" Josh asked.
Pops' eyes were cold. "Then we push back harder."
Celeb walked in, his usual easy grin gone. "What do you need me to do?"
"You're with the extraction team," Pops said. "When we get a location, you're rolling out with me, Josh, Wade, and Robert."
"Good."
Tom's phone buzzed. Everyone went silent.
Another message:
Proof of life in 6 hours. Standby for wire instructions. No tricks.
Tom showed it to the room.
"Six hours," Ray said. "That's our window."
Jr. appeared in the doorway. "We're scanning now. Every drone is airborne. If they're out there, we'll find them."
Pops stood, cigar clenched between his teeth. "Then let's get to work."
Chapter 8: The Signal
The kidnappers' hideout was twenty miles from the farmhouse—a run-down trailer in the middle of nowhere. The three men sat around a cheap card table, the stolen phones and sat radios piled in the center.
"How long before we send the wire instructions?" the younger one asked.
"Another hour," the leader said. "Let them sweat."
The third man—the one who'd driven Billy's truck—picked up one of the sat radios, turning it over in his hands. "What are these things anyway?"
"Some kind of ranch communication system. Doesn't matter. They're useless now."
The man pressed a button on the side. Three rapid beeps echoed from the device.
"What the hell was that?" the leader snapped.
"I don't know! I just pressed—"
The mechanical voice cut through the room: "911 Emergency Jake. 911 Emergency Jake. 911 Emergency Jake."
The leader lunged across the table, ripping the radio from his hands. "You idiot! You just triggered their emergency system!"
"I didn't know—"
"Shut up!" The leader smashed the sat radio against the table. Plastic cracked. He smashed it again. And again. Until it was just pieces.
He grabbed the other radios and phones, smashing each one methodically. "If they can track this signal, we've got minutes. Maybe less."
"What do we do?"
"We move the boys. Now. Get the truck."
Back at the Benson ranch, the command center exploded with sound.
"911 Emergency Jake. 911 Emergency Jake. 911 Emergency Jake."
Jr.'s head snapped up. "That's Jake's radio!"
Louisiana was already at the console. "I've got the signal! It's transmitting!"
Tom rushed over. "Where?"
"Triangulating now..." Louisiana's fingers flew across the keyboard. A map appeared on screen, a red dot pulsing. "There! Thirty-two miles northeast."
Jr. was already pulling up satellite imaging. "That's empty country. What's out there?"
"Doesn't matter," Tom said, grabbing his sat radio. "Wade, we have a location. Jake's sat radio just went active."
"Coordinates," Wade's voice came back immediately.
Jr. read them off while Louisiana kept watching the signal.
"It just went dead," Louisiana said. "They must have destroyed it."
"But we got the location," Jr. said. "Drone Four, redirect now. Get me visual on those coordinates."
On the screens, the drone banked hard, racing toward the signal point.
Billy Renzo looked up from his station. "If they destroyed the radio, they know we're tracking them."
"Which means they'll move," Tom said. "We need to get there before they do."
Pops' voice crackled over the sat radio. "We're rolling out. Five minutes."
Jr. watched the drone feed as it approached the coordinates. His hands were steady now, all frustration replaced with focus.
"Come on," he whispered. "Show me where you are."
Chapter 9: Alone in the Dark
Billy stood perfectly still, the noose tight around his neck. Every breath made it bite deeper into his skin. His wrists were bound behind him, the rope cutting into muscle. His upper arms were strapped to his sides, immobilizing him. His boots were tied together. Eyes and mouth taped.
He couldn't see. Couldn't speak. Could barely move.
The only sound was his own breathing through his nose and, somewhere to his left, Jake's breathing—slightly faster, slightly angrier.
Billy tried to remember everything. The drive. The turn. The march through the brush. He'd counted steps. Tried to memorize landmarks. But now, standing blind in the dark, he couldn't be sure of anything except that they were alone.
And the clock was ticking.
