Nurse General

 

Chapter 1: Caught

Jake Benson woke to sunlight stabbing through the gap in the curtains like a knife to the skull. His body ached—shoulders, back, thighs—every muscle screaming from last night's work. They'd been out past midnight wrestling steers, mending fence in the dark with headlamps strapped to their foreheads like coal miners. He'd collapsed into the bottom bunk still smelling like cattle and sweat.

Above him, Billy's mattress creaked. A groan filtered down through the springs.

"Christ," Billy muttered. "What time is it?"

"Too early." Jake swung his legs over the side, bare feet hitting the cold floor. His wifebeater clung to him, damp with night sweat. He rubbed his face, felt the stubble rasping under his palms.

Billy dropped from the top bunk, landing heavy. Same outfit—white wifebeater, flannel pajama bottoms, barefoot. His dark hair stuck up in every direction. The brothers looked at each other with the glazed eyes of the truly exhausted.

"Coffee," Billy said.

"Yeah."

They shuffled out of their room like zombies, down the hallway of the frat house. The place was silent—everyone else still dead to the world. Jake's feet dragged on the hardwood. His brain felt stuffed with cotton. All he could think about was that first hit of caffeine, black and bitter.

The kitchen was at the back of the house, morning light flooding through the windows over the sink. Jake pushed through the doorway first.

Two men stood waiting.

Cowboys. Mid-twenties, hard-faced, wearing dusty jeans and work shirts. Each had a Glock pointed straight at them.

Jake's exhaustion evaporated like water on a hot skillet. His body went rigid. Beside him, Billy froze mid-step.

"Morning, boys," the taller one said. Blond stubble, cold blue eyes. "Nice and easy now."

"What the fuck—" Jake started.

"Shut it." The second cowboy, darker, with a scar cutting through his eyebrow, gestured with his gun toward the center of the kitchen. "On your knees. Both of you."

Jake's mind raced. The house was empty. No one would hear them. His phone was back in the bedroom. Billy's too. They were barefoot, half-dressed, completely exposed.

"Move," Blond Stubble barked.

They moved. What choice did they have? Jake's bare feet stuck slightly to the linoleum as he walked forward. His heart hammered against his ribs.

"You," Scar said, pointing the Glock at Billy. "Down first."

Billy shot Jake a look—part fear, part fury—then slowly dropped to his knees. The sight of his brother kneeling there, vulnerable, sent a spike of rage through Jake's chest.

Blond Stubble holstered his weapon and pulled out a coil of rope. He moved behind Billy with practiced efficiency.

"Hands behind your back."

Billy hesitated. Just a second. Scar stepped forward and pressed the gun barrel against his temple.

"Now."

Billy's jaw clenched. He put his hands behind him.

Jake watched, helpless, as the cowboy grabbed Billy's wrists and crossed them at the small of his back. The rope came around them—once, twice, three times—cinching tight. Billy's shoulders pulled back, his chest thrust forward. The cowboy worked methodically, wrapping the rope between Billy's wrists, creating a binding that wouldn't slip.

Then came more rope. The cowboy looped it around Billy's chest, just under his armpits, pulling his biceps tight against his sides. Billy grunted as the rope bit in, forcing his arms into position. Another loop. Another. The white wifebeater stretched across his torso as his posture changed, shoulders wrenched back.

"Easy," Jake growled. "You don't have to—"

"Shut up," Scar said, gun still trained on him.

The cowboy pulled Billy's elbows closer together behind his back. Not touching—Billy was too broad for that—but close enough that his shoulders strained. More rope secured them there. Then the cowboy took the loose end and wrapped it around Billy's gut, threading it through the wrist binding, lashing everything together. Billy's hands were pinned to the small of his back, immobilized.

Jake's fists clenched at his sides. He could feel his pulse in his temples. That was his brother. His twin in everything but birth certificate. They'd shared a womb of a different kind—every childhood scrape, every teenage rebellion, every dawn breaking over the ranch. Watching Billy being trussed up like an animal for slaughter made something primal roar inside Jake's chest.

The cowboy moved to Billy's legs. He wrapped rope around Billy's ankles, pulling them together, binding them tight. Then his thighs, just above the knees. Separate bindings. Billy's legs were locked together but not connected to his arms. He could bend at the waist but couldn't stand, couldn't run.

Billy's breathing had gone ragged. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Almost done," Blond Stubble said, almost conversational.

He pulled out a bandana and folded it. Billy saw it coming and clenched his jaw, but Scar pressed the gun harder against his head.

"Open."

Billy's eyes found Jake's. In that moment, Jake saw everything—the fear Billy wouldn't voice, the rage that matched his own, the unspoken plea to stay strong.

Billy opened his mouth.

The cowboy stuffed the cloth in, packing it deep. Billy's cheeks bulged. Another bandana came out, this one tied around his head, holding the gag in place. Billy's breath whistled through his nose now, harsh and fast.

Then the blindfold. A dark cloth wrapped around Billy's eyes, knotted at the back of his head.

Billy knelt there, bound and gagged and blind, his chest heaving under the sweat-soaked wifebeater.

"Now Benson," Scar said, turning to Jake with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "we got your brother tied up, so it's your turn. Then you boys are going for a ride."

Jake stared at Billy's helpless form. Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to rush them, to do something. But the guns. Billy already captured. If Jake fought now, they'd just shoot him, maybe shoot Billy too.

"Go ahead you motherfuckers," Jake said, voice low and venomous. "Get it over with."

He dropped to his knees before they could force him.

Blond Stubble moved behind him. Jake felt rough hands grab his wrists, yank them behind his back. The rope bit into his skin immediately. He gritted his teeth as they bound him the same way—wrists crossed and cinched, chest ropes pinning his arms, elbows pulled back, everything lashed together at his gut. His shoulders burned. The rope around his chest made it harder to breathe deep.

Then his ankles. His thighs. The rope cut into his bare skin.

The gag came next. He tasted cotton and salt. His jaw ached immediately from being forced open. The blindfold followed, plunging him into darkness.

Jake's world became sensation. The rope. The sweat running down his spine. Billy's breathing somewhere close by, fast and panicked through his nose.

Hands grabbed Jake's shoulders. He was lifted—Jesus, the guy was strong—and slung over a shoulder like a sack of feed. His stomach pressed against hard muscle. Blood rushed to his head. He heard Billy grunt, knew his brother was getting the same treatment.

Footsteps. The back door creaking open. Hot morning air hit Jake's skin.

Then he was falling—

He landed hard in a truck bed, metal slamming into his shoulder. Billy landed beside him with a thud and a muffled cry. The truck bed was already scorching from the sun.

A tarp came down over them, blocking out what little light penetrated the blindfold. Jake heard bungee cords snapping into place, sealing them in.

The engine roared to life.

Within minutes, the space became an oven. Jake's wifebeater was already soaked through, clinging to his chest and back. Sweat ran into his blindfold, stinging his eyes. He could hear Billy beside him, breathing hard through his nose, their bodies pressed together in the confined space.

The truck bounced over rough road. Each jolt sent Jake rolling into Billy or the wheel well. The rope burned where it rubbed against his skin. His shoulders screamed.

And Jake lay there in the darkness, bound and gagged and blind, his brother suffering beside him, being driven toward God knew what.

The rage in his chest burned hotter than the sun beating down on the tarp above them.

Chapter 2: Strung Up

The Ride

The heat was unbearable.

Jake's wifebeater clung to his chest, soaked through with sweat. Every breath through his nose was thick, humid air that tasted like rubber and exhaust. The tarp trapped everything—heat, moisture, the smell of their fear. His skin burned where the ropes dug in, the fibers cutting deeper with every bump in the road.

Time warped in the darkness. Twenty minutes? An hour? The engine's rumble was constant, punctuated by the crunch of gravel. They were on back roads. Remote. Nobody would see the truck, wouldn't know two men were trussed up in the bed like livestock.

Billy's breathing hitched beside him—fast, shallow, panicked. Jake tried to make a sound, something to let Billy know he was there. But all that came out was a muffled grunt.

The truck slowed. Stopped.

Doors opened. Boots on gravel. Then the tarp was yanked back and even through the blindfold the light was blinding.

Hands grabbed him—rough, impersonal. He was lifted, thrown over a shoulder. The world spun. He heard Billy being hauled up too, heard his brother's muffled protests.

Footsteps. The crunch of gravel giving way to something harder. The air changed—cooler, stale. They were inside somewhere. Jake caught smells: dust, old wood, motor oil.

Then he was falling. He hit the floor hard, shoulder first. Billy landed beside him a second later with a heavy thud and a choked sound.

Strung Up

"Get 'em positioned," the tall cowboy said. His voice echoed in the empty space.

Hands grabbed Jake, rolled him onto his knees. He felt Billy being moved too, heard his brother's grunt of pain. Then they were being pushed together, maneuvered until Jake could feel Billy's presence directly in front of him.

"Face to face. That's it."

Jake's knees pressed against Billy's knees. Even through the blindfold, he knew his brother was inches away. He could feel Billy's panicked breathing, hot and rapid against his face.

The rope around his ankles went slack. Someone was untying his legs. Relief flooded through him for half a second before he realized this wasn't mercy—they were repositioning him for something worse.

"Hold 'em steady."

