Chapter 1: Morning Rituals
The door to the frat house flew open at 5:30 AM sharp, banging against the wall with a crack that could wake the dead. Pops stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the hallway light, a mug of black coffee in one hand and a lit cigar in the other.
"Get your lazy asses up! Cattle don't feed themselves and fences don't mend with you shit-heads snoring!"
Billy groaned from the top bunk and threw a pillow at Jake below him. "Your turn to get Pops his refill."
"Fuck that," Jake mumbled, his face still buried in his pillow. "I did it yesterday."
"Like hell you did."
From the other bunk bed, Caleb sat up, rubbing his eyes. "You both did it yesterday. I watched you fight over who got to ask Sarah for those cinnamon rolls."
"Damn right," Billy Jr. said from his mattress on the floor between the bunks. "And you both lost because I got the last three."
"That's because you're a sneaky little shit, Junior," Jake said, finally swinging his legs out of bed. He was already in his jeans—he'd learned long ago that sleeping half-dressed saved precious morning minutes.
Colton, sprawled at the foot of the second bunk, stretched and yawned. "Y'all argue about the same damn thing every morning. It's like living with a bunch of old married couples."
"Watch your mouth, Louisiana," Pops barked, but there was a grin under his white mustache. "Save that sass for when you've actually earned your keep around here."
"Yes sir," Colton said, snapping a mock salute that made Billy Jr. snicker.
"I've earned my keep more than Junior," Colton added.
"Bullshit. I can outwork you any day," Junior shot back.
"Boys," Pops warned, but he was still grinning.
The five of them began the familiar dance of morning chaos—pulling on boots, splashing water on faces from the small sink in the corner, searching for clean shirts or settling for yesterday's if nothing better presented itself. Jake found his burgundy Wrangler cowboy shirt hanging on a bedpost and shrugged it on over his black undershirt, leaving it unbuttoned for now.
"Goddamn zoo in here," Pops muttered, settling into the old leather chair by the door that had become his unofficial throne during these morning wake-ups. "When I was in 'Nam, we had our shit together in thirty seconds flat."
"Yeah, yeah," Billy said, pulling on his boots. "And you walked uphill both ways in the rice paddies."
"Smartass." But Pops was smiling. He loved this—the banter, the chaos, the family. He took a long drag on his cigar and watched his boys with satisfaction.
"Alright, move it. Sarah's got breakfast ready and if you're late, Ray'll eat your share."
"Ray eats like a bird," Jake said.
"That's because he's smart enough not to shovel it in like you animals," Pops said, pushing himself up from the chair.
By 5:50, they'd assembled in the big kitchen downstairs. The rest of the Benson clan was already gathering. Sarah was at the stove, eggs crackling in three cast iron skillets, bacon laid out on sheet pans, and a pot of coffee strong enough to strip paint sitting on the counter. The long farmhouse table could seat twelve, and this morning it would be full.
Tom Benson sat at the head of the table, reading something on his tablet. Ray was already seated, dressed in a button-down shirt—the business manager always looked too clean for ranch work. Josh came in from the mudroom, his boots already dusty from an early check on the livestock. Rebecca followed him, her nurse's scrubs visible under her cardigan—she had a shift at Kings County Hospital later.
"Morning, boys," Sarah called without turning from the stove. "Sit. Eat. You've got a long day."
"Morning, Sarah," the chorus came from the frat house crew, slightly off-sync.
Pops took his seat at the opposite end from Tom, his throne at the table. Billy Jr. slid in next to his father Josh, while Billy and Jake took their usual spots across from each other—close enough to kick under the table when needed. Caleb and Colton filled in the remaining chairs.
"Coffee, Pops?" Rebecca asked, pot already in hand.
"You're a saint, girl."
"That's because I have to live with this family," she said with a smile, filling his mug.
Sarah began shuttling platters to the table—scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage links, hash browns, biscuits, and a bowl of gravy that made Jake's mouth water. For a few minutes, the only sound was the scrape of serving spoons, the clink of forks, and the occasional grunt of appreciation.
"Sarah, you're a goddess," Caleb said around a mouthful of biscuit.
"Manners," she said, but she was pleased.
"So we confirmed with all the families for the Fourth?" Tom asked, reaching for the coffee pot.
"Yep," Sarah said. "All six families. The Nelsons, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes are all coming. Dinner at six, fireworks after dark."
"Wade's bringing his smoker for the brisket," Pops said. "Robert's handling ribs. We're doing the rest."
"Junior, you and your buddies got those fireworks sorted?" Josh asked.
"Yes sir. Billy Renzo's dad got the good stuff from Oklahoma. We've got a whole setup planned."
"Just don't blow your hands off before the Fourth," Rebecca said. "I don't want to spend my holiday patching you up."
"We know what we're doing, Mom."
"That's what worries me."
The table laughed.
Josh set down his coffee and pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket. "Alright, let's talk work schedule while we eat. We've got three days to get everything ready for the consortium dinner, so we need to stay on track."
