Chapter 1: Reveille
The door to the frat house swung open at five-thirty sharp, and the smell of cigar smoke rolled in like a goddamn fog bank.
"Get your asses up!" Pops's voice cut through the dark room. "Sun's burnin' daylight and you shitheads are burnin' my patience!"
Billy groaned from the top bunk nearest the door. "Granddad, the sun ain't even up yet."
"Don't give me your lip, William." The old man kicked the frame of Jake's bunk hard enough to rattle the whole structure. "You neither, Jacob. I can see you pretendin' to sleep."
Jake cracked one eye open and flipped his grandfather the bird without lifting his head from the pillow.
"That's what I thought." Pops took a long pull on his cigar, the cherry glowing orange in the pre-dawn dark. "Five minutes. Then I'm comin' back with a bucket of water, and I don't give a fuck if your phones get wet."
The door slammed shut. Colt groaned from his mattress on the floor between the bunks. "Your grandpa's somethin' else."
"That's why we love him," Billy said, swinging his legs over the side of the top bunk. His feet dangled for a second before he dropped down, landing with a thud that shook the floorboards.
"Speak for yourself," Jake muttered, finally sitting up. His dark hair stuck up in every direction. "I'm still half-drunk from last night."
"That's 'cause you drank half the stash, dumbass." This from Celeb, who was already pulling on his jeans in the bottom bunk across from Jake. "Billy Jr., get your ass up. Your daddy's gonna be on you if you're late again."
Billy Jr. didn't move from the top bunk above Celeb. The kid could sleep through a tornado.
Jake leaned over and grabbed one of his boots from the floor. He threw it hard, and it bounced off Jr.'s mattress with a satisfying thump. "Wake up, you little shit!"
"Fuck off!" Jr.'s voice was muffled by his pillow.
"That's the spirit," Jake said, grinning. He stood up in his boxers and stretched, his back cracking. "Who's got coffee duty?"
"Your turn," Billy said.
"Bullshit. I did it yesterday."
"You did it wrong yesterday. Tasted like dirt water."
"That's 'cause it is dirt water. It's ranch coffee, not your fancy Starbucks shit."
Colt finally sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Y'all argue about the dumbest shit."
"Welcome to the Benson family," Celeb said. He was already fully dressed, tucking in his shirt. The kid was always the first one ready, which annoyed the hell out of everyone else.
Jake pulled on his jeans and grabbed a white undershirt from the pile of clean laundry someone—probably Sarah—had left folded on the chair by the door. The chair that was supposed to be for sitting but had never been used for anything except holding clothes and empty beer bottles.
Billy crouched down by his bunk and pried up one of the loose floorboards. "Granddad restocked us. Still got a full twelve-pack."
"Old man's a legend," Jake said, grinning. "Been keepin' that stash going since he was our age."
"Built the hiding spot himself back in the day," Celeb added. "Your grandpa's the best."
Billy let the board drop back into place. "We'll crack into it after work. Earned beers taste better anyway."
"Damn right," Jake said.
They were still talking when they headed downstairs five minutes later, boots half-laced and shirts untucked. The kitchen was already chaos. Sarah stood at the stove flipping eggs and bacon, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Tom sat at the head of the long table reading something on his phone, coffee mug in hand. Ray and Josh were already eating, shoveling food into their mouths like they hadn't eaten in days.
Pops sat in his usual chair by the window, brandy already poured into his coffee mug. He pointed his cigar at Jake and Billy. "Took you six minutes."
"You said five," Billy said.
"I said five. You took six. That's called failure."
"Come on, Granddad," Jake muttered, heading straight for the coffee pot.
"Don't take the Lord's name in vain in this house," Sarah said without turning around.
"Sorry, Mama."
Josh looked up from his plate. "Jake, you're takin' the feed up to the northern shed today. Fifty-pound bags. Should be about twenty of 'em in the barn."
"By myself?" Jake poured coffee into a chipped mug that said "World's Best Grandpa" on it. Pops had six of them.
"You got a problem with that?"
"Nope." Jake took a sip. Still tasted like dirt water, but it was hot and strong. "Just askin'."
"Billy, you're with Dad and Ray on the fence line. Dad, you and Jr. are movin' the herd to the east pasture." Josh wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Celeb, Colt, you're helpin' Sarah with the garden and then muckin' stalls."
"Aw, hell," Colt said.
"Watch your mouth," Sarah said, sliding eggs onto plates.
Pops laughed, a sound like gravel in a blender. "Kid's got spirit."
They ate fast—eggs, bacon, toast, more coffee. The conversation was a mix of work talk and shit-talking, mostly between Billy and Jake about who could load a truck faster, who could fix a fence better, who could ride longer without complainin'.
"You're full of shit," Jake said through a mouthful of eggs.
"You're full of shit," Billy shot back.
"Both of you are full of shit," Ray said. "Now shut up and eat."
By six-fifteen, they were heading out. The sky was just starting to lighten, purple and orange on the horizon. Jake grabbed the keys to the blue Ford from the hook by the door.
"Don't mess up my truck," Tom called after him.
"It's a piece of shit anyway," Jake called back.
"It's your piece of shit if you break it!"
Jake grinned and climbed into the cab. The engine turned over with a cough and a rattle. He could see Billy and Tom heading toward the fence line, Ray already on the four-wheeler. Jr. and Josh were walking toward the barn.
Just another day on the Benson Ranch.
He put the truck in gear and headed toward the barn to load up the feed.
The northern shed was a good thirty-minute drive. He'd be back by lunch.
At least, that was the plan.
Chapter 2: The Northern Shed
The drive north was all dirt roads and dust. Jake had the windows down, one arm hanging out, his white undershirt already sticking to his back from the heat. The bed of the Ford was loaded with fifty-pound bags of feed—twelve of them, stacked neat and tied down. His hat sat low on his head, keeping the sun out of his eyes.
The radio on his belt crackled once, then went quiet. No signal out here. Never was.
He turned off the main road onto the access trail, the truck bouncing over ruts and rocks. The northern shed sat at the edge of the property, a squat metal building with a rusted roof and a padlocked door. They used it for overflow storage—feed, tools, whatever didn't fit in the main barn.
Jake pulled up and killed the engine.
The door was open.
He sat there for a second, staring at it. The padlock was hanging loose, the chain dangling. The door itself was pushed wide, the inside dark.
"The hell?" he muttered.
He climbed out of the truck, leaving the keys in the ignition. His boots hit the dirt, and he adjusted his hat, squinting at the shed. Maybe Ray had been out here yesterday. Maybe someone forgot to lock it.
Or maybe not.
He took two steps toward the shed when he heard the crunch of gravel behind him.
Jake turned.
Three men stood there. Two of them were built like linebackers—thick necks, broad shoulders, the kind of guys who could throw hay bales all day and not break a sweat. The third was tall and lean, a red bandana tied around his face, covering his nose and mouth.
All three of them had rifles.
Jake stopped. His jaw tightened, but he didn't move. He looked at the guns, then at the men, then back at the guns.
Then he walked back to the truck, slow and easy, and leaned against the hood. He crossed his arms over his chest and smirked.