New rope. Jake felt it wrap around his torso, circling his chest. Then it pulled tight, yanking him forward into Billy. Their chests collided, wifebeater against wifebeater, both soaked with sweat. The rope kept coming, wrapping around them both, binding them together.

Another loop. Tighter. The rope crushed their torsos together, compressing Jake's ribs, making it hard to breathe. He could feel every panicked breath Billy took, could feel his brother's heart hammering against his own chest.

"Tighter," the tall cowboy said.

The rope constricted. Jake's vision went white behind the blindfold. Billy made a strangled sound behind his gag.

More rope around their waists. Around their shoulders. They were being lashed together like two pieces of cargo, bound so tight Jake couldn't tell where his body ended and Billy's began. The sweat between them made everything slick, made the rope bite deeper.

"Now the ankles."

Rough hands grabbed Jake's bare feet. His ankles were pulled together with Billy's—all four ankles in one bundle. The rope wrapped around them, circling their bare skin. Jake's feet had been bare since they'd grabbed him from his bed, and now he felt every fiber of the rope as it cut into his ankles, crushing them together with Billy's.

The rope pulled tighter. Tighter. Jake felt the circulation cutting off, felt the fibers digging into the vulnerable skin around his ankle bones. Billy jerked against him, trying to pull away, but the ropes around their torsos held them locked together.

"That'll hold," the younger cowboy said.

"Get the hook."

Jake heard something metallic scraping above them. A chain rattling. Then he felt the rope around their ankles being attached to something.

"Ready? Lift 'em."

The world inverted.

Jake felt himself being hoisted up by his ankles, felt Billy rising with him. Their bound bodies swung in the air for a moment, then steadied. They were hanging upside down, suspended from their ankles, their faces still pressed close together.

The blood rushed to Jake's head immediately. A pounding pressure built behind his eyes, in his temples. His skull felt like it would burst. The blindfold pressed tighter against his face from the weight of his own head.

The strain on his ankles was immediate and excruciating. All their combined weight—both brothers, bound together—hung from that single point where the rope crushed their ankles together. Jake felt the rope cutting in, felt his ankle bones grinding together with Billy's. His bare feet were going numb, the circulation completely cut off.

His arms were still wrenched behind his back, wrists bound, and now gravity pulled them down toward his head. The rope around his biceps cut deeper. His shoulders screamed.

But worse than the pain was the disorientation. Hanging upside down, blind, gagged, crushed against his brother—Jake's sense of space dissolved. He didn't know which way was up anymore. The blood pooling in his head made everything fuzzy, made his thoughts slow and thick.

Billy was right there, face to face with him. Jake could feel his brother's nose almost touching his own. Could feel Billy's chest heaving against his with each panicked breath. Could feel Billy trembling, or maybe that was him trembling, or maybe it was both of them shaking together in this nightmare.

"That's real pretty," the tall cowboy said. Jake heard boots walking around them, circling. "Look at 'em. Trussed up like a couple of hogs."

"How long you want to leave 'em like this?" the younger one asked.

"Long enough to make the call. Their old man's got money. He'll pay to get his boys back."

"And if he doesn't?"

A pause. Jake's heart hammered. The pressure in his head was building, building.

"Then we make an example. But let's give him a chance first. Even rich bastards love their kids."

Footsteps. Moving away.

"You think they can hear us?"

"Don't matter. Let 'em hear. Let 'em know what's coming."

The door opened. Closed. The scrape of a lock.

Silence.

Jake hung there, inverted, bound face to face with his brother. The blood pounded in his skull. His ankles were on fire where the rope cut in. His bare feet were completely numb now, just dead weight above him—or below him—he couldn't tell anymore.

Billy made a sound. A muffled sob behind the gag.

Jake tried to respond, tried to make some noise of comfort or solidarity. But all that came out was a grunt, distorted by the gag and the blood rushing to his head.

They swayed slightly, their bound bodies turning in slow circles. Jake felt the rope around their torsos shift, felt it dig into a new spot on his ribs. Felt Billy's sweat mixing with his own between their crushed chests.

The pressure in his head kept building. How long could they hang like this? How long before something burst? Before his brain just gave out from the blood pooling in his skull?

And what came after? What did "make an example" mean?

Jake's fury was still there, buried under the pain and fear and disorientation. But for the first time, underneath it all, he felt something else.

Terror.

Real, bone-deep terror.

They were in deep trouble. Deeper than he'd thought. And hanging here, strung up like meat, blind and helpless and inverted, Jake realized he had no idea how they were going to get out of this.

If they got out at all.

Chapter 3: Discovery

Billy Jr wiped sweat from his forehead and squinted at the fence line. The sun was barely up, but Pops had them out here early, checking posts after last week's storm. Colt was twenty yards down, hammering a replacement post into place.

Good morning to mess with Billy.

Billy Jr unclipped his radio. "Wakey wakey, sleeping beauty. Sun's been up for an hour and you're still in your princess bed."

Static.

He waited. Usually Billy would come back with something crude or tell him to fuck off. That was half the fun.

Nothing.

"Billy, you copy?"

More static.

Weird. Billy always had his radio on him. Always. The guy was paranoid about missing consortium business.

Billy Jr switched channels. "Jake, you there? Your boyfriend won't answer me."

Static.

His stomach did a little flip. That was... that wasn't normal. Even if they were pissed about being woken up, one of them would respond. Jake especially—he'd at least grunt something back.

"Pops," Billy Jr called out. "I'm gonna head back to the house real quick."

Pops looked up from the post he was inspecting. "Something wrong?"

"Billy and Jake aren't answering their radios."

"They're probably still asleep, boy."

"Yeah. Probably." But Billy Jr was already walking toward his truck.

The drive back felt longer than it should have. He kept trying both radios. Nothing. His brain tried to supply reasonable explanations—dead batteries, radios left in another room, they went somewhere early and forgot them. But none of it felt right.

The ranch house was quiet when he pulled up. Too quiet.

Billy Jr took the porch steps two at a time and pushed through the door. He headed straight for the stairs, taking them two at a time up to the second floor.

The frat house door was open. Billy Jr stepped inside the small bedroom—two bunk beds with the mattress for Louisiana squeezed between them. The bunks were empty, sheets rumpled, pillows still dented from heads.

Then he saw the boots.

Billy's work boots sat next to his bunk, caked with yesterday's mud. Jake's were right there too, lined up neat like always.

Billy Jr's heart stopped.

Ranch kids didn't go anywhere without their boots. Not to the barn, not to check cattle, not even to walk to the truck. You put your boots on before your feet hit the floor in the morning. That was just how it was.

They wouldn't have left. Not without their boots.

His heart started hammering.

This wasn't them getting up early. This wasn't them forgetting their radios.

Something was wrong. Really wrong.

Billy Jr moved back into the hallway, checking the command center next door. Empty. Pops' room. Empty—but Pops was out with him, so that made sense.

He headed back downstairs, moving faster now. Living room empty. He checked toward the attachment—Josh and Rebecca's rooms, Ray's room. All quiet, all empty.

The kitchen.

Billy Jr stopped in the doorway.

Rope pieces. Cut rope, scattered on the floor near the table. Short lengths, maybe six inches each. The cuts were clean, deliberate.

His breath caught.

No. No no no.

He crouched down, picked up one of the pieces. It was good rope, the kind they used for cattle work. The kind that didn't just break or fray.

Someone had cut this. Recently.

Billy Jr's hands started shaking. He looked around the kitchen with new eyes. Two coffee mugs on the counter, still sitting there. The coffee pot half-full, gone cold.

They'd been here this morning. They'd made coffee.

And then what?

His mind raced through possibilities, each one worse than the last. The consortium had enemies. Plenty of them. People who'd love to get their hands on Billy or Jake, make a statement, send a message.

Oh God.

Billy Jr's hand went to his radio, fingers fumbling. His voice came out higher than he wanted, shaky with adrenaline as he keyed the emergency channel.

"11BillyJr 11BillyJr 11BillyJr."

He pressed the transmit button three times in rapid succession, the mechanical repetition of the emergency code broadcasting across every consortium frequency.

The entire consortium was about to mobilize.

Billy Jr switched to the encrypted channel, his voice cracking. "This is Billy Jr at the ranch house. Jake and Billy are gone. There's cut rope in the kitchen. I think—" He swallowed hard. "I think they've been taken."

The radio crackled. Within seconds, voices would start responding. Questions. Demands for details. Orders being given.

Billy Jr stood in the middle of the kitchen, radio clutched in his hand, staring at those cut pieces of rope on the floor.

He'd just triggered something massive. Something that couldn't be taken back.

And somewhere out there, Billy and Jake were in trouble.

Real trouble.

Chapter 4: Mobilization

Immediate Response

Tom and Sarah burst through the kitchen door less than three minutes after the call went out. Sarah's face was white, her hands already shaking.

"What happened?" Tom's voice was sharp, controlled. He moved straight to Billy Jr, gripping his shoulder.

"They're gone." Billy Jr pointed at the rope pieces. "Cut rope. Coffee was made. They're just—gone."

Sarah made a sound, her hand going to her mouth.

Boots thundered on the porch. Pops came through the door with Colt right behind him, both covered in dust from the fields.

"Talk," Pops said.

Billy Jr forced himself to breathe, to think clearly. "I saw them at 5:30 this morning when we headed out. They were crashed hard in their bunks. Celeb and Colt saw them too."

Colt nodded. "Dead asleep. They'd just gotten in after midnight from working cattle."