Half a million each, the man had said. Twenty-four hours. We roll dice. Odd or even.
Billy tested the ropes around his wrists. No give. The knots were professional, tight. His fingers were already going numb.
The heat inside the farmhouse was stifling. Sweat ran down his chest, his back, pooling at his waistband. The scratches from the mesquite branches burned. His shoulders ached from the position of his arms.
Think, Billy told himself. There has to be a way.
He shifted his weight slightly, testing. The noose tightened immediately, choking him. He froze, gasping through his nose until he found his balance again.
Can't move. Can't fall. Can't do anything but stand here and wait.
But Billy Benson had never been good at waiting.
To his left, he heard Jake shift. A muffled grunt. The sound of boots scraping against dirt.
Jake was testing his bindings too.
Billy wanted to call out to him, to tell him they'd figure this out, but the tape over his mouth made it impossible. All he could do was stand there, blind and helpless.
Then he felt it—a slight loosening of the tape over his mouth. The sweat. His face was slick with it, and the adhesive was starting to fail at the edges.
Billy worked his jaw slowly, carefully. The noose tightened with each movement, but he kept at it. Millimeter by millimeter, the tape began to peel away from his cheek.
His lungs burned. The noose was choking him. But he kept moving his jaw, working the tape.
Finally—finally—the corner lifted. Billy pushed with his tongue, stretching his mouth wide. The tape peeled back further.
One more push and his mouth was free.
Billy gasped, sucking air through his mouth now, not just his nose. His throat was raw from the noose, but he could breathe.
"Jake," he whispered hoarsely.
A muffled sound to his left. Jake trying to respond through the tape.
"Work your jaw," Billy said. "The sweat—it loosens the tape. Work your jaw."
Billy heard Jake grunting, shifting. The sound of effort.
Minutes passed. Billy's legs were trembling from standing so still, the noose a constant threat.
Then Jake's voice, rough and angry: "Got it. Mouth's free."
"Good," Billy said. "Now we figure out how to get to each other."
"How? We're both noosed. We move wrong, we hang."
Billy thought. The nooses were tied to hooks in the ceiling beam. If they could hop—carefully, slowly—they might be able to get back to back. Work each other's wrist bindings.
"We hop," Billy said. "Small hops. Keep the rope slack."
"You're insane."
"You got a better idea?"
Silence.
"Didn't think so," Billy said. "On three. Small hop toward me. Ready?"
"This is the dumbest thing we've ever done."
"Three... two... one..."
Billy hopped—barely an inch. The noose tightened, choking him. He froze, finding his balance, gasping.
"Again," he whispered.
Another hop. Another. Slowly, agonizingly, Billy moved toward where he thought Jake was standing.
"Keep talking," Billy said. "So I know where you are."
"I'm here," Jake said. "About three feet to your right."
Billy adjusted, hopped again. Sweat poured down his face. His legs shook. The noose was a constant, deadly presence.
"Closer," Jake said. "Two feet."
Another hop.
"One foot."
Billy could hear Jake's breathing now, close. Could smell the sweat and fear.
"Turn around," Billy said. "Back to back."
They both turned—carefully, slowly—until Billy felt Jake's bound hands brush against his.
"Got you," Jake said.
"Now work the knots," Billy whispered. "We get our wrists free, we can get everything else."
Jake's fingers fumbled at the rope around Billy's wrists. It was slow, agonizing work. But it was work.
And for the first time since the ambush, Billy felt hope.
Chapter 10: The Break
The drone's camera swept over the landscape, the feed transmitting back to the command center in real time. Jr. leaned forward, his eyes locked on the screen.
"There," Louisiana said, pointing. "That building."
An old farmhouse, half-collapsed, surrounded by thick mesquite. Isolated. Perfect.
"Zoom in," Jr. said.
The camera focused. No vehicles visible. No movement. But the structure matched—old, abandoned, exactly the kind of place someone would hide kidnap victims.
"That's it," Tom said. "Has to be."