Ray swallowed his coffee. "I've got the grain supplier meeting at nine. Should take about two hours if they don't try to renegotiate again."
"Take your time. We need that locked in," Josh said. "I'm overseeing the new hay delivery this morning and getting it stored properly. Should be here by eight."
"Want help if it runs late?" Tom offered.
"Nah, I got it. Junior can help me if needed."
"Yes sir," Billy Jr. said.
"Billy, you and Caleb are moving the herd from the south pasture to the creek section," Josh continued. "Water's better there and the grass is coming in good."
Billy nodded, already calculating the logistics. "We'll get started right after breakfast. Should have them moved by noon."
"What about me?" Jake asked, sopping up egg yolk with a piece of biscuit.
"You're on fence mending. Far east section by the county road. Spotted some weak points yesterday that need fixing before we move cattle through there next week."
Jake nodded. "I'll take the mule quad. Load up tools and wire."
"Junior, you and Louisiana are mucking stalls and checking water troughs," Josh said. "Then you can work on getting the lawn area ready for the Fourth. Mow, set up tables, the whole deal."
"Yes sir," Billy Jr. said. He glanced at Colton. "We can knock that out in a couple hours if we hustle."
"Maybe squeeze in some drone time after?" Colton suggested quietly.
"Maybe," Junior grinned.
Pops pointed his fork at Jake. "You working alone out there on that fence line?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Just asking. Take your radio. Check in every hour."
"I'm mending fence, Pops, not invading Cambodia."
"Watch your mouth, boy. I invaded Cambodia and I'm still here to tell about it. Radio check-ins. Every hour."
Sarah shot Pops a look. "Language, Pops."
"Hell, Sarah, the boys have heard worse."
"Damn right we have," Billy Jr. muttered, earning him a swat on the back of the head from Rebecca.
"You're sixteen. Watch it."
"Pops cusses all the time!"
"Pops is seventy-six and a war veteran. He's earned it. You haven't."
The table erupted in laughter. Even Pops chuckled, shaking his head.
"Fine," Jake said, clipping his radio to his belt. "Every hour. Happy?"
"Ecstatic," Pops said dryly.
"Three more days and this place is going to be crawling with people," Ray said. "We should make sure everything looks good."
"It will," Sarah said. "And it'll be a good celebration. The consortium's first Fourth of July together."
"Damn right," Tom said, raising his coffee mug. "To family."
"To family," the table echoed.
By 6:20, breakfast was winding down. Plates were being cleared, final cups of coffee drained. Rebecca kissed Josh and headed out for her shift at the hospital. Ray grabbed his briefcase and headed to his truck. Josh pulled on his work gloves and headed toward the barn to prep for the hay delivery.
Jake stood and stretched. "Alright, I'm loading up."
"Try not to get lost," Billy called.
"Try not to let the cattle outsmart you," Jake shot back.
"That's rich coming from a guy who got headbutted by a calf last week."
"That calf was a fucking ninja."
Caleb laughed. "I got pictures of that. Still got 'em on my phone."
"Delete those or I'll bury you in the south forty."
"Love you too, Jake."
Sarah shook her head. "You boys are impossible."
Jake grinned, grabbed his white cowboy hat from the peg by the door, and headed outside. He loaded the mule quad with fence posts, wire, tools, and a cooler with water and a sandwich Sarah had wrapped for him. He rolled up the sleeves of his burgundy cowboy shirt—it was already getting warm—and adjusted his silver belt buckle.
Billy and Caleb were heading toward the south pasture. Junior and Colton were arguing about something near the barn. Pops stood on the porch, cigar smoke curling around his head, watching his domain.
Jake fired up the mule quad and gave a final wave. The engine growled to life, and he headed out toward the far east section. The morning sun climbed higher, promising a scorcher of a day. July 1st in Kings County, Texas—three days before the big Fourth of July consortium celebration.
Behind him, the ranch hummed with activity—his family going about their day, completely unaware that in a few hours, everything would go to hell.
The mule quad kicked up a trail of dust as Jake disappeared down the dirt road, his white cowboy hat bobbing with the movement of the vehicle.
It was 6:30 AM.
In ten hours, he'd be lucky to be alive.
Chapter 2: The Ambush
The far east section was a good forty-five minutes from the main ranch house, even on the mule quad. Jake didn't mind. He liked the solitude, the rhythm of physical work, the satisfaction of fixing something broken. The fence line ran parallel to the county road, separated by about twenty yards of scrub brush and a shallow wash that flooded during heavy rains but was bone dry this time of year.
He parked the quad near a stretch where three posts had rotted at the base and the wire sagged dangerously low. Cattle could push through that easy, and Josh was right—they'd be moving the herd through here next week.