"So the window is 5:30 to now," Tom said, checking his watch. "Six hours, maybe less."

Pops moved to the rope pieces, crouching down. His weathered hands didn't touch them, just hovered. "Professional work. Clean cuts. They knew what they were doing."

Sarah's breathing was getting faster. "Where are they? Where would they take them?"

"We'll find them." Tom's voice was steel, but his jaw was clenched tight. His youngest brothers. Jake and Billy. "Billy Jr, get to the command center. Pull every camera feed from 6 AM to now."

The radio crackled. Josh's voice came through. "En route with Rebecca. ETA two minutes." His voice was harder than usual. His younger brothers were missing.

"Ray?" Tom asked.

"Right here." Ray's voice, calmer than it should be. "Coming in now." But Tom could hear the edge underneath. Ray's younger brothers. His baby brothers.

Sheriff Wade Nelson

Wade Nelson was checking fence line on the north forty when the emergency code came through his radio. Three repetitions of 11BillyJr.

His blood went cold.

Billy Jr. His grandson. The code meant Billy Jr had found something bad enough to trigger the emergency protocol.

He keyed his radio. "Horse, Ryan, you copy that?"

"Copy." Wilson "Horse" Nelson's voice was already moving. "Heading to the truck now."

"Ryan?"

"On my way, Dad."

Wade was already running for his own truck, his mind racing through the possibilities. Billy Jr wouldn't use that code unless—

His radio crackled again. Josh's voice, tight with tension. "Jake and Billy are gone. Taken."

Wade's world tilted.

Billy. His daughter Edna's boyfriend. The boy who'd been coming to Sunday dinners for months now, who made Edna laugh, who'd asked Wade's permission before taking her to the county fair.

And his grandson had found them missing. Had walked into that bunkhouse and discovered the cut ropes, the empty beds.

Wade gunned the engine, dust flying as he tore down the ranch road. His hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

This wasn't just consortium business. This was his family. His daughter's boyfriend was out there somewhere—tied up, maybe hurt, maybe worse. And Billy Jr, his grandson, had been the one to find the scene, to make that emergency call with his voice shaking.

"All units, this is Sheriff Nelson. I'm en route to Benson ranch. Horse, Ryan, meet me there. Full gear."

"Copy that." Horse's voice was harder now. His sister's boyfriend. His nephew in distress.

Wade's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. Edna would be getting the news soon, if she hadn't already. His little girl, finding out the boy she loved had been taken.

Whoever took Billy and Jake had just made the worst mistake of their lives. They'd touched Wade Nelson's family.

And he was coming for them with everything he had.

The Command Center

Billy Jr's hands were steadier now that he had a job to do. He burst into the command center, Billy Renzo and Ryan Mattern already at their stations. Daniel Rodriguez came through the door thirty seconds later.

"What do we got?" Billy Renzo asked, fingers flying across his keyboard.

"Jake and Billy, taken between 5:30 AM and now. We need every camera feed in a ten-mile radius."

"On it." Ryan was already pulling up the surveillance network. "Starting with the ranch perimeter."

Daniel took the third station. "I'll pull traffic cams from the county roads."

The screens lit up, multiple feeds playing simultaneously. Billy Jr leaned over Billy Renzo's shoulder, watching the ranch entrance camera.

"There." Billy Renzo froze the frame. "7:47 AM. Black pickup, no plates visible."

"Get me a better angle."

"Working on it."

The radio on Billy Jr's hip crackled constantly. Voices checking in, asking for updates, offering resources. The consortium was mobilizing.

The Beaumonts and Consortium Families

Robert Beaumont's voice came through clear and commanding on the radio. "Caroline and I are en route. ETA fifteen minutes."

"Renzo family responding," came another voice. "We're bringing the dogs."

"Mattern ranch, we're mobilizing search teams."

"Rodriguez family, we've got the drone units ready."

Trucks were converging on Benson ranch from every direction. The consortium families moved like a single organism, each knowing their role without being told.

This was what they'd built. What they'd trained for.

Nobody touched one of their own.

Ray and the Bank

Ray stood in Tom's office, phone pressed to his ear. His voice was calm, methodical.

"Marcus, it's Ray Benson. We've got a situation—Jake and Billy have been taken. No ransom demand yet, but we need to be ready. Can you set things up on your end in case we need to move money fast or fake transfers?"

He listened, nodding.

"Yes, I understand the legal implications. This is a kidnapping. We need to be ready when the demand comes in." Another pause. "How fast can you have it operational?"

Ray checked his watch. "Good. I'll have our tech team coordinate with yours. We need this airtight."

He hung up and moved to the window. Outside, trucks were pulling in. Families gathering. The consortium coming together.

His brothers were out there somewhere. His younger brothers. Tied up. Scared.

Or worse.

Ray's hand tightened on the windowsill. He forced himself to breathe, to think like the strategist he was.

They'd get them back.

They had to.

Assembly

By noon, the Benson ranch yard was full of trucks. Families stood in clusters, armed, organized, waiting for orders.

Sheriff Wade Nelson arrived with Horse and Ryan, all three in tactical gear. They moved straight to the house.

In the command center, the wiz kids had pulled footage from seventeen different cameras. The black pickup appeared on four of them, heading east.

Tom stood in the kitchen, surrounded by Pops, Sarah, Josh, Rebecca, Ray, and the Nelsons. The cut rope pieces were bagged as evidence.

"We've got a direction," Billy Jr called from the command center. "East on County Road 12."

Tom's jaw set. "Then that's where we start."

Sarah gripped his arm. "Bring them home."

"We will."

Outside, the consortium waited. Radios crackled. Engines idled.

The clock was ticking.

And somewhere out there, Jake and Billy were running out of time.

Chapter 5: The Message

The world was upside down and wrong.

Jake's head throbbed with every heartbeat, blood pooled in his skull until it felt like his brain was swelling against bone. The pressure behind his eyes was unbearable. His vision swam even through the blindfold—dark shapes and bursts of light that weren't really there.

The rope cut into his bare ankles. Every small movement made it worse, the fibers digging deeper into skin already raw and bleeding. His feet had gone numb an hour ago. Or maybe it was ten minutes. Time had stopped making sense.

Billy's chest pressed against his, rising and falling in the same desperate rhythm. Jake could feel his brother's heartbeat—too fast, too hard. Could feel the tremors running through Billy's body that matched his own.

Jake tried to make a sound through the gag. Tried to form words that came out as nothing but muffled noise. Billy responded with his own garbled attempt at speech. They were inches apart, face to face, and couldn't say a goddamn thing to each other.

How long had they been hanging here? Jake had lost track. The disorientation was complete. His sense of up and down had dissolved into a nauseating blur. Only the screaming pain in his ankles told him which way was which.

The door opened.

Footsteps. Two sets. The cowboys.

"Time to send your family a message," the tall one said.

Jake's body went rigid. Billy's breathing hitched against him.

"Think they'll pay a million for these two?" The younger cowboy's voice was closer now.

"Let's make sure they want to."

Something whistled through the air. Jake heard it before he understood what it was—a rubber hose, cutting through the space near his head.

"Need to make this look bad for the photos," the tall cowboy said, almost conversational. "Can't break bones—that'd be too much. But bruising? Cuts? That'll do just fine."

No. No no no—

The first blow caught Jake's upper arm. The rubber hose hit with a wet smack that drove the air from his lungs. Pain exploded across his bicep, radiating down to his shoulder and up into his neck.

He screamed into the gag. The sound came out strangled, pathetic.

"That's good," the tall cowboy said. "Real good."

Another blow. His forearm this time. The hose wrapped around his arm, the tip catching the soft underside where the skin was thinnest. Jake felt something split open. Warm blood trickled down—or up, toward his shoulder, because he was upside down and everything was wrong.

Billy was making sounds against his gag. Desperate, helpless sounds. Jake could feel his brother straining against the ropes, trying to move, trying to do something.

The beating continued. Methodical. Professional. Upper arm. Forearm. Wrist. Then back up again. The cowboy worked Jake's left arm like he was tenderizing meat, each blow placed with precision to maximize the visible damage.

Jake's wifebeater was soaked—sweat and blood mixing together. The fabric clung to his chest, to Billy's chest pressed against his. He could feel his brother's heart hammering, could feel Billy's whole body flinching with each blow even though the hose wasn't touching him.

His right arm. The cowboy switched sides. Started over.

Jake's vision whited out with the pain. His muffled screams turned to choked sobs. Blood ran down his arms in rivulets, dripping off his elbows onto the floor below—above—wherever the hell the floor was.

"That ought to do it for this one," the tall cowboy said.

No. God, no. Not Billy. Not—

"Your turn, little brother."

The first blow hit Billy and Jake felt it like it had hit him instead. Billy's body jerked against his, the ropes holding them so tight that every movement translated directly through Jake's chest.

Billy's muffled scream cut through Jake like a knife.

Jake tried to thrash, tried to move, tried to do anything. The ropes held. His ankles screamed in protest. Blood rushed in his ears, mixing with Billy's choked sounds of pain.

He had to watch. Had to feel every blow through Billy's body pressed against his. Had to hear every muffled cry, every desperate gasp for air through the gag.

Upper arm. Forearm. Wrist. The same methodical pattern.

Billy's blood mixed with Jake's, both of them soaked now, both of them shaking. Jake could feel his brother trying to stay quiet, trying to be strong, and failing. Could feel the moment Billy broke, the sobs that wracked his chest.