Jr. marked the coordinates. "All units, we have visual confirmation. Old farmhouse, thirty-two miles northeast of last known position."
Pops' voice crackled back. "We're ten minutes out. What do you see?"
"No vehicles. No visible movement. Building appears abandoned."
"Keep eyes on it. We're coming in hot."
In the trailer twenty miles away, the leader grabbed his keys. "Move. Now."
"What about the money?"
"Forget the money. If they tracked that signal, they're already on the way. We grab the boys, relocate, start over."
The three men piled into Billy's truck. The engine turned over rough—the crash earlier had done some damage—but it ran.
"Drive fast," the leader said.
The truck fishtailed out of the dirt lot, heading back toward the farmhouse.
Back at the ranch, Jr. watched the drone feed. Still no movement at the farmhouse.
"Drone Two, sweep wider," Jr. said. "Look for approaching vehicles."
Ryan adjusted the second drone's path, expanding the search radius.
"Wait," Ryan said. "I've got a vehicle. Moving fast. Heading toward the farmhouse."
Jr. pulled up the feed. A truck—Billy's truck—kicking up dust on a dirt road.
"That's them," Tom said. "They're going back for the boys."
Jr. hit the sat radio. "All units, kidnappers are en route to the farmhouse. Repeat, they are returning to the location. You've got maybe five minutes before they arrive."
Wade's voice came back, tight and controlled. "Copy that. We're three minutes out. Stay on that truck."
Inside the farmhouse, Billy felt Jake's fingers working at the knot around his wrists. Slow. Methodical. The rope was tight, the knots professional.
"Come on," Billy whispered. "Almost there."
Jake grunted with effort, his own wrists still bound, working by feel alone.
Then—Billy felt it. A loosening. The rope gave, just slightly.
"Keep going," Billy said.
Jake pulled harder. The knot came free.
Billy's wrists separated. He brought his arms forward, wincing as blood rushed back into his hands. His fingers were numb, clumsy, but they worked.
He reached up carefully, slowly, and lifted the noose over his head. The rope scraped against his throat, but then it was off.
Billy took a shuddering breath, then reached for the tape over his eyes. He ripped it off, blinking in the dim light filtering through the broken windows.
Jake stood beside him, still noosed, still bound. Billy immediately went to work on Jake's wrists.
"Hurry," Jake said.
"I'm going as fast as I can."
The knot was tight, but Billy's fingers were steadier now. He worked it loose, pulled it free.
Jake brought his arms forward, lifted the noose off his own head, then ripped the tape from his eyes.
The brothers locked eyes for the first time since the ambush.
"We need to get out of here," Jake said.
Billy bent down, working at the rope around his boots. Jake did the same.
Then they heard it.
An engine. Close. Getting closer.
"They're coming back," Billy said.
Jake looked around the room. Dirt floor. Rotted boards. A broken piece of two-by-four in the corner.
Jake grabbed it, tested the weight. Billy found another piece of wood, shorter but solid.
"We take them when they come through the door," Jake said.
Billy nodded, positioning himself on one side of the doorway. Jake on the other.
The truck engine cut off. Doors slammed.
Boots on the porch.
The brothers waited, weapons ready.
The door swung open.
Chapter 11: The Ambush
The first man through the door never saw it coming.
Jake swung the two-by-four like a baseball bat, connecting with the side of the man's head. The crack echoed through the farmhouse. The man dropped, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The second man was right behind him, pistol in hand. Billy lunged from the other side of the doorway, driving his shoulder into the man's chest. They crashed into the wall, and Billy brought his piece of wood down hard on the man's wrist. The pistol clattered to the floor.
Jake was already there, his two-by-four coming down again. The second man crumpled.
The third man—the leader—stood on the porch, shotgun rising.
Billy dove for the pistol on the floor, rolled, came up firing.
He didn't aim to kill. Just to stop.
The shot hit the doorframe inches from the leader's head. The man froze.