Jake killed the engine and climbed off, stretching his back. The heat was already building, the sun climbing higher in a cloudless sky. He rolled up both sleeves of his burgundy cowboy shirt, pushing them all the way up past his elbows to his shoulders, exposing his forearms and the ink on his left bicep—tribal patterns he'd gotten with Billy on their twenty-first birthdays. He grabbed his work gloves from the back of the quad.
The radio on his belt crackled. "Jake, you copy?" Billy's voice, slightly distorted.
Jake unclipped it. "Yeah, I'm here. Just got to the section."
"Pops wants to know if you're checking in."
"Tell Pops I'm alive and the fence is dead. I'll check in every hour like a good little soldier."
Billy laughed. "Roger that. Don't get headbutted by any ninja calves."
"Fuck off." But Jake was grinning as he clipped the radio back to his belt.
He pulled the post hole digger from the quad, selected three new treated posts, and got to work. The ground was hard, baked by weeks of Texas summer heat, and each hole took effort. Sweat began to soak through his black undershirt, then started darkening his burgundy cowboy shirt. He worked steadily, methodically—dig, set post, tamp earth, move to the next one.
By 9:30, he had two posts in and was working on the third. His white cowboy hat kept the sun off his face, but his neck and exposed arms were burning. He'd have to remember to grab the sunscreen from the cooler before he started stringing new wire.
He didn't hear them coming.
The wash behind him provided perfect cover—a depression in the landscape deep enough to hide a man, lined with scrub brush and mesquite. They'd been watching him for over an hour, waiting for the right moment. Waiting until he was focused, bent over the post hole, back turned.
Three men. Two with guns. One with a plan.
"Don't move, cowboy."
Jake froze, the voice behind him cold and close. He started to turn.
"I said don't move." The unmistakable click of a gun being cocked. "Hands where I can see them."
Jake slowly raised his hands, his jaw clenching. His white hat still on his head, sweat dripping down his neck.
Two more men came around from his sides, guns drawn. All three wore jeans and work shirts, bandanas covering the lower half of their faces.
"Who the fuck are you?" Jake said. "You're on Benson land."
"We know exactly where we are," the man behind him said. "Now walk. Toward the road."
"And if I don't?"
The gun pressed against his back. "Then we drag your body there instead. Your choice."
Jake's mind raced, but three guns against none wasn't odds he could fight. His hat fell off as they marched him down into the wash and up the other side. A white panel van sat on the shoulder of the county road, engine running, side door open.
"Get in."
They shoved him into the back. Two men climbed in after him, one on each side, guns pressed against his ribs. The third slammed the door and got behind the wheel.
"Let's go."
The van lurched forward.
Jake sat between them, a Glock on one side, revolver on the other. His burgundy shirt, sleeves rolled to his shoulders, was sweat-soaked from the work. The tattoo on his left bicep clearly visible in the dim interior.
"You know my family's gonna come looking," Jake said.
"Shut up," the man with the Glock said.
"Consortium owns a third of Kings County. You think you're just gonna—"
"Shut. Up."
Jake shut up. But his mind was working, tracking turns, counting time, looking for anything he could use later.
The drive took about twenty minutes. When the van finally stopped and they hauled him out, Jake found himself staring at an old abandoned farmhouse—paint peeling, windows boarded up, rotting on a forgotten piece of land.
"Inside."
They marched him through the decrepit house—empty rooms, peeling wallpaper, the smell of mildew and decay—to a door that opened onto basement stairs.
"Down."
Jake descended into darkness. At the bottom, a single bare bulb clicked on, casting harsh light and shadows. The basement was unfinished—dirt floor, stone walls, exposed beams overhead.
And in the center, directly under that bulb, sat an orange ladder-back chair with three horizontal rungs. On the seat of the chair sat a thick coil of rope.
Jake stopped, taking it all in. His heart was pounding but he'd be damned if he'd show it.
"Keep moving," one of them said, shoving him forward.
Jake walked slowly to the center of the room, boots scuffing dirt. He looked at the chair and the coiled rope sitting on it, then back at the three men. A sneer crossed his face.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me."
The man with the scar across his cheek grinned. He reached past Jake and grabbed the coil of rope, tossing it to the floor beside the chair. "Have a seat, cowboy."
"Yeah, I don't think so." Jake crossed his arms, his burgundy shirt stretching across his shoulders, the bunched-up sleeves showing the tribal ink on his left bicep. "You want me in that chair, you're gonna have to put me there."
"That can be arranged."
Jake didn't move. Instead, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Slowly, deliberately, he tapped one out and lit it. Took a long drag. Exhaled smoke toward the bulb.
"Let me guess," Jake said. "You tie me up, take some pictures, send them to my family asking for ransom. What's the number? Five hundred K?"
The man with the scar laughed. "Smart mouth on you."
"Just want to make sure you know what you're getting into." Jake took another drag. "My family doesn't negotiate. My brother Billy? He'll track you down. My nephew Junior? Kid's got drones and surveillance gear that'd make the military jealous. And my grandfather Pops? Vietnam vet. You really think this ends well for you?"