"Beautiful," the tall cowboy said when he finished. "Just beautiful."

Footsteps. The sound of phones being pulled out.

"Get some good angles," the younger one said. "Make sure they can see the blood."

Camera clicks. Multiple phones. They moved around, capturing every angle of Jake and Billy hanging there, bloodied and broken, bound together in their soaked wifebeaters.

"That ought to do it," the tall cowboy said. "Million dollars or they get worse."

The footsteps retreated. Voices murmured near the door—sending the photos, Jake realized. Sending them to his family.

Jake's arms were on fire. Every heartbeat sent fresh waves of agony through the bruised and bleeding tissue. The pressure in his head was unbearable, a vise squeezing tighter with each passing second. Billy's ragged breathing matched his own—both of them struggling, both of them trying to hold on.

The door opened again. Footsteps returned.

"Can't have 'em dying on us yet," the tall cowboy said. "Not till we get paid."

Jake heard movement. Something scraping. Then the younger cowboy's voice, closer: "You got it?"

"Yeah. Stand back."

The sound of a blade opening. Jake's body tensed. Billy went rigid against him.

Then the tension holding them up disappeared.

They fell.

Jake's world spun—a sickening lurch as gravity reversed itself. He and Billy crashed into the concrete floor in a tangle of limbs and rope. The impact drove the air from Jake's lungs. His bruised arms took the brunt of it, trapped beneath his own body weight and Billy's, and the pain that exploded through them was blinding.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Just pain and the desperate need for air that wouldn't come.

Billy landed half on top of him, their bound bodies hitting at an angle that sent fresh agony through Jake's beaten arms. He heard Billy's muffled cry, felt his brother's body convulse with the impact.

But then—air. Sweet, blessed air filling his lungs properly for the first time in what felt like hours. The pressure in his head began to ease, the blood draining back down where it belonged. The relief was so intense it almost masked the pain.

Almost.

Jake's arms screamed. Every bruise, every cut, every point where the hose had split skin—all of it on fire now, pressed against the unforgiving concrete. Billy was making small sounds through his gag, pained whimpers that Jake felt more than heard.

"There," the tall cowboy said. "That'll keep 'em alive till we get our money."

Footsteps. The door opened and closed.

Silence except for their ragged breathing.

They were on the floor now, still bound face-to-face, still gagged and blindfolded. Still completely helpless. But right-side up. Jake could feel the difference in every cell of his body—the way his blood flowed normally again, the way his lungs expanded without fighting gravity.

Billy made another sound. Softer this time. Jake felt his brother's forehead press against his—the only comfort they could offer each other.

They were going to survive this. They had to. The family was coming. Tom and Pops and Wade and everyone—they were coming.

Jake and Billy just had to hold on.

Together.

Like they'd always done.

Chapter 6: The Demand

Tom's phone rang.

The sound cut through the low murmur of voices in the command center like a gunshot. Everyone froze—Billy Jr at his laptop, the wiz kids at their stations, Wade by the map, Ray at the desk with financial records spread out, Pops near the door.

Tom looked at the screen. Unknown number.

"It's them," he said.

Sarah appeared in the doorway from the main house, Rebecca right behind her. They'd heard the silence, felt the shift in the air.

Tom answered, hitting speaker. "Yeah."

"Mr. Benson." The voice was calm, almost pleasant. A drawl that could've belonged to any rancher in three counties. "You're missing something."

Tom's jaw clenched. "What do you want."

"One million dollars. Cash. You've got twenty-four hours."

The room was dead silent. Sarah's hand went to her mouth.

"Proof," Tom said. His voice was granite. "I want proof they're alive."

"Check your messages."

The line went dead.

Tom's phone buzzed. Then again. And again.

He opened the first image.

The color drained from his face.

"Tom?" Sarah moved closer. "Tom, what—"

She saw the screen. Her knees buckled.

"No. No no no no—" The sound that came out of her was inhuman, a mother's anguish ripped straight from her chest. "My babies. My babies—they're hanging like—like animals—" Her voice broke into sobs that shook her entire body. "Their faces—oh God, their faces—Billy's eye is swollen shut—Jake's bleeding—"

Rebecca caught her before she hit the floor, arms wrapping around her as Sarah's sobs tore through the room. But Rebecca's own hands were shaking, her face pale. Those were her nephews. Her boys. She'd watched them grow up, had them at her dinner table every Sunday.

Tom couldn't look away from the photos. His sons. His boys. Hanging upside down like slaughtered cattle, bound together, faces swollen and bloodied, wifebeaters soaked dark. The bruises. The cuts. The way they were tied—

His hand shook. Not from fear. From rage. Pure, cold, murderous rage that built in his chest like a pressure cooker about to explode. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of a death sentence. "I'm going to kill them. Slowly."

"Let me see." Wade's voice was tight.

Tom handed him the phone.

Wade looked at the screen. His face went from professional concern to absolute horror. "Jesus Christ." His voice cracked. "That's—Edna's gonna—"

"What?" Edna Nelson pushed past her father, grabbed the phone from his hand.

She looked at the screen.

The sound she made wasn't quite a scream. It was worse—a keening wail that came from somewhere deep and primal. "Billy. BILLY. No no no no—" She stared at the image of the man she loved hanging there, beaten, bloodied. "His face—they broke his—oh God, they're killing him—"

Wade grabbed his daughter as her legs gave out. "Edna, honey, don't look—"

"DON'T TELL ME NOT TO LOOK!" She was sobbing, screaming, clawing at the phone to see more. "That's Billy! That's MY Billy! They're—they're torturing him—Daddy, we have to—we have to go get him RIGHT NOW—"

Wade held her tight, his own eyes wet. He looked at the photos again over her shoulder. At Billy Benson hanging there. At Jake beside him. These boys—he'd known them their whole lives. Watched them grow up. And now—

"Those goddamn sons of bitches." The words came out low and venomous.

The room went silent.

Horse and Ryan Nelson, standing near the door, exchanged stunned looks. Their mouths actually fell open.

"Dad?" Horse whispered. "Did you just—"

Wade Nelson had never—not once in his entire life—used profanity. He was a deacon at First Baptist. He'd raised his sons to respect the Lord's name. He'd washed Horse's mouth out with soap when he was twelve for saying "damn."

Wade looked at his sons, then back at the photos. "I said those goddamn sons of bitches are going to pay for this." His voice was shaking. "And when we find them, I'm going to forget every oath I ever took. I'm going to forget I'm a lawman. And I'm going to make them suffer."

Ryan's eyes were wide. "Dad—"

"Get everyone on this. NOW." Wade's voice cracked like a whip. "I want every deputy, every trooper, every goddamn resource we have. We're finding these bastards tonight."

Billy Jr had pushed closer, looked at the screen over Edna's shoulder.

The kid went white. Stumbled back.

"Uncle Jake," he whispered. "Uncle Billy—" His namesake. The man who'd taught him to ride, to rope, to code, to be a man. Hanging there like meat. Beaten. Bloodied.

Billy Jr turned and ran. Made it three steps out the door before he doubled over and vomited into the bushes.

Inside, Pops had grabbed the phone. Looked at his grandsons hanging there, beaten and broken.

"MOTHERFUCKERS!" The roar came from somewhere deep in his chest. He hurled the phone across the room—Tom caught it before it hit the wall. "I'm gonna gut every last one of those cocksucking bastards! I'm gonna string them up just like this and watch them bleed out slow!"

His hands were shaking. Not from age. From fury.

"In Nam," Pops growled, "we had ways of dealing with this shit. We'd take the VC who tortured our boys and we'd—" He stopped, breathing hard. "I'm seventy-eight years old and I will personally cut their fucking throats. I'll make them beg. I'll make them scream. I'll make them wish they'd never been born."

Josh appeared in the doorway, drawn by Sarah's sobs. "What happened? What—"

Tom showed him.

Josh's face went from confusion to horror to cold, lethal fury in the space of a heartbeat. Those were his kid brothers. His baby brothers. The ones he'd taught to ride, to rope, to be men. He'd changed their diapers. Taught them to throw a football. Covered for them when they snuck out in high school.

"I'm gonna kill them," Josh said quietly. His voice was steady, but his hands were clenched into fists so tight his knuckles were white. "I'm gonna find them and I'm gonna kill them. Slowly. I'm gonna make it last."

Ray took the phone next. Looked at the photos with the same analytical precision he brought to everything. But his hands were trembling. His jaw worked. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely controlled. "They made a mistake. They think we'll just pay. They don't know who they're dealing with." He looked up, and his eyes were ice and murder. "Those are my baby brothers. I used to read them bedtime stories. And now I'm going to read these bastards their last rites."

Robert Beaumont had pushed into the room, along with several other consortium fathers. They crowded around to see the photos.

"Jesus Christ," Beaumont breathed. "Those animals—"

"We're going to war," another father said. "This is war now."

"I want in," a third added. "When you find them, I want to be there. I want to watch."

Tom's phone buzzed again. A text message.

$1 million. 24 hours. Instructions coming. They stay alive if you pay. They die if you don't. No cops.

Tom looked at Wade.

Wade's smile was sharp and cold, his earlier profanity still shocking everyone. "Too late for that, assholes."