"So what the fuck do you want?" he said. "Cattle feed?"
The tall one with the bandana stepped forward. "No, dumbass."
"My truck?"
"Yes." The man's voice was flat, calm. "And something else."
Jake tilted his head. "Yeah? What's that?"
"Ever been tied up?"
Jake's smirk widened. "Not by anyone I didn't want to be tied up by."
One of the big guys snorted. The tall one didn't react.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small bottle. Clear liquid inside, no label. He tossed it to Jake.
Jake caught it, looked at it, then looked back at the man. "What is this?"
"Drink it."
"No fuckin' way."
The tall one nodded. One of the big guys stepped forward, raised his rifle, and clicked the safety off. The barrel was pointed right at Jake's head.
"Fuckin' drink it," the tall one said.
Jake stared at the gun. His jaw worked, his teeth grinding. Then he looked down at the bottle in his hand.
"Fuck," he muttered.
He twisted the cap off and drank.
It was bitter. Burned like hell going down. He coughed, his eyes watering, and dropped the bottle in the dirt.
"There," he said, his voice rough. "Happy?"
The tall one didn't answer.
Jake blinked. His vision blurred at the edges. He tried to push off the hood, but his legs didn't work right. His knees buckled.
"Shit—"
He fell forward, hit the dirt hard. His hat tumbled off his head and landed beside him. He tried to get up, but his arms wouldn't move. Everything was spinning.
The last thing he heard was the tall one's voice, calm and cold.
"Tie him up."
Jake didn't see what happened next.
They worked fast. The tall one pulled out rope—good rope, the kind that didn't stretch—and got to work. He tied Jake's left wrist to his right bicep, then his right wrist to his left bicep, pulling the knots tight. Then he lashed Jake's forearms together, wrapping the rope around and around, frapping it in the middle so it wouldn't slip.
One of the big guys tied Jake's ankles. A bootied tie, neat and professional.
Then they hogtied him, connecting his legs to his forearms, pulling everything tight so Jake was arched backward, his body locked in place.
The tall one pulled a rag from his pocket and shoved it in Jake's mouth, tying it off behind his head.
One of the big guys pulled out a pair of clippers.
"Do it," the tall one said.
They shaved Jake's head. Not all of it—just enough. Rough, uneven cuts, hair falling into the dirt. When they were done, they gathered it up and stuffed it into Jake's hat.
The tall one set the hat in the dirt beside Jake. Then he pulled off Jake's radio and belt and set them next to the hat.
He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and tucked it under the radio.
The note read: The torture just began. It will get worse.
One of the big guys pulled out a camera and took a photo. The flash went off, bright in the morning sun.
Then they picked Jake up—still unconscious, still tied—and carried him to the truck. They dumped him in the bed with the feed bags, covering him with a tarp.
The tall one climbed into the driver's seat of the blue Ford. The other two got into a black pickup parked behind the shed.
The engines started. The trucks pulled away, kicking up dust.
The northern shed was empty.
Silent.
In the dirt where Jake had fallen, his hat lay full of his cut hair. His radio and belt sat beside it. The note fluttered in the breeze.
Chapter 3: Something's Wrong
Billy's shoulders were screaming by the time they finished the fence line. Three hours of stretching wire and pounding posts in the July heat. Tom clapped him on the back as they loaded the last of the tools into the bed of the truck.
"Good work," Tom said.
Ray wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "Could use a beer."
The sound of an engine made them all turn. The ranch Chevy bounced over the ridge, Jr. behind the wheel. He pulled up beside them and killed the engine.
"Cattle are moved," Jr. called through the open window. "Josh is heading to the south pasture."
Billy grabbed his water bottle from the truck bed and drained half of it. "Jake back yet?"
Jr. shook his head. "Haven't seen him."
Billy checked his watch. Nearly noon. "He should've been done by now."
Tom frowned. "How long's it take to drop feed?"
"Hour, maybe," Billy said. "He left at seven."
Ray spat into the dirt. "Maybe he's taking his sweet time."
"Or fell asleep in the truck again," Jr. said.
Tom looked at Billy, then at Jr. "You two go check on him. Ray and I'll take the gear back to the barn."
Billy nodded and climbed into the Chevy's passenger seat. Jr. turned the truck around and they headed north, bouncing over the rough roads that cut through the property.
"Think he fell asleep?" Jr. asked.
"Probably," Billy said. "He was out till three last night."
"Doing what?"
"Fuck if I know."
The northern shed came into view over the next rise. Billy sat up straighter, scanning the area.
Jake's blue Ford wasn't there.
"Where's his truck?" Jr. said.
Billy's gut twisted. "Pull up."
Jr. stopped the Chevy twenty feet from the shed. They both got out.
"Jake!" Billy called.
Nothing.
"Jake!" Jr. tried.
Still nothing.
Billy walked toward the shed, his boots crunching in the dirt. The door was open. The inside was empty except for the feed bags stacked against the wall.
"Billy."
Jr.'s voice was tight. Billy turned.
Jr. was standing near the side of the shed, staring down at something in the dirt.
Billy's heart dropped. He crossed the distance in four strides.
Jake's hat lay in the dirt. Filled with hair. Roughly cut chunks of Jake's dark hair.
Next to it: his radio. His belt.
And a folded piece of paper tucked under the radio.
Billy dropped to his knees. His hands were shaking as he reached for the hat. He ran his fingers through Jake's hair—the hair they'd cut off him—and his vision blurred.
"What the fuck," he said. His voice cracked.
Jr. picked up the note. Unfolded it. Read it aloud.
"The torture just began. It will get worse."
Billy clutched the hat to his chest. Hair spilled through his fingers. He couldn't breathe. Jake was his twin. Not by blood, but by everything that mattered. They'd grown up together. Worked together. Fought together.
And now someone had taken him.
"Billy." Jr.'s voice was steady. Calm. "We need to call it in."
Jr. pulled his radio from his belt and hit the emergency button three times.
Three beeps. Then a mechanical voice: "911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr."
The frequency crackled to life.
Billy forced himself to stand. He grabbed his own radio with a shaking hand and keyed the mic. His voice came out raw. Breaking.
"This is Billy. Northern shed. Jake's gone. Truck's gone. They cut his hair. Left a note. Says the torture just began."
Silence.
Then chaos.
Tom's voice, sharp and furious: "What?"
Ray: "Who the hell took him?"
Josh—Jr.'s dad—tight control: "Billy, say again."
Pops, already moving: "I'm ten minutes out."
Colt: "We're coming."
Then Sheriff Wade Nelson's voice cut through. Jr.'s grandfather. Part of the consortium.
"Don't touch anything. I'm calling it in to the county. Stay put."
Billy dropped to his knees again. He stared at the dirt. Scuff marks. Signs of a struggle.
Jr. crouched beside him. Sixteen years old, but his voice was focused. Steady.
"They took him, Billy. But he's alive. The note says it'll get worse. That means he's still alive."
Billy wanted to scream. Wanted to punch something. Wanted to tear the kidnappers apart with his bare hands.
"We're gonna find him," Jr. said.
Billy nodded. He was still holding the hat. Still holding Jake's hair.