"Big talk for a man with three guns on him," the driver said.
Jake took another drag, his eyes moving between them, still looking for an opening. There wasn't one. Not yet.
He dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot.
"Alright," he said. "But when my family finds this place—and they will—you better hope I'm still tied to that chair. Because if I get loose first, you're dead men."
He walked to the chair and sat down, back straight, hands on the armrests. The wood was solid under him. His burgundy shirt clung to him with sweat, the sleeve bunched at his left shoulder showing the tribal ink on his bicep under the harsh light.
The man with the scar picked up the rope from the floor beside the chair and grinned.
"Now," he said, "let's make sure you stay put."
Chapter 3: The Ropes
The man with the scar stepped behind Jake, rope in hand. Jake sat straight-backed in the chair, his jaw set. Every muscle in his body was coiled, ready to fight, but the Glock pressed against his temple kept him still.
"Hands behind the chair," the man with the scar ordered.
Jake didn't move. "You're making a mistake."
"Hands. Behind. The chair."
The gun pressed harder against his head. Jake exhaled through his nose, slowly moved his hands behind the backrest. Immediately, rough hands grabbed his wrists, crossed them, and began wrapping rope around them.
"Too tight, asshole," Jake muttered.
"That's the point."
The rope cinched hard, biting into his wrists. Jake felt it loop through the bottom rung of the ladder-back chair, then pulled taut, locking his crossed wrists to the chair. He tested it—barely any give. His hands were already starting to tingle.
"This is how this is gonna work," the man with the scar said, coming around to face Jake. "You're gonna sit there nice and quiet while we make sure you can't cause any trouble. Then we're gonna take some pictures, send them to your family, and wait for the money. Simple."
"You're fucking delusional if you think—"
"Save it, cowboy. We've heard enough out of you."
The driver came forward with a roll of duct tape. Jake's eyes narrowed.
"Don't even—"
The driver ripped off a long strip and slapped it across Jake's mouth, wrapping it around his head twice before tearing it off. Jake's protests turned to muffled grunts.
"Much better," the man with the scar said.
They went to work.
The man with the Glock holstered it and grabbed more rope. He wrapped it around Jake's neck—not tight enough to choke, but snug enough that Jake could feel it with every breath—and tied it off to the top rung of the chair. Jake's head was forced back slightly, unable to move forward or side to side without the rope digging in.
"Hold still," the man said, almost conversationally.
More rope came around Jake's torso. They wrapped it around his chest and the second rung, then again around his waist and the third rung, cinching each loop tight before tying it off. Jake's back was pressed hard against the chair slats now, immobilized.
Then they went for his arms.
The driver took Jake's left bicep—the one with the ink—and wrapped rope around it, then looped it through the gap between the top and second rung. He pulled it tight, the rope biting into the tribal tattoo, and tied it off. Did the same with the right bicep. Jake's arms were now lashed to his sides, the ropes cutting into the muscle, restricting any movement.
Jake grunted against the gag, trying to flex, trying to find any slack. There was none.
"Yeah, those are gonna hurt after a while," the man with the scar observed. "Especially when you start struggling. And you will."
More rope around his thighs, binding them to the seat of the chair. Jake could feel the circulation being cut off, the pressure building. His legs were useless now.
Finally, they grabbed his ankles. Even through his work boots, Jake could feel the rope being wrapped around them, pulled together, then yanked back under the chair. They threaded it through the rope binding his wrists and pulled everything taut—a makeshift hogtie that forced Jake's feet back and his wrists down.
The tension was immediate and brutal. His back arched slightly, his shoulders pulled back, every rope digging in. Jake tried to move—anything—but he was completely immobilized. Wrists to ankles. Biceps to chair. Torso locked. Neck tethered. Even his head could barely move.
The man with the scar stepped back and admired their work.
"Not going anywhere, are you, cowboy?"
Jake glared at him over the duct tape gag, his eyes blazing with fury. Sweat was already soaking through his burgundy shirt, darkening it further. The sleeve bunched at his left shoulder showed the rope cutting into his tattooed bicep, the skin already red and angry.
"Get his hat," the driver said.
One of them walked over to where Jake's white cowboy hat had been tossed on the floor. He picked it up, looked at it, then crushed it in his hands and threw it in the corner.
Jake made a muffled sound of rage behind the gag.
"What's the matter? You liked that hat?" The man with the scar laughed. "Should've thought about that before you smarted off."
The driver pulled out a camera. "Alright, let's get the pictures."
They took several shots—different angles, close-ups of the ropes, wide shots showing Jake tied to the chair under the single bare bulb. Jake stared at the camera with pure hatred, his jaw working uselessly behind the tape.
"Good," the driver said, reviewing the photos. "This should get their attention."
"Hold on," the man with the scar said. "One more thing."
He walked over to a corner of the basement and came back with a burlap sack—rough, dirty, smelling of old grain. He shook it out.
"Let's make it more dramatic."