He pulled out his own phone, pulled up the surveillance footage they'd already gathered. "We've got the truck on camera. Three different angles. We're tracking them down right now. Every law enforcement agency in four counties is looking."

"They don't know you're here," Tom said.

"No. They don't." Wade's eyes were hard. "And that's gonna be their last mistake."

---

Outside, Billy Jr stayed on his hands and knees in the bushes, retching. Even after his stomach was empty, the dry heaves kept coming. He couldn't get the image out of his head—Uncle Billy hanging there, face swollen and bloody, his namesake beaten like an animal.

He heard footsteps behind him. Colt, Billy Renzo, and Ryan Mattern came through the door.

"Billy." Colt's voice was quiet. "Man, come on—"

"I can't—" Billy Jr's voice broke. The sobs came then, hard and ugly, shaking his whole body. He pressed his forehead against the cool dirt, trying to stop, trying to be strong, but he couldn't. "I can't—Uncle Billy—they're gonna kill him—"

"Hey, hey." Billy Renzo crouched beside him, hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, man."

"It's not okay!" Billy Jr's voice cracked high, and he hated himself for it. He was sixteen years old, a ranch kid, tough as nails. He'd branded cattle, broken horses, worked eighteen-hour days in hundred-degree heat. He shouldn't be crying like a little kid. "I should—I should be in there helping, not out here—" Another sob choked him. "I'm being a pussy—"

"Shut up." Ryan Mattern dropped down on his other side, gripped his shoulder hard. "You're not. Those are your uncles. That's—Jesus, Billy, that's your namesake in there. The guy who taught you everything."

"We all saw it," Colt said quietly. His own voice was shaking. "We're all—man, I wanted to puke too. I still might."

Billy Jr looked up at them. Their faces were pale, eyes red. Billy Renzo's hands were trembling. Ryan kept swallowing hard like he was fighting his own stomach. Colt looked like he'd aged five years in five minutes.

"They're gonna torture them," Billy Jr whispered. "They're gonna kill them and it's gonna be slow and—" His voice broke again.

"No." Billy Renzo's grip tightened on his shoulder. "No, man. We're gonna find them. That's what we're gonna do. We're gonna use every piece of tech we've got, every camera, every database, every goddamn satellite if we have to. And we're gonna find those bastards."

"Your uncles are tough," Ryan added. "They're Bensons. They're gonna hold on. And we're gonna bring them home."

Billy Jr wiped his face with his sleeve, trying to pull himself together. His chest still hitched with sobs, but he was breathing steadier now. "I'm sorry. I should be stronger—"

"You're sixteen," Colt said flatly. "We all are. We just saw something—" He stopped, swallowed hard. "Something no one should see. Especially not of people we know. People we love."

They sat there for a moment in the darkness, four teenage boys trying to process something that would haunt grown men. The sounds of urgent voices drifted from inside—Wade on the radio, Tom giving orders, Sarah's muffled sobs.

"We gotta go back in," Billy Renzo said finally. "They need us on the tech."

Billy Jr nodded, wiping his face again. His eyes were swollen, his throat raw. He felt hollowed out, shaky. But his friends were right. His uncles needed him. His family needed him.

"Okay." He pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt weak, but he stood. "Okay. Let's go find them."

The four of them walked back toward the command center together. Billy Jr's hands were still shaking, but he clenched them into fists. He could fall apart later. Right now, Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake needed him to be strong.

They stepped back through the door, and Billy Jr went straight to his laptop. His vision was still blurry, but he blinked it clear. Pulled up the surveillance feeds. Started scanning.

Colt, Billy Renzo, and Ryan Mattern took their stations too, faces set with grim determination.

They were just kids. But right now, they had to be more than that.

---

Ray was already on his phone, his hands finally steady now that he had something to do. "Marcus? It's Ray Benson. I need you at the bank. Now." He paused. "I don't care what time it is. This is about Billy and Jake. We need to set up wire transfers, make it look like we're complying with a ransom demand. I need you to build a trail we can trace."

He listened for a moment. "Good. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Have everything ready."

He hung up and looked at Tom. "Marcus is on it. We'll set up the transfers, make it look like we're complying. String them along while we locate the house."

"How long?" Tom asked.

"To set up the money trail? An hour. To trace it back when they make contact again?" Ray's smile was thin and dangerous. "Minutes."

The other wiz kids had turned away from the photos earlier, faces pale, hands shaking. But now they were back at their stations with new purpose. They'd seen what was at stake.

"Checking every route out of town from the time of abduction," Billy Renzo said, his voice steadier now.

"I've got satellite access," Ryan Mattern added. "Scanning for the truck model."

"Property records," Daniel Rodriguez said quietly. "Looking for isolated structures, abandoned buildings."

Sarah was still sobbing in Rebecca's arms, but she looked up now, eyes red and swollen. "Bring them home. Tom, please—bring my boys home—"

"We will." Tom's voice was iron. "Whatever it takes. We're bringing them home."

"And those bastards are dead when we find them," Pops added. "Every last one."

Wade was on his radio, coordinating with deputies, highway patrol, everyone. "We've got twenty-four hours. But we're not waiting that long."

Tom looked around the room. His family. His people. All of them ready to go to war.

"They want a million dollars," he said quietly. "They're gonna get something else."

The clock on the wall ticked forward.

Twenty-four hours.

But they were going to find Jake and Billy first.

And God help those cowboys when they did.

Chapter 7: The Hunt

Command Center

Billy Jr's eyes burned from staring at the screens. Two hours of surveillance footage, frame by frame, tracking that black pickup through every camera in consortium territory.

"There," Colt said, pointing. "Leaving the ranch at 6:47 AM."

They watched the truck roll through town, past the feed store, heading east on County Road 12. Billy Renzo had synced footage from four different cameras, creating a timeline.

"Lost them here," Ryan Mattern said, tapping the screen. "Past the Miller property. No more cameras out that way."

"East," Billy Jr said. "They went east into the backcountry."

"That's thousands of acres," Colt muttered.

"Then we search thousands of acres." Billy Jr turned to the equipment spread across the table. Four drones, fully charged, thermal imaging cameras mounted. "Get these ready. We're doing a grid search."

Billy Renzo was already pulling up maps, dividing the territory into sectors. "We can cover this area in six hours if we coordinate properly."

"Then let's move," Billy Jr said.

The Floor

Jake's arms were on fire.

The backs of his arms—biceps, forearms, all the way down—throbbed with a deep, sick ache. Every shift of position sent fresh waves of pain through the bruised tissue. The rubber hose had done its work. Black and blue, he knew, even though he couldn't see through the blindfold.

Billy was pressed against him, face-to-face, their bodies bound together so tight Jake could feel every breath his brother took. Could feel Billy trembling.

Jake made a sound behind the gag. Low, questioning.

Billy responded. A muffled grunt that Jake interpreted as I'm okay.

Liar. They were both far from okay.

Jake worked his wrists again, twisting against the rope. The knots were professional, tight, but there was always give if you worked it right. He'd been at it for hours now, feeling the rope shift microscopically with each movement.

Billy made another sound. This one Jake understood perfectly: Keep going.

Yeah. He would. Because they were getting out of this. One way or another, they were going home.

Jake pressed his forehead against Billy's, the only comfort he could offer. Billy pressed back.

They'd survived worse. They'd survive this.

The Stall

Tom's phone rang again.

"You got my money?" The tall cowboy's voice was cold.

Ray stepped forward, taking the phone from Tom's hand. "This is Ray Benson. I'm handling the financial transaction."

"I don't give a shit who you are. I want my money."

"And you'll get it," Ray said, his voice calm, professional. "But moving one million dollars isn't like withdrawing cash from an ATM. We're coordinating with First National Bank to arrange the wire transfer. We need a few more hours."

Silence on the other end.

"We're not stalling," Ray continued. "We want Jake and Billy back. But the bank has protocols. Security measures. We're working as fast as we can."

More silence. Then: "You got four more hours. That's it."

"We'll have it ready," Ray said.

The line went dead.

Tom looked at his son. "Will Marcus really set up a fake transfer?"

"Already working on it," Ray said. "But we're not paying these bastards a dime. We're finding them first."

The Militia

The barn had become an armory.

Wade checked his rifle, a Winchester .308 that had dropped elk at three hundred yards. Around him, men were doing the same. Tom with his Remington 700. Josh with his AR-15. Pops with an old lever-action that had been in the family for sixty years.

Robert Beaumont had brought enough firepower to start a small war. Other consortium fathers were similarly equipped.

"When we get a location," Wade said, "we go in fast and hard. Two teams. One on the front, one on the back. No escape routes."

"Rules of engagement?" Tom asked.

Wade's face was stone. "They hurt my nephews. There are no rules."

Pops chambered a round. "Damn right."

"We get Jake and Billy out first," Josh said. "Then we deal with the cowboys."

"Agreed," Wade said. "But those bastards aren't walking away from this."

Ray stood in the corner, phone in hand, coordinating with Marcus at the bank. But his other hand rested on a Glock 19. He might be the numbers guy, but he was still a Benson.

They just needed a location.

Located

"I've got something!"

Billy Renzo's voice cut through the tension in the command center. Everyone crowded around his screen.

"Thermal signature. Abandoned farmhouse, fifteen miles east of the Miller property." His fingers flew across the keyboard, zooming in. "Four heat signatures inside. Two standing, two horizontal close together."

"That's them," Billy Jr breathed.