"Yeah," he said. "We are."
The radio crackled. Voices overlapping. The consortium mobilizing.
And somewhere out there, Jake was running out of time.
Chapter 4: All Hell Breaking Loose
The ranch house was already packed when Billy and Jr. pulled in. Trucks lined the driveway—the Nelsons' vehicles, the Beaumonts' SUV, the Renzos' pickup. The consortium had mobilized fast.
Billy climbed out, still clutching Jake's hat. The cut hair inside shifted with the movement, and his stomach turned.
The front door opened. Edna Nelson came down the steps, her face pale. Twenty-one, dark hair pulled back, eyes locked on Billy.
"Billy," she said. Her voice cracked.
He didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to tell his girlfriend that his brother was gone, that someone had cut his hair and left it like a fucking trophy.
She reached him and wrapped her arms around him. He stood there, frozen, the hat still in his hands.
"We'll find him," she whispered.
Behind her, Jr. was already moving. He hit the porch at a run, and Billy heard the thunder of footsteps inside—Jr.'s friends, the other wiz kids. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez. All sixteen, all brilliant, all sprinting for the stairs.
"Command center!" Jr. shouted.
The sound of boots on wood, then the slam of a door on the second floor. Between the frat house wing and Pops' bedroom. Their tech hub.
Within seconds, Billy heard the hum of computers firing up, the rapid clatter of keyboards.
Edna pulled back, looked at the hat in his hands. Her face went white.
"Is that—"
"Yeah."
She touched his arm. "Come inside."
The living room was chaos. Controlled, but chaos.
Tom stood by the fireplace, his face carved from stone. Sarah sat on the couch, hands clasped tight in her lap, shaking but upright. Rebecca—Jr.'s mom, Josh's wife—sat beside her, one hand on Sarah's shoulder. Nurse-calm, steady.
Mary Nelson was in the kitchen with Caroline Beaumont and Anna Nelson, Jr.'s sixteen-year-old girlfriend. Coffee brewing. Voices low.
The men filled the rest of the space.
Pops sat in his chair, a brandy in one hand, unlit cigar in the other. Seventy-six years old, Vietnam vet, and looking like he was ready to grab a rifle and go to war.
Josh stood near Tom, arms crossed. General Manager. Trying to keep it together.
Ray leaned against the wall, jaw tight. Business Manager. Already thinking three steps ahead.
Sheriff Wade Nelson stood in the center of the room, still in uniform. Tall, gray-haired, authority in every line of his body. His sons flanked him—Wilson "Horse" Nelson and Ryan Nelson, both deputies, both armed.
Robert Beaumont stood near the window with his sons, Celeb and Colt. Celeb was twenty-one, built like a linebacker. Colt was seventeen, fists clenched.
Wade's eyes found Billy. "You have the note?"
Billy pulled it from his pocket, handed it over. Wade unfolded it, read it silently, then looked up.
"Here's what we know," Wade said. His voice cut through the noise. "Jake was taken from the northern shed this morning. His truck is gone. They left his hat filled with cut hair, his radio, his belt, and this note."
He held it up. "'The torture just began. It will get worse.'"
Silence.
Then Pops exploded.
He hurled his brandy glass into the fireplace. It shattered, flames jumping. "Motherfuckers!" He was on his feet, cigar jabbing the air. "I'll kill every last one of them! You hear me? I'll—"
"Dad." Tom's voice was quiet. Deadly. "Sit down."
Pops glared at him. But he sat.
Wade continued. "We don't know who. We don't know where. No ransom demand yet."
"They'll contact us," Ray said. His voice was flat. Certain. "Has to be about money or leverage. They didn't take him to kill him. Not yet."
Billy's hands curled into fists. "So what the fuck do we do? Just wait?"
"The note means they want us scared," Josh said. He looked at Billy, and his voice was steady. Focused. "But it also means Jake's alive. They're playing a game. We don't panic."
"I want state police," Wade said. "FBI if it comes to it."
"No." Tom's voice was iron. "Not yet."
Wade turned. "Tom—"
"You bring in outsiders, they might panic. Might hurt Jake worse." Tom's eyes were hard. "We wait. Twenty-four hours. If they don't contact us by then, you make the call."
Wade stared at him. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Twenty-four hours."
From upstairs, the sound of typing intensified. Voices, muffled but urgent. The wiz kids were already working.
Billy looked at the hat in his hands. At the hair inside. His brother's hair.
"When they contact us," he said, "I want to be the one who answers."
Wade met his eyes. "You will be."
The room settled into a tense, waiting silence. Coffee appeared. Cigars were lit. The women gathered in the kitchen, voices low, supporting each other. Edna stayed close to Billy, her hand on his back.
Upstairs, the wiz kids worked.
And somewhere out there, Jake was running out of time.
But the Bensons weren't going to just sit and wait.
Because when the kidnappers made contact, the Bensons and the consortium would be ready.
And God help whoever had taken Jake Benson.
Chapter 5: The First Message
Three hours crawled by like three days.
Billy sat at the kitchen table, coffee gone cold in front of him. Edna had stopped trying to get him to eat. Across from him, Colt cleaned his rifle for the third time. Jr. paced. Tom stood by the window, staring out at nothing.
Pops sat in his chair, jaw working around an unlit cigar.
The waiting was its own kind of torture.
Ray was on his laptop at the dining table, pulling up account information, making calls to banks. Preparing. Josh stood behind him, watching the numbers.
Wade checked his watch. Again.
"They'll call," he said. "They want the money. They'll call."
Tom's phone rang.
The room went dead silent.
Tom pulled it from his pocket, looked at the screen. Unknown number. He held it up so Wade could see.
"Answer it," Wade said. "Speaker."
Tom hit the button. "Yeah."
A voice, electronically distorted, filled the room. "Tom Benson. You found our gift."
"Where's my son?"
"Alive. For now." A pause. "Check your messages. You have twelve hours."
The line went dead.
Tom's phone buzzed. A text. He opened it.
Billy saw his father's face go white.
"What?" Billy was on his feet. "What is it?"
Tom turned the phone around.
The photo hit Billy like a fist to the gut.
Jake. Dumped in the bed of his own truck, surrounded by feed bags. Arms wrenched behind his back in that brutal tie—left wrist to right bicep, right wrist to left bicep, forearms lashed together and wrapped tight. Ankles bound. The hogtie rope connecting his legs to his arms, pulling everything taut. Gagged with what looked like a bandana.
His brother's face was visible, turned to the side. Eyes closed, knocked out. His skin pale, sweat on his forehead. Unconscious but breathing.
"Jesus Christ," Billy breathed.
The text below the photo was short:
$750,000. Instructions to follow. You have 12 hours. If we don't have confirmation the money is ready, we hoist him off the floor by those arms. Shoulders dislocate. Permanent damage. Twelve hours.
"MOTHERFUCKERS!" Pops was out of his chair, face purple. "I'll kill every goddamn one of them! I'll—"
"Dad." Tom's voice cut through. "Sit down."
"They're threatening to cripple him!"
"I know." Tom's jaw was tight. "Sit. Down."
Pops sat, shaking with rage.