"Drop it," Billy said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline screaming through his veins. "Drop it now or the next one's in your leg."
The shotgun hit the porch with a thud.
"Inside. Hands where I can see them."
The leader stepped through the doorway, hands raised. Jake grabbed him, spun him around, and shoved him face-first into the dirt floor.
"You got rope?" Jake asked Billy.
Billy looked around. The same rope they'd been bound with was still lying on the floor, cut and discarded. "Yeah. We got rope."
Five minutes later, all three kidnappers were bound—wrists behind their backs, ankles tied, exactly the way Billy and Jake had been. No nooses, but the humiliation was complete.
Billy walked to the broken window, looked out at his truck. The front end was smashed, steam rising from the radiator. "They wrecked my truck."
"We'll get you a new one," Jake said, breathing hard, adrenaline still pumping.
Billy turned back to the three men on the floor. The leader was conscious now, glaring up at them with fury and fear.
"Half a million each," Billy said quietly. "Dice roll. Odd or even."
He crouched down, looked the leader in the eye. "You picked the wrong family."
Jake walked over to the shotgun on the porch, picked it up, checked the chamber. "How long you think till the cavalry gets here?"
"Can't be long," Billy said. "Jr. would've tracked the signal. They're probably—"
The sound of vehicles. Multiple engines. Close.
Billy and Jake walked out onto the porch, squinting in the sunlight. A convoy of trucks was barreling down the dirt road, dust clouds rising behind them.
The lead truck skidded to a stop. Pops climbed out, rifle in hand, Wade Nelson right behind him with his sons. Josh, Celeb, Robert Beaumont—all armed, all ready.
They took in the scene: Billy and Jake standing on the porch, shirtless, scratched up, but very much alive. The wrecked truck. The shotgun in Jake's hands.
Pops stopped, stared, then started laughing. "Well I'll be damned."
Billy grinned. "They're inside. All tied up. Gift-wrapped for you, Sheriff Nelson."
Wade walked up the porch steps, looked through the doorway at the three bound men. Then he looked back at Billy and Jake. "You boys all right?"
"We are now," Jake said.
Josh pushed past them into the farmhouse, his eyes scanning his brothers for injuries. "Jesus. What did they do to you?"
"Doesn't matter," Billy said. "It's over."
Pops walked up, cigar clenched in his teeth, and gripped both their shoulders. "Damn right it's over."
Wade pulled out his sat radio. "Tom, we're at the location. Boys are safe. Kidnappers in custody."
Through the radio, Tom's voice cracked with relief. "Thank God."
Celeb appeared with two shirts from one of the trucks. "Figured you might want these."
Billy pulled the shirt on, wincing as it rubbed against the scratches and rope burns. Jake did the same.
"So," Pops said, looking at the three bound men inside. "Which one of you idiots hit the emergency button?"
The youngest kidnapper looked away.
Pops grinned. "That's what I thought."
Wade stepped inside, officially now, his sheriff's hat on. "You three are under arrest. Kidnapping, assault, extortion." He glanced at Billy and Jake. "Anything else you want to add to the list?"
"Wrecking my truck," Billy said.
"We'll add that to the charges," Wade said drily.
By the time the backup units arrived—Wade's deputies in official vehicles now—Billy and Jake were sitting on the porch, water bottles in hand, watching the scene unfold.
"Think we'll make it home for dinner?" Jake asked.
"Probably not," Billy said. "Mom's gonna want to fuss over us for hours."
"Yeah." Jake grinned. "Could be worse."
Billy looked at his brother. "We made a good team in there."
"Always do," Jake said.
Pops walked back over, sat down on the porch step between them. "You two scared the hell out of all of us."
"Sorry, Pops," Billy said.
"Don't be sorry. Be smarter. But..." Pops paused, his gruff voice softening just slightly. "I'm proud of you. Both of you."
Billy and Jake exchanged a glance.
"Thanks, Pops," Jake said quietly.