Ryan Mattern's drone feed showed the structure from another angle. "Black pickup parked behind the building. Matches the description."

"GPS coordinates locked," Colt said, already pulling up the route. "Two hours away."

Billy Jr grabbed his radio. "Dad, we got them."

Convoy

The ranch yard erupted into controlled chaos.

Wade, Horse, and Ryan climbed into patrol vehicles, lights ready. Tom, Josh, Ray, and Pops loaded into Tom's truck, rifles secured. Robert Beaumont and the other consortium fathers filled three more vehicles.

Sarah grabbed Tom's arm. "Bring my boys home."

"I will," Tom said. "I promise."

Billy Jr jumped into the lead vehicle with Wade. "I'm coming."

"The hell you are," Wade started.

"They're my uncles," Billy Jr said, his voice hard. "I'm coming."

Wade looked at the kid—not a kid anymore, not after today—and nodded. "Get in."

The convoy pulled out, dust rising behind them as they hit the county road.

Two hours.

Jake and Billy just had to hold on for two more hours.

And then those cowboys were going to learn what happened when you touched a Benson.

Chapter 8: The Assault

Arrival

The convoy stopped a quarter mile from the abandoned farmhouse, engines cutting off one by one. Dusk was settling over the prairie, painting everything in shades of orange and purple.

Wade stepped out of his patrol vehicle, radio in hand. "Listen up. This is a sheriff's operation. We do this by the book—mostly." He looked at Tom, Josh, and the consortium fathers, all armed and grim-faced. "Horse, Ryan—you take the back. Watch for runners. Tom, Josh, you're with me on the front approach. Beaumont, your group flanks left. Pops, Ray—you hold the perimeter."

"Like hell," Pops said, checking his rifle. "Those are my grandsons in there."

Wade didn't argue. "Fine. But you follow my commands. We've got civilians inside—Jake and Billy. Watch your fire."

Billy Jr had the drone controller, watching the feed. "Two heat signatures on the floor, close together. Three moving around them—the cowboys."

"They still alive?" Tom's voice was tight.

"Heat signatures are strong. They're alive."

Tom's jaw clenched. "Let's move."

They approached in formation, weapons ready, using the dying light and the terrain for cover. The farmhouse was a sagging structure, windows dark, the black pickup visible behind it.

Inside

Jake heard the vehicles.

Multiple vehicles. Doors closing. Not just one truck—several.

His heart hammered against Billy's chest, pressed tight against his own. Through the gag, he tried to make a sound, any sound.

Billy heard it too. Jake felt his brother's body tense.

"What the hell—" One of the cowboys moved to the window. "Someone's here. Multiple vehicles."

"Cops?" The younger cowboy's voice pitched higher.

"Get the rifles. Now."

Footsteps scrambling. Metal clicking—safeties coming off.

Jake's mind raced. If shooting started, he and Billy were on the floor, bound and helpless. They couldn't move, couldn't take cover, couldn't do a goddamn thing.

Billy made a muffled sound against his gag. Jake pressed his forehead harder against his brother's, the only communication they had left.

Hold on. Just hold on.

The Breach

Wade's voice boomed across the prairie. "Sheriff's department! Come out with your hands up!"

The response was immediate—muzzle flash from the window, the crack of rifle fire.

"Shots fired!" Wade dropped behind cover, returning fire. "Engage!"

The farmhouse erupted in gunfire.

Horse and Ryan opened up from the back, controlled bursts aimed at the windows. Tom and Josh flanked right, using an old water trough for cover. Robert Beaumont and the consortium fathers spread out, creating a crossfire.

Pops dropped to one knee behind a fence post, his rifle steady despite his age. Vietnam muscle memory taking over. Breathe. Aim. Squeeze.

His shot took out a window frame inches from where the tall cowboy was firing.

"Suppressing fire!" Wade called. "Tom, Josh—move up!"

Tom and Josh broke cover, running low and fast, using the chaos to close distance. Josh hit the side of the building, back against the wall. Tom followed, breathing hard.

Inside, they could hear shouting. Cursing.

Another burst of gunfire from the window—then a scream.

"I'm hit! I'm hit!"

"Keep firing!"

But the return fire was weakening. Wade's tactical training and the sheer number of armed men surrounding the farmhouse was overwhelming the cowboys.

Cowboys Down

The tall cowboy appeared in the doorway, rifle raised.

Pops didn't hesitate. His shot caught the man in the arm, spinning him around. The rifle clattered to the porch.

"Down! Get down!" Horse rushed forward, weapon trained on the fallen cowboy. Ryan was right behind him.

The younger cowboy stumbled out, hands up, blood streaming from his leg. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

Ryan kicked his legs out from under him, dropping him face-first into the dirt. "Don't fucking move!"

Horse had the tall cowboy pinned, knee in his back, cuffing him even as the man groaned in pain. "You're under arrest, you son of a bitch."

Wade moved to the door, weapon ready. "Clear the building! Tom, Josh—with me!"

Finding Them

Tom hit the door first, Josh right behind him.

The front room was empty. Spent shell casings on the floor. Blood spatter on the wall.

"Back room!" Josh pointed.

They moved fast, clearing corners, until Tom kicked open the last door.

And there they were.

On the floor. Bound together face-to-face, arms wrapped around each other, legs intertwined. Gagged. Blindfolded. Bruised and battered and alive.

"We got you." Tom dropped to his knees beside them, his rifle clattering to the floor. "We're here. We got you."

Josh was already pulling out his knife, sawing at the ropes binding them together. "Hold still. Hold still, we're getting you out."

Jake made a sound behind the gag—desperate, questioning.

"It's us," Tom said, his voice breaking. "It's Tom and Josh. You're safe. You're safe now."

Josh cut through the rope binding their torsos together. Then their arms. The rope fell away and Jake's arms dropped, useless, circulation gone.

Tom pulled off Jake's blindfold first. Jake blinked in the dim light, eyes unfocused, then locked on Tom's face.

Tom removed the gag. "You're okay. You're okay."

"Billy?" Jake's voice was a rasp.

"Right here." Josh had Billy's blindfold off, then the gag. "Right here, brother."

Billy's eyes found Jake's. They stared at each other for a long moment, still pressed close, still tangled together even with the ropes cut.

"We made it," Billy whispered.

"Yeah." Jake's voice cracked. "We made it."

Aftermath

Josh and Tom worked together to free their legs, cutting through the rope around their ankles and thighs. The circulation returning was agony—Jake hissed through his teeth, Billy groaned.

"Easy. Easy." Tom helped Jake sit up, supporting his weight. Josh did the same for Billy.

Their arms were destroyed—black and blue bruises covering every inch from shoulder to wrist. The pattern of the beating clear in the marks.

Pops appeared in the doorway. Saw his grandsons. His face crumpled.

"Pops." Jake tried to reach for him but his arm wouldn't cooperate.

Pops crossed the room in three strides, dropping down beside them. He put one hand on Jake's shoulder, one on Billy's. Couldn't speak. Just held them.

Wade's voice came from outside. "Ambulances en route. ETA fifteen minutes."

Horse and Ryan had the cowboys secured, reading them their rights even as they bled. Robert Beaumont and the other fathers were clearing the building, securing evidence.

The Wiz Kids

Billy Jr had stayed by the vehicles during the firefight. Wade's orders—no arguments. He'd stood there with Colt, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez, all of them frozen, listening to the gunfire crack across the prairie.

The longest minutes of his life.

When Wade's voice came over the radio—"Building secure. Hostages recovered. Alive."—Billy Jr didn't wait for permission.

He ran.

All five of them ran together, feet pounding the dirt road, the farmhouse growing larger with each stride. Billy Jr's lungs burned but he didn't slow down. Couldn't slow down.

They burst through the door together, nearly tripping over each other.

The back room. Voices. Tom's voice. Josh's voice.

Billy Jr pushed through the doorway and stopped.

Uncle Jake and Uncle Billy were sitting against the wall, Tom and Josh on either side of them, Pops kneeling in front. Their arms were a mess of bruises, their faces battered. But alive. They were alive.

"Uncle Jake." Billy Jr's voice came out strangled. "Uncle Billy."

Jake looked up, his eyes finding Billy Jr. A weak smile crossed his face. "Hey, kid."

Billy Jr moved forward, dropping to his knees beside Pops. He wanted to hug them but didn't know where to touch that wouldn't hurt. His hands hovered uselessly.

"We found you," he said. "We tracked you. The drone, the heat signatures—we found you."

"You did good," Billy said, his voice rough. "Real good."

Behind Billy Jr, the other four stood in the doorway. Colt had his arms crossed tight across his chest. Billy Renzo's eyes were red. Ryan Mattern kept swallowing hard. Daniel Rodriguez had one hand pressed against the doorframe like he needed it to stay upright.

They'd all been there. Every minute of it.

Billy Jr turned to look at them, and something shifted in his chest.

He'd known these guys his whole life. Grown up with them. They were his friends, his crew, the wiz kids who could fix anything and figure out anything.

But that's not what he saw now.

He saw Colt, who'd stayed up all night running code, who'd thrown up in the bushes when they found the blood, who'd kept working anyway.

He saw Billy Renzo, who'd cried when they lost the signal, who'd pulled himself together and kept searching.

He saw Ryan Mattern, who'd driven like hell to keep up with the convoy, hands white-knuckled on the wheel, refusing to be left behind.