He pulled the sack over Jake's head, plunging him into darkness. Jake felt him tie it off around his neck, just below where the rope was already secured to the top rung. The fabric was rough against his face, the smell overwhelming.
"Perfect. One more photo."
The camera clicked.
"Alright, that's it. Let's send these to the Bensons and see how fast they want to pay up."
Jake heard footsteps moving away, the creak of the stairs, then a door slamming above. The bare bulb still burned, but all Jake could see through the burlap was dim, filtered light.
He was alone.
The ropes dug into every part of him—neck, chest, waist, biceps, thighs, wrists, ankles. The hogtie connection between his wrists and ankles created constant tension. If he tried to straighten his legs, it pulled on his wrists. If he tried to relax his arms, his feet were forced further back. Every position was uncomfortable, every movement made it worse.
The rope around his left bicep cut into the tribal ink. He could feel it already—the burning, the pressure, the circulation being restricted. His arms were going numb.
Jake tried to think through the rage. The burlap sack made it hard to breathe, the duct tape made it impossible to work his jaw. He was trussed up like a calf at a rodeo, completely helpless.
But Jake had never been good at helpless.
He started testing the ropes. Small movements at first—flexing his wrists, trying to twist them. The rope held firm. He tried to slide his hands down, to find any give in the knot. Nothing.
He shifted his weight, trying to rock the chair. It didn't budge—solid wood, and his weight was too centered.
He pulled against the rope on his biceps, trying to create slack. All it did was make the rope dig in deeper, the burning intensify.
The rope around his neck reminded him not to move too much. Every time he tried to lean forward, it tightened, choking him slightly until he eased back.
Sweat poured down his face under the burlap sack, soaking into the fabric. His burgundy shirt was drenched now, clinging to his chest and back. The black undershirt beneath was plastered to his skin.
Time passed. Minutes? An hour? Jake couldn't tell in the darkness. All he knew was the ropes, the chair, the anger building in his chest like a wildfire.
When his family found him—and they would—these three assholes were dead. Not arrested. Not prosecuted. Dead.
But first, he had to survive this.
Jake forced himself to breathe slowly through his nose, to conserve energy. The ropes weren't going anywhere. Not yet. But he'd keep testing them, keep looking for weakness, keep fighting.
Because that's what Bensons did.
They fought.
Chapter 4: 911 Emergency
Sarah checked the clock on the kitchen wall for the third time in ten minutes. 4:47 PM. Jake should have checked in over an hour ago. She wiped her hands on her apron and walked to the mudroom where the base radio sat.
"Jake, you copy?" She waited. Static. "Jake, this is Sarah. You there, honey?"
Nothing.
She tried again. "Jake Benson, you better answer this radio right now or so help me—"
Still nothing.
Sarah's stomach tightened. Jake was a hothead, stubborn as the day was long, but he always checked in. Always. Pops had drilled that into all the boys from the time they were old enough to work alone on the ranch.
She walked outside to where Tom and Josh were standing by the barn, discussing something about the hay delivery.
"Jake's not answering his radio," she said.
Josh looked up. "How long?"
"Should've checked in at three. It's almost five now."
Tom and Josh exchanged a look.
"He's probably fine," Tom said. "You know Jake. Gets focused on the work, forgets to—"
"Jake doesn't forget," Sarah interrupted. "Not after the lecture Pops gave him last month."
Josh was already pulling out his own radio. "Jake, this is Josh. You copy?" He waited. Nothing. "Jake, come back."
Silence.
"I'll take Junior and the boys," Josh said. "We'll head out to the east section, check on him."
"I'm coming too," Billy said, appearing from the barn with Caleb behind him.
"I'll call the other boys," Billy Jr. said, already pulling out his phone. "Billy, Ryan, Daniel—we'll all go."
Within ten minutes, they had assembled. Billy Jr., Caleb, and Colton loaded into one ranch truck with Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez crammed in the back. Billy and Josh took another truck. The four sixteen-year-olds—the wiz kids—were already pulling out iPads, checking GPS coordinates, preparing to document whatever they found.
They headed out toward the far east section, radios crackling with static as they tried to raise Jake.
The sun was starting its descent toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the pastures. Billy pushed the truck faster than he probably should have on the dirt roads, his jaw tight.
"He's fine," Caleb said from the passenger seat. "Probably broke his radio or something."
"Jake doesn't break shit," Billy said. "He takes care of his gear."
They found the mule quad first.
It sat exactly where Jake had parked it, fence posts still loaded in the back, tools scattered around two completed post holes. The third hole was half-dug, the post hole digger lying on its side in the dirt.
Billy Jr. jumped out of the truck before it had fully stopped. "Uncle Jake!"
No answer.
They spread out, searching. The wiz kids moved with purpose, documenting everything with their phones and iPads—photos, measurements, GPS coordinates.
"Over here!" Billy Jr. called from near the wash.