"Now let's get you boys home," Pops said, standing. "Before your mother kills me for keeping you out here any longer."
Chapter 12: Coming Home
Pops' truck rumbled down the dirt road, Josh driving, Celeb riding shotgun. In the back seat, Billy and Jake sat on either side of Pops, who held two flasks of his special reserve brandy.
"Here," Pops said, handing one to Billy, the other to Jake. "Drink."
Billy took the flask, the metal still warm from Pops' jacket pocket. He unscrewed the cap and took a swallow. The brandy burned going down, but it was a good burn—warming him from the inside out.
Jake did the same, coughing slightly. "Jesus, Pops. What is this stuff?"
"Only the best," Pops said, grinning around his cigar. "Been saving it for a special occasion."
"This counts as special?" Billy asked.
"You're alive, aren't you?" Pops took the flask back from Billy, took a long pull himself. "That's pretty damn special in my book."
They sat in silence for a moment, passing the flasks back and forth. Billy could feel the exhaustion settling into his bones, but the brandy helped. The warmth. The company.
"You two scared the hell out of me," Pops said quietly. His voice had lost its usual gruffness. "When I saw those pictures..."
"We're okay, Pops," Jake said.
"I know you are. Because you're Bensons. Tough as nails, both of you." Pops looked at them, his eyes sharp despite his age. "But don't do that to me again."
"We'll try not to," Billy said.
Pops snorted. "Try. That's all I ask." He took another pull from the flask, then handed it back to Billy. "Finish it. You earned it."
Josh glanced at them in the rearview mirror. "Mom's going to lose her mind when she sees you two."
"I know," Billy said, taking another swallow.
"Rebecca's been trying to keep her calm, but..." Josh shook his head. "Just be ready."
"We're ready," Jake said.
Celeb turned around in his seat. "You two are crazy, you know that? Taking on three armed men with pieces of wood."
Billy grinned weakly. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Remind me never to kidnap a Benson," Celeb said.
Pops laughed, the sound rough and genuine. "Damn right."
The ranch came into view, and Billy could see people gathered in the driveway. Sarah stood at the front, Rebecca beside her, Jr. and Louisiana just behind. Tom was there too, arms crossed, face tight with relief.
The truck pulled to a stop and Sarah was already running.
"Billy! Jake!"
Billy climbed out and his mother threw her arms around him, sobbing. "Oh my God. Oh my God, you're okay."
"We're okay, Mom," Billy said, hugging her back. "We're okay."
She pulled back, looking at his face, his scratched chest, his rope-burned wrists. "What did they do to you?"
"We'll tell you everything," Billy said. "But we're fine. I promise."
Jake got the same treatment, Sarah gripping him tight, tears streaming down her face. "Don't you ever scare me like that again."
"Yes ma'am," Jake said quietly.
Tom walked over, his face a mix of pride and fury. "You boys did good."
Billy nodded. "Jr. found us. That signal—"
"That was all Jr. and the wiz kids," Tom said. "They didn't stop until they found you."
Jr. stood a few feet back, trying to look composed but failing. Billy walked over and pulled him into a hug. "Thank you."
Jr.'s voice was tight. "I wasn't gonna let them keep you."
Louisiana was there too, looking relieved and exhausted. "Glad you're back."
"Glad to be back," Jake said, gripping the kid's shoulder.
Rebecca stepped forward, her nurse instincts kicking in. "Let me see those wrists."
Billy held out his hands. The rope burns were deep, the skin raw and bleeding in places.
"We need to clean these," Rebecca said. "Both of you. Inside. Now."
The kitchen became a triage center. Rebecca cleaned Billy's wrists with antiseptic while Sarah fussed over Jake. The scratches on their chests were cleaned and bandaged. Water, food, ice packs for the bruises forming on Billy's shoulder from tackling the kidnapper.
"You're lucky," Rebecca said quietly. "This could have been so much worse."
"We know," Billy said.