He saw Daniel Rodriguez, who'd cross-referenced every database they had, who'd made the call that narrowed the search grid, who'd been shaking so hard he could barely hold his phone.

They'd gone through it together. All of it. The fear, the exhaustion, the desperate hope that they'd find Jake and Billy alive.

And they had.

Billy Jr stood up slowly. Walked over to them.

"We did it," he said quietly.

Colt nodded. His jaw was tight. "Yeah."

"Couldn't have done it without you guys." Billy Jr's voice cracked. "Any of you."

Billy Renzo wiped his eyes. "We're a team."

"No." Billy Jr shook his head. He looked at each of them—really looked at them. "We're more than that."

He put his hand on Colt's shoulder. Colt put his hand on Billy Renzo's shoulder. Billy Renzo reached for Ryan Mattern. Ryan Mattern grabbed Daniel Rodriguez. Daniel Rodriguez completed the circle, his hand finding Billy Jr's shoulder.

They stood like that, the five of them connected, holding each other up.

"We're brothers," Billy Jr said. "After this—after everything we just went through—we're brothers."

Daniel's voice was thick. "Brothers."

"Brothers," Ryan Mattern echoed.

Colt's grip tightened on Billy Renzo's shoulder. "Damn right we are."

Billy Renzo nodded, unable to speak.

They'd started this as friends. Kids who were good with computers and drones and tech. The wiz kids.

But you don't go through something like this and come out the same. You don't spend hours tracking someone you love, don't watch the heat signatures on a screen and pray they're still alive, don't stand helpless while gunfire erupts, and stay unchanged.

They'd been forged together. Tested. And they'd held.

"Okay." Billy Jr took a breath, breaking the circle but not the connection. "Let's help. Uncle Jake and Uncle Billy need water. And blankets. Tom—what else do they need?"

Tom looked up at the five of them standing together, and something like pride crossed his face. "Water's good. There's emergency blankets in Wade's vehicle. And stay with them. Just—stay close."

"We're not going anywhere," Colt said.

They moved as a unit. Billy Renzo and Daniel went for the water and blankets. Ryan Mattern stayed in the doorway, keeping watch. Colt knelt down beside Billy Jr, both of them close to Jake and Billy.

"You boys did real good," Pops said, looking at Billy Jr and Colt. His voice was rough with emotion. "Real good."

Jake's eyes moved between the five of them. "You tracked us?"

"Every mile," Billy Jr said. "Drone, heat signatures, cell tower triangulation. We didn't stop."

"Not for a second," Colt added.

Billy Renzo and Daniel came back with water bottles and blankets. They draped the blankets carefully over Jake and Billy's shoulders, then opened water bottles, holding them steady so Jake and Billy could drink.

Their hands were gentle. Careful. These weren't kids anymore.

Billy Jr watched his brothers—because that's what they were now, his brothers—taking care of his uncles. Watched the way they moved together, anticipated each other's actions, worked as one unit.

They'd come here as the wiz kids.

They'd leave as something more.

Jake and Billy sat with their backs against the wall, Tom and Josh on either side, Pops kneeling in front of them.

"You boys okay?" Tom asked.

Jake looked at Billy. Billy looked back. Then they both looked at their family—and at the five young men who'd helped bring them home.

"Better now," Jake said.

Billy nodded, his eyes wet. "Yeah. Better now."

They'd made it. Battered and bruised and barely able to move, but alive.

And their family had come for them.

Just like they always would.

Chapter 9: Hospital

Ambulance

The paramedics were gentle but efficient. Jake gritted his teeth as they lifted him onto the stretcher, his arms screaming in protest. Next to him, Billy made a sound that was half-groan, half-gasp.

"Easy," Tom said, climbing into the ambulance behind Jake's stretcher. Josh followed, settling next to Billy.

The doors closed. The siren started.

Jake stared at the ceiling of the ambulance, feeling every bump in the road like a hammer blow to his arms. The adrenaline that had kept him going was fading fast, leaving nothing but pain in its wake.

"You're okay," Tom said quietly. His hand rested on Jake's shoulder—one of the few places that didn't hurt. "You're both okay."

Jake turned his head. Billy was on the other stretcher, eyes closed, breathing shallow. Josh had his hand on Billy's chest, just resting there. Grounding him.

"Kings County Hospital," the paramedic said. "Ten minutes."

Ten minutes. Jake closed his eyes. They'd survived worse than ten minutes.

Behind them, the convoy followed. Pops in his truck with Ray. Wade with Horse and Ryan Mattern. The wiz kids—Billy Jr, Colt, Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel Rodriguez—crammed into another vehicle. The consortium fathers in their trucks, headlights cutting through the darkness.

All of them converging on Kings County Hospital.

All of them bringing Jake and Billy home.

The Waiting Room

Sarah Benson had been pacing the emergency room for hours. Since the photos came in. Since she'd seen what those animals had done to her sons.

Rebecca stood beside her in her scrubs, still and composed on the outside, but her hands were clenched tight. She'd been at the hospital when the call came—had seen the images before anyone could stop her. Her brothers-in-law. Her family.

The waiting room was full. Pops sat in one of the plastic chairs, his weathered hands gripping his knees. Ray stood against the wall, arms crossed. Wade was there with Horse and Ryan, all three men silent and grim.

The five wiz kids—Billy Jr, Colt, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—sat together in the corner, young faces tight with worry. They'd grown up with Jake and Billy. They'd learned to rope and ride from them. And now they waited.

The consortium fathers filled the rest of the space. Men who'd ridden out to bring the boys home. Men who'd become family through blood and fire.

When the ambulance pulled up, Sarah was at the doors before they opened.

The paramedics wheeled Jake out first.

"Baby," Sarah whispered, her hand going to his face. Careful. So careful. "Oh, my baby."

Jake's eyes opened. "Mom."

"I'm here." Sarah's voice broke. "I'm right here."

Billy came out next on his gurney. Sarah moved between them, one hand on each of her sons now, tears streaming down her face. "You're home. You're both home."

Pops stepped forward, and for the first time in fifty years, tears ran down his weathered cheeks. He put his hand on Jake's shoulder, then Billy's. "My boys," he said, his voice rough. "My grandsons."

Tom and Josh climbed out of the ambulance, both of them moving to stand close. Ray joined them, the three brothers forming a wall of protection around the gurneys.

The wiz kids hung back, but they were watching. Billy Jr had his jaw clenched tight. Colt's hands were fists at his sides. They wanted to help, but they didn't know how.

Wade stepped forward, his hand briefly touching Billy's arm. "You're gonna be okay, kid."

Rebecca moved through the family, her nurse's assessment already running. She could see the damage—the bruising on their arms, dark purple and black. The way they held themselves, protecting injuries. The dehydration in their faces.

"Let's get them inside," she said, her voice steady. Professional. "Dr. Peterson's waiting."

The medical staff took over then, wheeling the gurneys through the double doors. The family followed as far as they could, then stopped at the waiting room threshold.

Watching their boys disappear into the exam rooms.

Dr. Peterson and Rebecca

Dr. Peterson had been the Benson family doctor for twenty years. He'd delivered half the grandkids, set broken bones from ranch accidents, and stitched up more cuts than he could count.

But this was different.

He examined Jake first, his face grim as he checked the damage. Rebecca stood beside him, assisting with professional efficiency even as her heart broke for her brothers-in-law.

"Severe bruising on the backs of the upper arms, forearms, and wrists," Dr. Peterson said. "Consistent with repeated blunt force trauma." His fingers were gentle as he palpated Jake's arms. "Possible fractures. We'll need X-rays."

Jake hissed through his teeth.

"I know," Dr. Peterson said. "We'll get you something for the pain."

He moved to Billy. Same examination. Same grim assessment. "Ankle trauma from suspension. Dehydration. Shock." He looked at Rebecca. "Let's get X-rays on both of them. Full workup."

Rebecca nodded, already making notes. "I'll order the imaging and get IVs started."

Outside in the waiting room, Pops paced. Back and forth, his boots wearing a path in the linoleum. Ray and Tom stood together, talking in low voices. Josh sat with his head in his hands.

The wiz kids hadn't moved from their corner. Waiting. Watching the doors.

Treatment

The X-rays confirmed what Dr. Peterson suspected: fractures in both Jake's and Billy's forearms. Not severe, but enough to need casts.

"We'll position them so you can still bend at the elbow," Dr. Peterson explained as the orthopedic tech prepared the casting materials. "You'll be able to use your hands and fingers—eating, drinking, basic tasks. But no heavy lifting. No ranch work."

Jake almost laughed. Ranch work was the last thing on his mind.

The casting process was methodical. The tech worked carefully, wrapping the wet plaster around Jake's forearm, shaping it, smoothing it. Then Billy's.

Rebecca monitored everything, conferring with Dr. Peterson in low tones. She ordered pain medication—something strong enough to help but not so strong they'd be knocked out. IV fluids for the dehydration. Antibiotics as a precaution.

Sarah had been allowed back in. She sat between the beds, holding Jake's hand on one side, Billy's on the other. She hadn't stopped crying, but they were quiet tears now. Relief tears.

"You're gonna be okay," she whispered. "Both of you."

Jake squeezed her hand with his good fingers. "Yeah, Mom. We are."

Outside, Pops finally stopped pacing when Rebecca came out to update them. "Fractures in both forearms. Casts. Pain medication. They'll be okay."