They converged on his position. The ground told a story—scuff marks, boot prints that weren't Jake's, signs of a struggle. Billy Jr. knelt down, his young face hardening as he read the signs. Ryan Mattern was already photographing the tracks while Daniel Rodriguez measured the boot prints.
"Multiple men," Billy Jr. said, pointing. "Three, maybe four. Came up from the wash."
Billy Renzo was at the road, examining tire marks. "Van or truck. Something big. Deep treads. Recent—within the last few hours."
Josh's face went pale. "Jesus Christ."
Billy Jr. stood, pulling the emergency transponder from his belt—a small device about the size of a garage door opener, custom-built by him and his buddies. Red button under a protective cover. He looked at his father.
"Do it," Josh said quietly.
Billy Jr. flipped the cover open and pressed the button.
Immediately, every radio, every satellite phone, every device connected to the consortium network began broadcasting in a mechanical, emotionless voice:
"911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. BillyJr. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. BillyJr."
The automated message would repeat every thirty seconds until manually shut off. Every member of the six families would hear it.
But Billy Jr. wasn't done. He grabbed his radio, switched to the main consortium frequency, and keyed the mic. His voice was steady, controlled, but everyone who knew him could hear the steel underneath.
"All consortium members, this is Billy Jr. We have a Code Red situation at the east fence line. Uncle Jake is missing. Evidence of kidnapping. We need everyone at the main ranch house immediately. Repeat—everyone to the main ranch house now. This is not a drill."
He released the key. The radio crackled with immediate responses—shocked voices, questions, confirmations. The wiz kids were already loading back into the truck, iPads showing the photos and data they'd collected.
"Let's go," Josh said. "Back to the house."
They converged on the Benson ranch house like a small army mobilizing.
Sheriff Wade Nelson arrived first, lights flashing, his sons Wilson and Ryan right behind him in their patrol vehicles. Mary Nelson came in her truck, Rebecca already there from her shift at the hospital. Robert and Caroline Beaumont roared up the driveway in their F-350. The Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes followed within minutes—parents coming to support the search, but also because their sons were already there, already involved.
The kitchen filled with bodies, voices overlapping, questions flying. Sarah's beef stew sat forgotten on the stove, still simmering, filling the house with a smell that would forever after be associated with this day.
Pops stood at the head of the table, cigar clenched between his teeth, his face carved from stone. Tom and Josh flanked him. Billy paced like a caged animal.
"Talk," Wade said, his sheriff's voice cutting through the chaos.
Josh laid it out fast and clean. "Jake went to the east section to mend fence this morning. Six-thirty departure. Should've checked in at hourly intervals. Last contact was nine-thirty. We found his quad and equipment at four-fifty. Signs of struggle. Multiple attackers. Vehicle on the county road. He's gone."
Billy Jr. stepped forward, iPad in hand. "We documented everything. Three to four attackers based on boot prints. Ambush from the wash. Panel van or box truck based on tire treads. They grabbed him and were gone within minutes."
"Kidnapping," Wade said. It wasn't a question.
"Has to be," Robert Beaumont said. The former military man's face was grim. "They took him for a reason."
"The consortium," Ray said quietly. Everyone turned to look at the business manager. "We've been making noise. Six families, third of the county, pooling resources. Some people don't like that."
"Ransom," Pops said around his cigar. "They're gonna ask for money."
As if on cue, Tom's phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, his face going white.
"It's from an unknown number." He opened it.
The image loaded slowly, pixel by pixel, but when it fully rendered, the room went silent.
Jake. Tied to a chair—an orange ladder-back chair with visible rungs. Rope everywhere—around his neck, chest, waist, arms, legs. His burgundy shirt was dark with sweat, the sleeves bunched at his shoulders. A burlap sack covered his head, tied around his neck. Even through the image, you could see the tension in his body, the way the ropes bit into him.
Sarah made a small sound. Rebecca caught her arm.
Another message came through. This one was text:
$500,000. You have 24 hours. Instructions to follow. Try anything stupid and we send him back in pieces. Tell the sheriff and he dies.
The four wiz kids had moved to Tom's side, staring at the image. Billy Jr.'s jaw was set, Daniel's hands were clenched into fists, Ryan's face had gone pale, Billy Renzo was already pulling out his phone to forward the image to his analysis software.
Billy Jr. looked up at Pops. "Command center?" he asked quietly.
Pops looked at Wade. The sheriff looked at the phone, at the message telling them not to involve law enforcement. He was already involved. They all were.
"Fuck what they said," Pops growled. "That's my grandson. Command center. Now."
Wade nodded. "Agreed. But we do this smart. No cowboys, no rushing in. We find him first, then we move."
"Junior," Pops barked. "Get your boys. Get every piece of tech we've got running. Find my grandson."
"Yes sir." Billy Jr. was already moving, the other three wiz kids right behind him, along with Caleb and Colton. Within seconds, all six of them were pounding up the stairs toward the second floor, toward the command center between the frat house and Pops' room.