Wade took the phone, studied the photo. "They're professionals. This isn't amateur hour. That tie—" He gestured at the screen. "That's designed to hurt. And the threat? Strappado. Medieval torture. They know what they're doing."
"Can we trace it?" Josh asked.
"Wiz kids," Wade said immediately. "Get that photo and the number upstairs. Now."
Jr. grabbed the phone and bolted for the stairs.
Ray was already on his feet. "Seven-fifty. I can have it ready in six hours. Maybe five if I push the banks hard enough. We've got the operating accounts, the reserve fund, and I can pull from the equipment line of credit—"
"Do it," Tom said.
"Tom." Wade's voice was careful. "This is a credible threat. Twelve hours. We need to consider bringing in—"
"No." Tom turned. "Twelve hours isn't enough time for the FBI to mobilize without spooking them. You said it yourself—they're professionals. They're watching. We bring in a federal response, they'll know."
"He's right," Josh said. "Twelve hours? That's designed to keep us scrambling. Keep us from organizing outside help."
Wade was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded. "All right. We do this ourselves." He looked around the room. "We have the resources. We have the tech upstairs. We have the money. And we have twelve hours to find him before they make good on that threat."
"What do we need?" Colt asked. His rifle was assembled, ready.
"Ray, you're on the money. I want confirmation we can move it the second they give us instructions." Wade pointed at Josh. "You coordinate with Ray. Make sure we're not getting played on the financial end."
"On it."
"Billy." Wade turned. "You're still point on communication. When they send instructions, you respond. Keep them talking if you can."
Billy nodded. His hands were shaking. He shoved them in his pockets.
"Pops, Tom, Colt—you're with me. We prep for extraction. The second we get a location, we move. Fast and quiet."
From upstairs, footsteps thundered. Jr. appeared at the top of the stairs. "They're on it! Analyzing the photo now—metadata, background, anything that might give us location!"
"Good." Wade checked his watch. "Eleven forty-three. That puts us at eleven forty-three tonight for the deadline. We work in shifts. Nobody burns out. We stay sharp."
The room mobilized.
Ray was back on his laptop, phone pressed to his ear. "Yeah, I need to move funds—no, I don't care if it's after hours, wake up your manager—"
Josh pulled up spreadsheets, tracking accounts.
Tom and Colt started pulling gear from the gun safe. Rifles. Ammunition. Body armor that hadn't been touched in years.
Billy stood in the middle of it all, staring at Tom's phone on the table. At the photo of Jake, tied and helpless.
Edna touched his arm. "He's alive, Billy."
"For now." Billy's voice was hollow. "Twelve hours."
"Then we have twelve hours to get him back."
Upstairs, the wiz kids were shouting, voices overlapping. Something about GPS data and image compression.
Wade stood at the head of the table, radio in hand. "All right, people. Clock's ticking. Let's bring Jake home."
The Benson ranch house had become a war room.
And somewhere out there, Jake was tied up and waiting.
Twelve hours.
The countdown had begun.
Chapter 6: Awake
Jake's first thought was that his shoulders were tearing apart.
His second was that he couldn't breathe.
Pain—white-hot, blinding—radiated from his shoulders down through his arms, up into his neck. His arms were wrenched behind him, pulled up at an angle that made his brain scream wrong, wrong, wrong. He tried to move and couldn't. Tried to lower his arms and they wouldn't budge.
What the fuck.
His eyes cracked open. Wood floor beneath him—inches beneath him. His boots. He was standing. No—not standing. Barely touching. Tip-toes. All his weight pulling down on his arms, his shoulders, the rope cutting into his wrists behind his back.
He was hanging.
Oh God.
He tried to get his feet flat, tried to push up, relieve the pressure. His legs were shaking. How long had he been like this? His calves screamed. His shoulders were on fire.
Something was in his mouth—cloth, tied tight, forcing his jaw open. He tried to breathe deep and choked. Had to breathe through his nose. Slow. Couldn't panic.
But he was panicking.
His head hung forward, sweat dripping from his face to the floor. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to his back. It was hot—stifling, airless. Every breath was work. Every second his arms were pulled higher behind him, his shoulders wrenched back, his body weight dragging him down.
He blinked, trying to focus. Barn. Old building. Dim light filtering through gaps in the walls. Smell of dust and motor oil and rot. His blue Ford was parked nearby, feed bags still in the bed.
Not the shed. Somewhere else. They'd moved him.
He tried to push up on his toes again, get some relief. His legs were shaking so hard he could barely hold himself. When he rose up, the pressure eased for a second—blessed, desperate relief—but his calves gave out and he dropped and the pain in his shoulders made him see stars.
He groaned into the gag. Tried to scream. It came out muffled, pathetic.
How long have I been up here?
Hours, maybe. His muscles were shaking. His wrists were numb where the rope bit in. His shoulders felt like they were pulling out of their sockets.
Billy's looking for me. Dad. They're coming.
He had to believe that.
Footsteps.
Jake's heart slammed against his ribs.
The door creaked open. Boots on wood. Two sets, maybe three.
"Well, look who's awake."
The tall one. Same voice from before, cold and amused. Jake lifted his head—barely—and saw him through the sweat dripping into his eyes. Same bandana. Same dead eyes above it.
"How're those shoulders feeling, cowboy?"
Jake tried to say fuck you but it came out as a muffled grunt.
The tall one walked closer, circling him. "Your family's got twelve hours. But we figured they needed a little... motivation." He nodded to one of the others. "Get the camera ready."
Jake's stomach dropped.
One of them pulled out a phone. Started recording.
"Time for your family to see what happens if they don't pay up," the tall one said.
He walked to the wall—to where the rope was tied off. Jake's rope. The one holding him up.
No. No, no, no—
The tall one grabbed the rope and pulled.
Jake's boots left the floor.
His full weight dropped onto his arms and he screamed into the gag—a raw, animal sound that tore out of his throat. His shoulders exploded in agony, white-hot pain like they were ripping apart, dislocating, tearing. He thrashed, tried to kick, tried to find the floor, but there was nothing. Nothing but the rope and the pain and his arms wrenched up behind him and his shoulders breaking—
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Just pain.
The tall one tied off the rope. Stepped back.
Jake hung there, writhing, sobbing into the gag. His vision swam. He tried to scream again but he had no air, no breath, just the crushing pressure in his chest and the fire in his shoulders and the rope cutting into his wrists.
"Make sure you get his face," the tall one said.
The camera moved closer. Jake squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the sweat. He was shaking—his whole body convulsing. He tried to pull his arms down, tried to find any relief, but there was none. Just the rope. Just the pain.
Seconds crawled by like hours.
He couldn't stop the sounds coming out of him—muffled screams, sobs, desperate gasps through his nose. His shoulders were dislocating. He could feel it. Something was tearing, something was wrong—
"That's good," the tall one said. "One minute. Make sure they see."
One minute.
Jake didn't think he could last one more second.
His vision was going dark at the edges. His lungs burned. His shoulders were past pain now—just a white-hot numbness that meant something had broken, something had given way.
Please. Please.
Finally—finally—the tall one walked back to the rope.
"All right. That's enough."