The old man's shoulders sagged with relief. Ray clapped him on the back. The wiz kids looked at each other, some of the tension leaving their young faces.

Wade nodded once. "Good."

Discharge

Dr. Peterson pulled Rebecca aside after the casts had set.

"They need rest, monitoring, and care," he said. "But you're qualified to handle this at home. Keep them on the pain medication—every six hours for the first few days. Watch for signs of infection around the bruising. Keep the casts dry. Follow-up in a week for new X-rays."

Rebecca nodded. "I'll watch them."

"I know you will." Dr. Peterson looked at Jake and Billy, then back at Rebecca. "Take them home."

Rebecca turned to the family gathered in the waiting room. Tom and Josh stood immediately. Ray moved closer. Pops looked up with hope in his eyes.

"They're coming home with me," Rebecca said. Her voice was firm. Final. "I'll monitor them. They'll stay at the main house until they're healed."

No one argued. Rebecca was a practical nurse—she could order prescriptions, manage their care, handle anything that came up. And more than that, she was family.

"Caroline Beaumont and the other ladies are at the ranch," Sarah said. "They've been cooking all afternoon."

"Good," Pops said. "Let's bring our boys home."

Going Home

Getting shirts on over the casts was an adventure. Tom and Josh helped, carefully threading arms through sleeves, pulling fabric over bruised shoulders.

Jake winced but didn't complain. Neither did Billy.

The parking lot was still full of trucks. The consortium families had waited. When Jake and Billy emerged—walking slowly, casts white against their bruised arms—a cheer went up.

Not loud. Respectful. But heartfelt.

Jake raised his casted arm in acknowledgment. Billy managed a tired smile.

The wiz kids stepped forward then. Billy Jr, Colt, Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel. They didn't say anything, but they stood close. Showing their support the only way they knew how.

"Thanks, boys," Jake said quietly.

They were loaded into Tom's truck—carefully, gently. Sarah climbed in beside them. Rebecca got in the front with Tom.

Pops stood by the driver's window. "See you at home, son."

Tom nodded. "See you there, Pops."

The convoy formed up again. This time, though, they weren't hunting. They were bringing their boys home.

Jake leaned his head back against the seat, exhausted. Medicated. But alive.

Billy's shoulder pressed against his. Solid. Real.

They'd made it.

And now they were going home to family.

Where they belonged.

Chapter 10: Home

The Porch

The convoy rolled up the long drive to the Benson ranch just as the sun started its descent toward the horizon. Jake saw the house first—and then the porch.

"Holy shit," Billy muttered.

The entire porch was covered with food. Long tables set up end to end, laden with casseroles, platters of barbecue, bowls of sides, pies and cakes. Caroline Beaumont stood at the center of it all, directing the other consortium mothers like a general commanding troops.

Tom pulled to a stop and Sarah was out before the truck fully settled.

"Caroline—" Sarah's voice broke. "You didn't have to—"

"Yes, we did." Caroline pulled Sarah into a hug. "Your boys are home. That's worth celebrating."

The other mothers gathered around. Mrs. Mattern, Mrs. Rodriguez, Mrs. Chen. Women who'd stayed behind while their husbands went to war. Women who'd done what they could—prepared a feast for the warriors' return.

Jake climbed out of the truck slowly, Billy right behind him. The smell of home cooking hit him like a physical thing. His stomach growled despite the pain medication.

"Come on, boys," Caroline said, waving them forward. "You need to eat."

The consortium families gathered on the porch and in the yard. Plates were filled, beers were opened, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Jake felt himself relax.

He sat on the porch steps, Billy beside him, both of them managing their forks awkwardly with casted arms. But they managed. Around them, their family ate and talked and laughed—the sound of relief, of celebration, of coming home.

Billy Jr sat nearby with the other wiz kids, all of them eating like they hadn't seen food in days. Maybe they hadn't. Jake didn't know how long they'd been working.

"Thanks, boys," Jake said quietly, catching Billy Jr's eye.

Billy Jr nodded, his throat working. "Anytime, Uncle Jake."

Upstairs

After the food, after the hugs and the thank-yous and the promises to check in tomorrow, Jake and Billy headed upstairs to the frat house. They were exhausted—bone-deep tired—and ready to collapse.

Jake heard footsteps on the stairs behind them. He turned to see the five wiz kids following—Billy Jr, Colt, Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel. Each of them carried a sleeping bag.

"You boys need something?" Billy asked.

"We're sleeping over," Billy Jr said simply. "In the hallway."

"What?" Jake blinked.

Colt was already unrolling his sleeping bag in the hallway outside the frat house door. "We're not leaving you guys tonight."

"You don't have to—" Jake started.

"Yeah, we do," Ryan said, dropping his sleeping bag next to Colt's.

Billy Renzo and Daniel followed suit, spreading out their sleeping bags in a line across the hallway.

Jake felt something catch in his throat. Billy's eyes were wet.

"Alright then," Billy said roughly. "Appreciate it, boys."

They'd barely gotten settled—Jake and Billy on their bunks, the wiz kids arranging their sleeping bags—when more footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Pops appeared in the doorway, his arms full. Not one bottle of Jack Daniels, but three. He set them down on the floor with a thunk.

"Figured you boys earned this," Pops said.

Tom came up behind him carrying a case of beer, Josh and Ray right on his heels.

"Jesus, Pops," Jake said, staring at the bottles. "You planning to get us all court-martialed?"

"By who?" Pops grinned. "I outrank everyone in this house."

Tom distributed beers to Josh and Ray, then cracked one for himself. The brothers settled in—Jake and Billy on their bunks, the wiz kids on their sleeping bags in the hallway, Pops and the other brothers finding spots on the floor and furniture.

The Brotherhood

Pops unscrewed the first bottle of Jack Daniels and took a pull, then passed it to Tom.

"We should probably watch out for Rebecca," Ryan said nervously.

"You mean the Nurse General?" Colt said with a grin.

The room erupted in laughter.

"Nurse General!" Billy wheezed. "That's perfect."

Jake took the bottle when it came to him. "Nurse General's gonna court-martial us if she catches this."

"I'll keep lookout," Billy Renzo volunteered, positioning himself where he could see down the stairs. "Someone's gotta watch for the Nurse General on patrol."

The first bottle made its way around. Billy Jr took a small sip and his eyes watered. "Jesus."

"Builds character," Jake said.

Tom opened the second bottle. "Vietnam was hell," Pops said after a while. "But at least we knew where the enemy was. You boys did good today. Real good."

"To the wiz kids," Tom raised his beer. "Best damn search team I've ever seen."

They drank to that.

"Uncle Jake," Colt said, grinning. "Did they really catch you in your pajamas?"

Jake groaned. "Wifebeater and boxers. Yeah."

"That's embarrassing," Billy Jr said.

"You try waking up to a gun in your face," Jake shot back. "See how fashion-conscious you are."

Laughter rippled through the hallway and into the frat house. It felt good. Normal.

Billy took the Jack Daniels again. "The worst part was being upside down. Everything hurt, but your brain can't figure out which way is up."

"The drone footage showed you hanging," Ryan said quietly. "We knew it was bad."

"It was bad," Jake admitted. "But we knew you'd come. We just had to hold on."

"When we finally got the location," Daniel said, "Billy Jr just grabbed the radio and called it in. Didn't hesitate."

"Didn't have time to hesitate," Billy Jr said. "You guys were running out of time."

Jake looked at his nephew. At all five of them. "You boys became men today. You know that?"

They didn't answer, but something shifted in their faces. Pride. Understanding.

"I'm proud of all of you," Pops said quietly. "Every damn one of you."

The third bottle was opened. Stories flowed—Pops talking about Vietnam, Tom ribbing Jake about the pajamas again, the wiz kids recounting the drone search with increasing animation.

Jake looked at Billy. His brother. His best friend. The guy who'd hung upside down beside him in hell.

"We made it, brother," Jake said.

"Yeah." Billy's voice was rough. "We did."

Busted

"I can HEAR you boys up there!" Rebecca's voice echoed up the stairs.

Everyone froze.

"Nurse General's on patrol!" Colt hissed.

There was a scramble as bottles were shoved under bunks and behind sleeping bags. Beer cans disappeared into the frat house.

Rebecca appeared at the top of the stairs, hands on her hips.

But she was smiling.

"You boys think you're sneaky?" She looked at each of them in turn—the wiz kids in their sleeping bags, the brothers trying to look innocent, Pops holding an empty beer can.

"Rebecca—" Jake started.

"You get ONE night," she said firmly. "Then you follow my orders. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," they chorused.

"And Pops?" Rebecca fixed the old man with a look. "Three bottles?"

"They earned it," Pops said without apology.

Rebecca's expression softened. "Yeah. They did." She looked at Jake and Billy. "Get some rest. All of you."

She disappeared back down the stairs.

For a moment, nobody moved. Then Jake started laughing. Billy joined in. Soon the whole hallway was filled with deep, relieved, healing laughter.

"Worth it," Colt said.

Jake looked around at them all. Four Benson brothers. Pops. Five young men in sleeping bags in the hallway who'd proven themselves family.

Below, he could hear Rebecca talking to Sarah, Caroline Beaumont's voice joining in.

Home.

They were home.

And they were together—sleeping bags in the hall, brothers in bunks, healing through laughter and brotherhood.

Where they belonged.