Ray walked in, laptop under his arm. "Bank just confirmed—no transfers went through. The kidnappers never got a chance to send wire instructions."
"Good," Tom said. "Wade will make sure they never get the chance to do this again."
Jr. appeared in the doorway with the other wiz kids. "We saved all the drone footage. Wade said it'll be evidence."
"You did good, boys," Tom said. "All of you."
Billy looked at the four teenagers—Jr., Louisiana, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez. They'd built the network. They'd tracked the signal. They'd found them.
"We owe you," Billy said.
Jr. shook his head. "You're family. That's what we do."
Later that evening, Billy and Jake finally made it back to the frat house. Jr., Louisiana, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez were already there, gathered around Celeb's bunk.
"What's going on?" Billy asked.
Jr. grinned. "We thought maybe we should check the stash. You know, make sure it survived all the chaos."
Billy walked over to the loose floorboard between the bunks—the one they'd carefully pried up and replaced a hundred times. He knelt down and worked the board free.
Then he stopped.
"What?" Jake asked, looking over his shoulder.
Billy reached down and pulled out not their usual hidden six-pack, but three six-packs. Fresh. Cold. And sitting on top of them was a note in Pops' unmistakable scrawl.
Billy unfolded it and read aloud:
"You boys earned it. Don't let your mother catch you. — Pops"
There was a hand-drawn smiley face at the bottom.
The room erupted in laughter.
"Pops is a legend," Celeb said, shaking his head.
Jr. grabbed one of the six-packs. "He knew. He's known about this spot the whole time, hasn't he?"
"Probably," Jake said, grinning. "Old man doesn't miss anything."
Louisiana cracked open a beer, held it up. "To Pops."
"To Pops," they all echoed, bottles clinking.
And for the first time since the kidnapping, everything felt right again.
Chapter 13: The BBQ
Sunday came with clear skies and the smell of mesquite smoke drifting across the ranch. The entire consortium had gathered—six families strong, filling the Benson property with trucks, laughter, and the sound of kids running wild.
Tables were set up under the big oak trees, loaded with food. Sarah and the other mothers had been cooking since dawn. Brisket, ribs, potato salad, corn, beans—enough to feed an army.
Billy and Jake stood near the grill with Pops, Josh, and Wade, drinking beer and watching Tom flip steaks.
"You boys feeling better?" Wade asked.
"Getting there," Billy said. The rope burns on his wrists were still healing, but the pain had dulled to a manageable ache.
"Good," Wade said. "Because I need you to testify when this goes to trial."
"We'll be there," Jake said.
Pops clapped them both on the shoulders. "Today's not about that. Today's about family."
Jr. and the other wiz kids were huddled near one of the tables, iPads out, probably going over drone footage or some new tech project. Louisiana was with them, gesturing animatedly.
Celeb walked over with another round of beers. "You see the kids? They're already planning the next upgrade to the sat network."
Billy grinned. "Of course they are."
Then, from the far end of the driveway, they heard it—the deep rumble of a diesel engine.
Everyone turned.
A massive black Ford F-250 King Ranch was rolling up the drive, chrome gleaming in the sunlight, LED light bar blazing. Pops was behind the wheel, cigar clenched in his teeth, grinning like he'd just won the lottery.
Billy's jaw dropped. "Is that—"
"Your new truck," Tom said, walking over. "Courtesy of the consortium."
The truck pulled to a stop in front of the gathering, and Pops climbed out, leaving the engine running. The consortium fathers—Tom, Robert Beaumont, Mr. Mattern, Mr. Renzo, Mr. Rodriguez—gathered around the truck like they were presenting a trophy.
"All right, everyone listen up!" Pops shouted, and the crowd quieted. "This here is a 2024 Ford F-250 King Ranch. Fully loaded. And it's for Billy."
The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Billy stood frozen, staring at the truck.
Tom stepped forward, gesturing to the truck like a game show host. "Six-point-seven-liter Power Stroke diesel engine!"