He loosened it. Jake's boots hit the floor and his legs buckled. He would've collapsed if the rope hadn't still been holding him up. He hung there, tip-toes barely touching, sobbing into the gag, shaking so hard his teeth chattered.
His shoulders were ruined. He could feel it. Something torn, something dislocated. Every tiny movement sent fresh waves of agony through him.
"That's what happens if they're late," the tall one said, leaning close. "Next time, we leave you up there. Understand?"
Jake couldn't respond. Couldn't do anything but cry.
The tall one straightened. "Send it."
Footsteps. The door opened, closed.
Silence.
Jake hung there, boots barely touching the floor, head bent forward, sweat and tears dripping onto the wood. His whole body shook. His shoulders screamed. He tried to push up on his toes, relieve the pressure, but his legs were gone. He dropped again and whimpered.
They saw that. Billy saw that. Dad saw that.
The thought made him want to die.
But it also meant they were coming. They had to be coming.
Hold on. Just hold on.
He didn't know how much longer he could.
Time crawled. Every second was agony. His shoulders were a solid wall of fire. His wrists were numb, then burning, then numb again. His legs shook, gave out, shook again.
He stared at his truck through blurred vision. So close. Completely useless.
Please. Please come find me.
Somewhere out there, his family was looking for him.
He just had to survive long enough for them to find him.
Chapter 7: The Video
Tom's phone buzzed.
The entire room went silent. Every head turned. Tom pulled it from his pocket, looked at the screen, and his jaw tightened.
"It's them," he said.
Wade crossed the room in three strides. "What is it?"
"Video file." Tom's thumb hovered over the screen.
"We need to see it," Wade said.
Billy was already moving. "Play it."
Tom looked at him. "Billy—"
"Play it."
Tom didn't argue. He tapped the screen and set the phone on the table. Ray, Josh, Pops, Colt, and a handful of the other men crowded around. Billy stood closest, his hands clenched into fists.
The video started.
The image was shaky at first, then steadied. A shed. Dim light. And Jake.
He was strung up by his forearms, rope tied to a beam above him. His boots barely touched the floor, toes straining. His head hung forward, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His shirt was soaked. Even through the screen, you could see him shaking.
"Jesus," someone whispered.
Then the rope moved.
Jake's body jerked upward—completely off the floor. His back arched, his legs kicked, and even through the gag, the scream was audible. High and desperate and wrong.
Billy's breath stopped.
Jake thrashed, his whole body twisting, shoulders wrenching at angles they weren't meant to go. The scream didn't stop. It went on and on, muffled and broken and full of agony.
"One minute," a distorted voice said off-camera.
The seconds crawled. Jake kept screaming. Kept writhing. His face was red, veins standing out in his neck, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Billy couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't look away.
Sixty seconds.
Then the rope lowered. Jake's boots hit the floor and his legs buckled. He hung there, sobbing into the gag, his whole body shaking violently.
The video ended.
The room was dead silent.
Then Tom's phone buzzed again. A text message: This is what happens if you're late. You have 9 hours. Instructions coming soon.
Billy exploded.
"I'm gonna kill them!" He grabbed the edge of the table, flipped it, sent Tom's phone and a stack of maps flying. "I'm gonna find those fuckers and I'm gonna—"
Edna was there, hands on his chest. "Billy—"
"They're torturing him!" His voice cracked. "Did you see—did you fucking see that?"
"I saw it." Her voice was steady but her eyes were wet. "We all saw it."
Tom stood frozen, staring at the overturned table. His hands were shaking. His face was stone but his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Pops grabbed a chair and hurled it across the room. It smashed into the wall. "Goddamn animals!" He turned, face red, veins bulging. "I want those sons of bitches dead. You hear me? Dead."
Wade's professional mask cracked. He ran a hand over his face, exhaled hard. "Jesus Christ. They're torturing him. They're actually—" He stopped. Shook his head. "We need to move. Now."
Josh was already pulling out his radio. "I'm calling everyone in. Full mobilization. We're not waiting."
Footsteps thundered from the other room. Sarah burst through the doorway, Rebecca right behind her.
"What happened?" Sarah's voice was sharp. "I heard—what was that?"
"Sarah, don't—" Rebecca started.
"What happened?"
Tom turned. "They sent a video."
"Show me."
"Mom, you don't want to—"
"Show me."
Tom picked up his phone. His hand was still shaking. He pulled up the video and held it out.
Sarah took it. Pressed play.
Billy watched her face. Watched her eyes go wide. Watched her hand fly to her mouth. Watched her knees buckle as Jake's scream filled the room again.
Rebecca caught her. "Sarah—"
"That's my baby." Sarah's voice broke. "That's my—oh God, they're—"
She couldn't finish. She doubled over, sobbing, and Rebecca held her while the video played out.
Boots pounded down the stairs. Jr. hit the bottom step at a run, the wiz kids right behind him.
"What the hell happened?" Jr. demanded.
"They sent a video," Wade said. His voice was flat. Cold. "They're torturing him."
Jr.'s face went white. "Let me see it."
Tom handed him the phone.
Jr. watched. His jaw tightened. His hands clenched. When it ended, he looked up. "We're going after them. Right now."
"Damn right we are," Pops growled.
"Wait." One of the wiz kids—Marcus—stepped forward. "The video. Let me analyze it. There might be metadata, background sounds, visual clues. Anything that could help us narrow the location."
Jr. looked at Wade.
Wade nodded. "Do it. Fast."
Marcus grabbed the phone and bolted back upstairs, two other kids on his heels.
Wade turned to the room. "Listen up. We're not waiting for the ransom exchange. We're not playing their game. We find him, we get him out, and we put those bastards in the ground. Understood?"
A chorus of agreement. Grim faces. Hands on rifles.
"Ray, where are we on the money?" Wade asked.
"Seven hundred thousand in hand. Fifty more by noon."
"Good. We'll have it ready in case we need it, but we're not counting on it." Wade looked at Josh. "Get everyone mobilized. I want search teams ready to move the second we have a location."
Josh was already on the radio.
Billy stood in the middle of the chaos, fists still clenched, breathing hard. Edna's hand was on his arm but he barely felt it.
All he could see was Jake. Screaming. Thrashing. Sobbing.
Nine hours.
Upstairs, keyboards clattered. Voices called out coordinates, data points, possibilities.
Downstairs, men checked rifles, loaded trucks, strapped on radios.
Sarah sat in a chair, Rebecca beside her, both of them crying.
Tom stood by the window, staring out at the ranch, his hands finally still.
And somewhere out there, Jake was hanging by his wrists, waiting.
The Benson ranch had gone to war.
Chapter 8: The Rescue
Jr. came thundering down the stairs, laptop in one hand, phone in the other.
"We've got it!" he shouted. "GPS location from Jake's truck!"
The room erupted.
Wade was on him in two strides. "Where?"
Jr. pulled up a map on his laptop. "Old Hendricks property. Abandoned for years. Thirty, maybe forty minutes north."
"Coordinates?" Wade barked.
One of the wiz kids rattled them off. Wade punched them into his phone, then looked at Josh. "Get the convoy ready. We move in five."