Behind them, the consortium families gathered closer, circling around the kitchen table. Sarah's forgotten stew simmered on the stove.
The hunt had begun.
Chapter 5: Command Center
The command center occupied the room between the frat house and Pops' bedroom on the second floor. What had once been storage space was now a tactical operations center that would make most police departments jealous.
Six workstations lined the walls, each with dual monitors. A large 65-inch display dominated the far wall, currently dark. Charging stations for the iPads. A rack of eighteen satellite phones. Control panels for the drone network. Server equipment humming in the corner. The consortium had spent nearly $50,000 on this setup, and the wiz kids had installed every piece of it themselves.
Billy Jr. hit the lights and the room came alive. The other three wiz kids were right behind him—Billy Renzo heading straight for the drone controls, Ryan Mattern powering up the main display, Daniel Rodriguez already pulling up mapping software on his iPad. Caleb and Colton took positions at two of the workstations.
"Get me eyes on the east section first," Billy Jr. said, his voice calm and controlled. "I want to see if there's any surveillance footage we can pull."
"On it," Ryan said, fingers flying across his keyboard.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Pops entered first, cigar still clenched in his teeth, followed by Sheriff Wade, Robert Beaumont, Tom, Josh, and Billy. The adults filled the doorway, watching the six teenagers work with practiced efficiency.
"What do you need from us?" Wade asked.
"Nothing yet," Billy Jr. said, not looking up from his screen. "We need to gather intel first. See what we're working with."
The main display flickered to life, split into multiple windows. Ryan pulled up satellite imagery of the ranch, zooming in on the east section. Another window showed the consortium's security camera network—motion-activated cameras they'd installed at key points around the properties.
"Got something," Ryan said. "Camera twelve picked up movement on the county road around 10:45 this morning."
The footage played on the main screen. A white panel van, older model, driving slowly along the county road near where Jake had been working. It passed the camera, then disappeared from view.
"Rewind it," Billy Jr. said. "Freeze on the van. Can you get a plate?"
Ryan zoomed in, enhanced the image. The license plate was partially obscured by mud—deliberately, it looked like.
"Partial plate," Ryan said. "Texas tags. I can make out... maybe K-7... something. The rest is too muddy."
"It's something," Wade said. "Run it through DMV, see what comes up for white panel vans with those letters."
"Already on it," Daniel said from his workstation.
Billy Renzo had the drone controls active. "Deploying drone one. Thermal imaging active. I'll start a search pattern from the east section outward."
On one of the monitors, a live feed appeared—the view from Drone One as it lifted off from its charging station near the barn. The thermal overlay showed the cooling landscape as the sun continued its descent.
"Drone two deploying," Billy Renzo continued. "Expanding search radius."
Pops moved closer, standing behind Billy Jr., watching the screens. His presence was solid, reassuring, but Billy Jr. could feel the tension radiating off him. Jake was his grandson. His boy. And he was out there somewhere, in the hands of men who'd already sent proof they had him tied up like an animal.
"How long to search the whole area?" Pops asked quietly.
"Depends on how far they took him," Billy Jr. said. "If they're still in Kings County, we should be able to cover it with all six drones in maybe three, four hours. But if they crossed the county line..."
"They're still here," Pops said with certainty. "They want money. They'll stay close enough to make the exchange."
Another phone buzzed. Tom pulled it out, looked at the screen. His face went even paler.
"They sent another photo," he said quietly.
The room went still.
"Put it on the main screen," Wade said.
Ryan pulled up the image. The collective intake of breath was audible.
Jake. Still in the chair, but the burlap sack was gone now. His face was visible—split lip, blood on his chin, bruising already forming on his cheekbone. But worse was his chest. His burgundy shirt had been ripped open, buttons scattered, exposing his black undershirt and bare chest. You could see where they'd hit him—red marks, bruising starting to purple.
And the ropes. The ropes around his neck, his biceps, his chest—they were darker now. Reddish. Stained.
"Is that blood?" Sarah's voice came from the doorway. She'd followed them upstairs.
No one answered. They didn't need to.
Another message appeared:
Still waiting for confirmation on the money. Your boy's not being very cooperative. Next time we take pictures, there might be less of him to photograph.
"Motherfuckers," Billy breathed.
"They beat him," Josh said, his voice hollow. "They beat my brother."
Pops' hand came down on Billy Jr.'s shoulder, gripping hard. "Find him. Now."
"Yes sir." Billy Jr.'s jaw was set, his eyes fixed on the screens. "Billy, deploy all six drones. Full search pattern. I want thermal imaging on everything—every building, every structure, every vehicle within twenty miles."
"On it."
"Ryan, pull up every piece of traffic camera footage, every security camera, anything that might have caught that van. I want to know where it went."
"Got it."
"Daniel, cross-reference that partial plate with known criminal activity, foreclosed properties, abandoned buildings. Anywhere they might hole up."
"Already running it."