"Woooo!" the crowd shouted.
Robert Beaumont grinned. "Four-by-four with heavy-duty suspension and all-terrain tires!"
More cheers.
Mr. Renzo took over. "Dual twelve-inch touchscreens, three-sixty camera system, and built-in WiFi hotspot!"
The wiz kids lost their minds, shouting and high-fiving each other.
Mr. Mattern laughed. "B&O premium audio with eighteen speakers!"
"Heated and cooled leather seats!" Mr. Rodriguez added.
"LED light bar, spray-in bedliner, and a toolbox that locks!" Tom finished.
The crowd was roaring now, clapping and whistling. Jr. was practically vibrating with excitement, staring at the truck like it was a spaceship.
Pops walked over to Billy, pulled the keys from his pocket, and pressed them into his hand. "You earned it, boy. That piece of shit you had before is in the scrapyard where it belongs."
Billy looked down at the keys, then up at the truck, then at his family. His throat was tight.
"I don't know what to say," Billy said.
"Say thank you and get in," Pops said, grinning.
Billy walked over to the truck, Jake right behind him. He opened the door and climbed into the driver's seat. The interior was pristine—leather, screens, every surface gleaming.
Jake climbed into the passenger seat, running his hand over the dashboard. "This is insane."
Jr. appeared at the driver's side window, his face pressed against the glass. "Can I see inside? Please?"
Billy laughed and opened the door. Jr. climbed in, followed by Louisiana, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. The cab was crowded, but none of them cared.
"Look at these screens!" Jr. said, his fingers flying over the touchscreen. "This thing's got everything!"
"Check out the camera system," Billy Renzo said, pulling up the 360-degree view. "You can see everything around you."
"WiFi hotspot," Ryan Mattern said reverently. "We could run command operations from this truck."
"Can we go for a drive?" Louisiana asked.
Billy looked at Tom, who was standing outside the truck with the other fathers, all of them grinning.
"Go ahead," Tom said. "Just keep it on ranch property. And don't let Jr. drive yet."
"What?" Jr. said. "Come on, Granddad!"
"Not yet," Tom said. "You'll get your turn."
Billy started the engine. The diesel rumbled to life, smooth and powerful. He put it in gear and pulled out onto the ranch road, the wiz kids whooping in the back seat.
They drove for twenty minutes, testing the acceleration, the suspension, the sound system. Jr. kept pulling up different screens, exploring every feature. Louisiana called out landmarks. Jake just leaned back in the passenger seat, grinning.
When they finally pulled back to the BBQ, the crowd was waiting, beers raised.
Billy climbed out, and Sarah was there, tears in her eyes. "You like it?"
"I love it, Mom," Billy said, pulling her into a hug. "Thank you."
"Thank the consortium," Sarah said. "They all pitched in."
Billy looked around at the families gathered—the Bensons, the Nelsons, the Beaumonts, the Matterns, the Renzos, the Rodriguezes. His family. His people.
Pops walked over, cigar in hand. "Now, about those driving lessons for the wiz kids..."
Jr.'s head snapped up. "Really?"
"Ranch property only," Pops said. "And I'm riding shotgun."
Jr. looked at Billy, his eyes pleading.
Billy tossed him the keys. "Don't wreck it."
Jr. caught them, his face splitting into a grin. "I won't. I promise."
The wiz kids piled into the truck, Pops climbing into the passenger seat. Jr. started the engine, hands gripping the wheel like it was made of gold.
Billy stood with Jake, watching the truck roll slowly down the ranch road.
"Think he'll be okay?" Jake asked.
"Pops is with him," Billy said. "He'll be fine."
Jake grinned. "You know, for almost dying, this turned out pretty well."
Billy laughed. "Yeah. It did."
And as the sun set over Kings County, the families ate and drank and told stories, and for the first time since the kidnapping, Billy felt like everything was exactly as it should be.
No comments:
Post a Comment