"We're coming with you," Jr. said.
Wade started to argue, then stopped. "Fine. Mobile command center. You'll coordinate from a truck."
"Already on it," Jr. said. "We've got satellite internet, iPads for real-time coordination. You, Tom, and Josh get one each. And we're streaming everything back to the ranch so the women can see what's happening."
Within minutes, the convoy was rolling.
Wade's cruiser led the way, Wilson and Ryan in tactical gear beside him. Tom's truck followed, Pops riding shotgun. Josh's Ram came next, then Ray's vehicle with Billy, Colt, Celeb, and Robert packed inside. The mobile command truck brought up the rear, Jr. and three other wiz kids inside with laptops and equipment.
Wade's voice crackled over the encrypted radio. "Radio check. Everyone copy?"
One by one, they confirmed.
Billy stared out the window, rifle between his knees, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
Hold on, Jake. We're coming.
At the ranch house, Sarah sat at the kitchen table, Billy's iPad propped in front of her. Mary, Edna, Anna, and Caroline crowded around her, all of them staring at the screen.
The drone feed was live. They could see the convoy moving down the highway, headlights cutting through the darkness.
"I can't watch this," Anna whispered. But she didn't look away.
Sarah's hands were clasped so tight her knuckles were white. "They'll get him. They have to."
Mary put a hand on her shoulder. "They will, honey. They will."
A mile out, Wade called a halt.
The convoy pulled off the road into a clearing. Jr. and the wiz kids spilled out of the command truck, already launching drones from the back.
"Two drones up," Jr. said into his radio. "Cameras live in thirty seconds."
Wade, Tom, and Josh gathered around Jr.'s iPad. The screen flickered, then resolved into an aerial view.
An old barn. Weathered wood, half the roof caved in. And parked right outside—
"That's Jake's truck," Tom said, his voice tight.
Jr. zoomed in. "Heat signatures inside the building. Four of them. Three moving around. One stationary."
"That's him," Billy said from behind them. "That's Jake."
Wade nodded. "We move in fast. Surround the building. Wilson, Ryan, you're with me on the front approach. Tom, take the east side. Josh, west. Everyone else, fill in the gaps. Nobody gets out."
"What about the drones?" Jr. asked.
"Keep them up. We need eyes."
The convoy rolled forward, slower now, engines low.
Inside the barn, the tall one was pacing.
Jake hung from the beam, barely conscious, his shoulders screaming. Every breath was agony. He'd stopped trying to move. Stopped trying to think.
Then he heard it.
A buzzing sound. Faint at first, then louder.
The tall one froze. "What the fuck is that?"
The other two looked up. One of them went to the door, cracked it open.
"Drones!" he hissed. "There's fucking drones out there!"
"What?"
The tall one bolted to the door, looked out. Two drones circled overhead, cameras pointed down.
"They found us," he said. His voice was flat. Cold. "Move. Now."
"What about him?" one of the others asked, jerking his head toward Jake.
The tall one grabbed the rope. "String him up. We're leaving him."
They hauled on the rope, pulling Jake completely off the floor. His scream was muffled by the gag, his body convulsing as his full weight hung from his wrists.
The tall one tied off the rope, grabbed his rifle. "Let's go."
They ran for the door.
At the ranch, Sarah gasped as the drone feed showed three men bursting out of the barn, rifles in hand.
"Oh God," she breathed.
The women watched in horror as the convoy roared into view, as Wade's voice boomed over the loudspeaker, as the tall one spun and opened fire.
Caroline covered her mouth. Anna grabbed Mary's hand. Edna closed her eyes but kept listening.
The gunfire was brief. Brutal. Then silence.
"They got them," Mary whispered. "They got all three."
Sarah's eyes were locked on the screen as Billy sprinted toward the barn. "Please let him be alive. Please."
Wade saw them burst out of the barn on his iPad screen.
"Contact!" Jr. shouted over the radio. "Three armed suspects exiting the building!"
Wade hit the gas. The cruiser roared forward, the rest of the convoy right behind him.
They came around the bend and the barn was right there. The kidnappers were running for their vehicles, rifles in hand.
Wade slammed on the brakes, threw open his door, and grabbed the loudspeaker.
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS! SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT!"
The tall one spun and opened fire.
The windshield of Wade's cruiser spiderwebbed. Wade dove behind the door, Wilson and Ryan already returning fire from behind the engine block.
Tom's truck skidded to a stop, and he was out with his rifle, firing from behind the bed. Josh's Ram came in from the west, Pops leaning out the window with a shotgun.
The gunfight was short and brutal.
The tall one went down first, three rounds to the chest. The second kidnapper made it two steps before Ryan dropped him with a headshot. The third tried to run and Tom put him down with a single shot to the back.
Silence.
Smoke drifted across the dirt. Three bodies lay sprawled in front of the barn.
Billy didn't wait. He was out of the truck and sprinting for the barn before anyone could stop him.
"JAKE!"
He hit the door and saw him.
Hanging from the beam, head down, body limp. Sweat dripping onto the dirt below.
"JAKE!"
Tom, Wade, Pops, Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, Colt, and Celeb poured in behind him. They all stopped, staring at Jake's suspended form.
"Jesus Christ," Pops breathed.
Tom pulled out a knife, climbed onto a crate, and reached for the suspension rope. "Catch him!"
Billy and Wade positioned themselves below Jake, arms ready. Pops moved in beside them. Tom sawed through the rope.
Jake dropped. They caught him, his dead weight nearly taking them all down, and lowered him carefully to the ground on his side.
"Easy, easy," Wade said. "Watch his shoulders."
Jake's arms were still bound behind him in the complex tie—left wrist to right bicep, right wrist to left bicep, forearms lashed together and frapped tight. His body was twisted, his shoulders wrenched at unnatural angles.
"Jesus," Billy breathed.
"We have to be careful," Tom said, kneeling beside Jake with the knife. "His shoulders might be dislocated. One wrong move and we could make it worse."
He started with the frapping, cutting the rope that cinched the forearm bindings tight. Then he carefully worked on the rope connecting Jake's left wrist to his right bicep, sawing slowly, supporting Jake's arm as the tension released.
Jake groaned into the gag, his body trembling. Tears streaked through the dirt on his face.
"Almost there, brother," Billy said, his hands shaking as he helped support Jake's other arm. "Almost there. I got you."
Tom cut the second binding, then the rope lashing Jake's forearms together. Jake's arms fell forward, and he screamed, even through the gag.
"Shoulders are bad," Wade said. "Don't move him too much."
Billy worked on the ankle bindings while Tom pulled the gag out of Jake's mouth. Jake gasped, coughing, sobbing, barely conscious.
Pops knelt down beside Jake's head, his weathered hand gentle on Jake's hair. "Hey. Hey, you little shit. Wake up and look at me."
Jake's eyes fluttered open, unfocused.
"There you are," Pops said, his voice rough with emotion. "Scared the hell out of us, boy."
"Pops?" Jake's voice was barely a whisper.
"Yeah, it's me. You're okay now. You hear me? You're okay."
Jake started crying harder, his whole body shaking. "I thought—I thought—"
"I know," Tom said, his own voice breaking as he wrapped a blanket around Jake. "But you're safe now. We got you."
Jr. appeared with a water bottle, unscrewing the cap with shaking hands. "Here. Small sips."
Billy helped lift Jake's head slightly while Jr. held the bottle to his lips. Jake drank a little, coughed, drank more.
"Billy?" Jake rasped, his eyes finding his brother's face.
"I'm here," Billy said, tears streaming down his face. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
Colt and Celeb hovered nearby, both looking shaken. "Ambulance is almost here," Colt said quietly.
"Hang on just a little longer, Jake," Celeb added. "You're doing great, man."
Jake's eyes drifted around the barn, taking in all the faces. His family. His brothers. All of them here for him.
"They were gonna—" Jake started.
"I know," Billy said. "But they didn't. You're alive. That's all that matters."
Wade was already on the radio. "Dispatch, this is Sheriff Wade Benson. We need an ambulance at the old Hendricks property. One victim, critical condition. Multiple suspects down."
They kept Jake warm, kept him talking, kept him conscious. Tom checked his shoulders as gently as he could. Pops stayed by his head, one hand on Jake's shoulder, grounding him.
"You did good, kid," Pops said gruffly. "Real good. Stayed alive. That's what matters."
Jake tried to nod, winced at the pain. "Hurts."
"I know it does," Tom said. "But help's coming. Just hold on."
At the ranch, Sarah watched through tears as the men surrounded Jake on the ground. She could see them talking to him, wrapping him in blankets, giving him water.
"He's alive," she sobbed. "He's alive."
The women were all crying now, holding each other. Mary's hand was pressed to her mouth. Anna had her arms around Caroline. Edna wiped her eyes with her apron.
"Thank God," Mary whispered. "Thank God."
They watched as the ambulance pulled up, as the paramedics rushed in with a stretcher and equipment.
The paramedics took over, starting an IV, stabilizing Jake's shoulders, checking his vitals. They loaded him onto the stretcher as carefully as they could.
Jake's eyes found Billy's again. "Don't leave."
"I'm not leaving you," Billy said. "I'm coming with you."
Tom nodded. "We'll follow."
As they wheeled Jake out, Pops squeezed his hand once. "See you at the hospital, boy."
Billy climbed into the ambulance, sitting beside the stretcher. Jake's hand found his, gripping weakly.
"I got you," Billy said again. "I got you."
The ambulance doors closed and they pulled away, sirens wailing.
Outside, Wade stood in the dirt, looking at the barn. At the bodies. At the blood.
Josh came up beside him. "It's over."
Wade nodded. "Yeah. It's over."
Pops walked over to the tall one's body, looked down at him, and spat. Then he turned and walked away without a word.
Jr. and the wiz kids shut down the drones, packed up the equipment. They'd documented everything.
The convoy followed the ambulance back to town.
At County General Hospital, Rebecca stood outside the ER doors with Dr. Peterson, both of them in scrubs. Dr. Peterson was in his seventies, a Vietnam vet with steady hands and kind eyes. He'd been Pops' medic in the war, and he'd been waiting for this call.
"Ambulance is two minutes out," a nurse called from inside.
Rebecca's heart was pounding. She'd prepped the trauma bay, laid out everything they'd need. But now, waiting, all she could think about was Jake. Her nephew. Her family.
The ambulance screamed into the parking lot, lights flashing. It skidded to a stop and the back doors flew open.
Rebecca and Dr. Peterson rushed forward.
The paramedics were already pulling the stretcher out. Jake was pale, IV in his arm, oxygen mask on his face. Billy jumped out behind them, his face streaked with dirt and tears.
"Possible shoulder dislocations, severe dehydration, shock," one of the paramedics rattled off. "Vitals are stable but he's in a lot of pain."
Rebecca's hand went to Jake's face, just for a second. "I've got you, honey. We've got you."
Jake's eyes opened slightly, recognizing her. "Aunt Becca?"
"Yeah, baby. I'm here."
Dr. Peterson took charge, his voice calm and professional. "Let's get him inside. Trauma One. Move."
They wheeled Jake through the doors, Rebecca and Dr. Peterson on either side of the stretcher, Billy following close behind.
Jake was alive. Hurt, traumatized, but alive.
And the men who'd taken him were dead in the dirt where they belonged.
Chapter 9: Coming Home
The waiting room was packed.
Tom stood by the window, arms crossed, jaw tight. Pops sat in a chair nearby, his cane resting against his knee. Wade, Wilson, and Ryan were clustered near the door. Josh paced. Ray leaned against the wall. Jr. and the wiz kids filled the chairs along the back. Colt, Celeb, Robert, and a dozen others from the consortium lined the hallway outside.
Nobody spoke much. They just waited.
An hour crawled by.
Then the door opened.
Dr. Peterson stepped out first, still in his scrubs, followed by Rebecca. Her eyes were red but she was smiling.
The room surged to its feet.
Peterson's gaze swept across the crowd, then landed on Pops. The two men locked eyes.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Peterson crossed the room and pulled Pops into a hug—gruff, tight, the kind of embrace only old soldiers shared.
"Doc," Pops said, his voice rough.
"Pops." Peterson pulled back, his hands still on the older man's shoulders. "I brought that kid into this world twenty-two years ago. Delivered him myself."
Pops nodded, his jaw working. A single tear tracked down his weathered face. "Thanks for helping bring him home, doc."
Peterson squeezed his shoulder once more, then turned to face the room.
"He's going to be okay," he said.
The relief was immediate—exhales, dropped shoulders, hands covering faces.
"No permanent damage," Peterson continued. "Both shoulders were dislocated, but we got them back in. There's soft tissue damage, some bruising, rope burns on his wrists and ankles. He was severely dehydrated, but we've got fluids running. He's young. He's strong. He'll heal."
"How long?" Tom asked.
"He'll need time. Physical therapy for the shoulders, probably a few weeks before he's back to full strength. But he's going home." Peterson glanced at Rebecca. "Under Rebecca's care. She'll monitor him."
Rebecca nodded. "He's not going anywhere without me watching him."
"Can we see him?" Billy asked.
Peterson smiled. "Yeah. But keep it short. He's exhausted."
Tom and Billy went in first.
Jake was propped up in the hospital bed, his left arm in a sling, bandages wrapped around his wrists. His face was pale, bruised along the jaw, but his eyes were open.
"Hey," Jake said, his voice hoarse.
Billy was across the room in two strides. He grabbed Jake's good hand and held it tight, his eyes wet. "You scared the shit out of me, man."
"Sorry," Jake said. He tried to smile. "Wasn't exactly my plan."
Tom stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. But his eyes said everything.
"You good?" Tom asked quietly.
Jake nodded. "Yeah. I'm good."
Tom's jaw tightened. He stepped forward and rested a hand on Jake's shoulder—the good one. "You did good, son. You held on."
Jake's throat worked. "Thanks, Dad."
"Sorry about your truck," Jake added after a beat, and Billy let out a choked laugh.
"Fuck the truck," Billy said. "You're alive."
Tom squeezed Jake's shoulder once more, then stepped back. "Let's get you home."
They loaded Jake into Tom's truck carefully, the back seat piled with blankets and pillows. Rebecca climbed in beside him, her hand on his arm the whole time.
The convoy formed up in the hospital parking lot—Wade's cruiser, Josh's truck, Ray's rig, Jr.'s Jeep, and a dozen others.
As Tom's truck pulled out, someone honked.
Then another.
Then the whole damn convoy erupted—horns blaring, fists raised out windows, voices shouting.
Jake looked out the window, his eyes wide. "What the hell?"
"They're celebrating you, dumbass," Billy said from the front seat, grinning.
Jake leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. A small smile tugged at his lips.
The ranch house came into view just as the sun was setting.
The convoy rolled up the drive, and before Tom even put the truck in park, the front door flew open.
Sarah came running out, followed by Mary, Edna, Anna, Caroline, and half a dozen other women from the consortium.
"He's home!" someone shouted.
Cheers erupted from the porch.
Tom and Billy helped Jake out of the truck, supporting him on either side. Sarah reached them first, her hands going to Jake's face, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"My boy," she whispered. "My boy."
"I'm okay, Mom," Jake said. "I'm okay."
She kissed his forehead, then stepped back to let them through.
As they walked toward the house, the smell hit them.
Barbecue. Fresh bread. Roasted vegetables. Pies cooling on the windowsill.
Jake stopped, staring. "What—"
"They've been cooking all day," Sarah said, her voice thick. "The ladies. They needed to do something, so they cooked."
The tables inside were loaded—platters of brisket, ribs, chicken, bowls of mashed potatoes, green beans, cornbread, coleslaw. Desserts lined the counter. Coffee brewed in two pots.
A feast fit for a king.
"Jesus," Jake breathed.
"Come on," Tom said. "Let's get you settled."
They set Jake up in the big recliner in the living room, pillows behind his back, blankets over his legs. Rebecca checked his vitals one more time, then nodded.
"You're good," she said. "But you're not moving for a while."
"Yes, ma'am," Jake said.
The family gathered around him—Tom, Sarah, Billy, Pops, Josh, Rebecca, Ray, Jr., the wiz kids, Colt, Celeb, Robert, Wade, Wilson, Ryan. The room was packed, warm, alive.
Mary brought Jake a plate, piled high. "You eat," she ordered.
Jake took it, his hands shaking slightly. He looked around at the faces surrounding him—his family, his people, the ones who'd gone to war for him.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Tom rested a hand on his shoulder. "You're home, son. That's all that matters."
Jake nodded, his throat tight. He took a bite of brisket, and the room erupted into conversation—laughter, stories, relief pouring out in waves.
Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon.
Inside, the Benson family was whole again.
Chapter 10: Taps
The feast was over, the adrenaline finally starting to fade. One by one, they all trudged upstairs to the frat house—Billy leading the way, Jake moving slow with his bandaged arm strapped across his chest, Jr. and the others following behind. The wiz kids brought up the rear: Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez, still wired but visibly crashing.
Pops came last, carrying his cigars and a bottle of Jack Daniels. The good stuff.
"Alright," Billy said, dropping to his knees by the far wall. "Let's do this right."
He pried up the floorboards—the hiding spot from their first night, where they'd stashed contraband and secrets. The wood came up easy, revealing the hollow space beneath.
They settled in around the room. Billy and Ray claimed bunks. Jake eased himself onto his bunk with a wince, propped up on pillows. Colt and Celeb sprawled on the floor. Jr. sat cross-legged with his laptop balanced on his knees. The wiz kids scattered everywhere—Renzo on the floor by the window, Mattern leaning against a bunk, Rodriguez stretched out near the door.
Pops took the old wooden chair by the doorway, unscrewed the cap on the Jack, and lit a cigar. The match flared orange in the dim room.
"So," Colt said, grinning at Jake. "How's it feel to be the damsel in distress?"
Jake flipped him off with his good hand. "How's it feel to have worse aim than a blind guy?"
"Hey, I hit what I was aiming at."
"The barn?"
"The bad guys in the barn, smartass."
Billy snorted. "Jake, you got strung up like a piñata and you're still talking shit."
"Somebody's gotta keep you humble," Jake muttered, but he was smiling.
Pops passed the bottle to Billy, who took a pull and handed it to Ray. It made the rounds—Jr., Colt, Celeb, even Jake took a careful sip before passing it back.
"Seriously though," Jr. said, looking at the wiz kids. "You guys were insane today. Those drones? The comms? That was next-level."
Renzo shrugged, but he was grinning. "Just doing what we do."
"You hacked a cartel's security system in like twenty minutes," Ray said. "That's not 'just doing what we do.'"
"Eighteen minutes," Rodriguez corrected.
"Show-off," Mattern muttered, but he was smiling too.
Billy leaned back against the wall, exhaling smoke. "Pops, that shot you made—"
"Don't," Pops said quietly, but there was a hint of a smile around his cigar.
"No, seriously. Two hundred yards, moving target, one shot. That was—"
"That was necessary," Pops said. "And that's all it was."
The room went quiet for a moment. Jake shifted in his bunk, wincing.
"Thanks," he said, voice rough. "All of you. For coming."
"Shut up," Billy said, but his voice was soft. "You're our brother."
"Damn right," Ray added.
The conversation drifted after that—stories from the rescue, the gunfight, the moment they'd found Jake alive. Laughter mixed with exhaustion. The bottle made another round. Cigars were lit and passed. The adrenaline that had kept them going all day was finally, truly wearing off.
Renzo was the first to go, mid-sentence about encryption protocols. His eyes just closed, head tilting back against the wall.
"He out?" Mattern asked.
Rodriguez checked. "Yeah, he's done."
Ten minutes later, Rodriguez was asleep too, sprawled on his back near the door. Mattern followed soon after, slumped against the bunk frame.
Colt and Celeb went next, stretched out on the floor like they'd been shot.
Jr. lasted a little longer, but eventually his head drooped forward onto his laptop keyboard. Ray pulled it away before he drooled on it.
"I'm good," Jr. mumbled, already asleep.
Ray climbed into his bunk, was out in seconds.
Billy fought it the longest, but even he couldn't hold out. His eyes closed, cigar still smoldering in the ashtray beside him.
Jake was already gone, his breathing deep and even, his face finally peaceful.
Pops sat in his chair, cigar in one hand, glass of Jack in the other. The floorboards were still open, the hiding spot exposed. Around him, his boys—all of them—were passed out in various positions. The wiz kids in heaps on the floor. Jr. with his head on the desk. Billy, Ray, Jake in their bunks. Colt and Celeb sprawled like casualties.
All of them safe. All of them home.
He took a slow drag from his cigar, watching them. Thinking about how close they'd come. How close he'd come to losing one of them.
But they hadn't. Jake was here. They were all here.
Pops finished his Jack, stubbed out his cigar, and stood. His knees popped. He took one last look around the room—at all his boys, sleeping like the dead.
"Sleep tight," he said quietly.
He left the floorboards open. Let them wake up to it in the morning, remember this night.
Pops walked back to his room, climbed into bed, and closed his eyes.
This time, he slept.
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