Caleb and Colton were coordinating the satellite phone network, distributing them to key family members, ensuring everyone could communicate on the encrypted channel.
The main display was now a chaos of information—drone feeds, maps, search grids, camera footage, databases scrolling with information. To an outsider it would look like sensory overload. To the wiz kids, it was a symphony.
"Got something," Daniel said suddenly. "Abandoned farmhouse, fifteen miles northeast. Foreclosed three years ago. Bank never sold it. It's just sitting there, rotting."
"Put it on the map," Billy Jr. said.
A red pin appeared on the satellite map.
"Drone three is closest," Billy Renzo said. "Redirecting now."
One of the drone feeds shifted, the view tilting as the drone banked and headed toward the marked location. The thermal overlay showed the landscape in shades of heat—cooler blues and purples as evening approached.
Minutes ticked by. The room was silent except for the hum of equipment and the clicking of keyboards.
"Approaching the location," Billy Renzo said.
The drone feed showed an old farmhouse coming into view. Peeling paint, boarded windows, sagging porch. And parked behind it, partially hidden by an old barn—
"White panel van," Billy Renzo said.
"That's it," Billy Jr. said. "That's them."
"Thermal's showing heat signatures inside the structure," Billy Renzo continued. "Three... no, four. Three upstairs, one in the basement."
"The basement," Pops said. "That's where they'd keep him."
Wade was already on his phone. "I'm calling in backup. We're going to need—"
"No," Robert Beaumont said. The former soldier's voice was hard. "We go in quiet. Fast. Professional. You call in half the county sheriff's department and they'll hear you coming a mile away."
"Robert's right," Pops said. "This is a tactical extraction. Military operation, not a police raid."
Wade looked at them, then at the image on the screen—Jake beaten and bloody, the ropes cutting into him. He made a decision.
"Alright. We do this smart. Robert, you take point on planning the approach. Pops, you're with him. I'll coordinate, keep it small and—"
"I'm going," Billy said.
"So am I," Josh said.
"Me too," Tom said.
"We're all going," Billy Jr. said, his voice quiet but firm. He looked at his three friends—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez. They all nodded.
Wade started to protest. "Junior, you boys need to stay here and—"
"With all due respect, Sheriff," Billy Jr. interrupted, "we found him. Our drones, our tech, our work. We're going. We'll bring the iPads, keep the drone feeds live, provide real-time intel. You need us there."
"He's right," Robert said. "Having eyes in the sky while we move is a tactical advantage we can't pass up."
"The boys are armed," Pops added. "They know how to shoot. They've been training."
Wade looked around the room. At the Benson brothers. At Robert Beaumont. At the four sixteen-year-olds with determination written across their faces. At Caleb and Colton standing ready.
"Jesus Christ," Wade muttered. "I wanted a small team."
"You're getting an army," Pops said with grim satisfaction. "The whole damn consortium if needed. That's my grandson down there. Our family. And we're bringing him home."
Wade sighed, then nodded. "Fine. Everyone arms up. We move in fifteen minutes. Junior, you and your boys stay in the vehicles until the site is secured. You provide overwatch and intel, nothing more. Understood?"
"Yes sir," Billy Jr. said.
"Robert, work out the tactical approach. Pops, Wade, you're with me on the entry team. Wilson, Ryan Nelson—get your gear. Everyone else, you're backup and perimeter. We go in hard and fast, neutralize the targets, extract Jake."
"What about the kidnappers?" Billy asked.
Pops' face was stone. "They made their choice when they took one of ours."
The adults filed out, heading down to arm up. The wiz kids remained at their stations, continuing to monitor the drones, the thermal feeds, every angle of that farmhouse.
Billy Jr. stared at the screen showing the basement heat signature. Uncle Jake. Still alive. Still fighting, if the blood on those ropes was any indication.
"Hang on, Uncle Jake," he whispered. "We're coming."
The rescue mission was about to begin.
Chapter 6: The Hunt
The convoy formed in the ranch yard—four trucks, engines rumbling in the gathering dusk. The adults had armed up: Pops with his old M1 Garand from Vietnam, Robert Beaumont with a tactical rifle, Sheriff Wade and his sons Wilson and Ryan Nelson with service weapons and shotguns, the Benson brothers with hunting rifles and sidearms.
Billy Jr. and the three other wiz kids climbed into the lead truck with their iPads, portable comms units, and the sidearms they'd been training with. Caleb and Colton took positions in the second truck with additional satellite phones and backup equipment.
"Junior, you and your boys are command and control," Wade said through the truck window. "You stay back from the action, keep those drones flying, feed us real-time intel. Understood?"
"Yes sir, Grandpa," Billy Jr. said.
"I mean it. You provide overwatch only. No heroics."
"We got it."
The convoy pulled out, headlights off, running dark toward the abandoned farmhouse fifteen miles northeast. Billy Jr. sat in the back seat with his iPad balanced on his knees, monitoring all six drone feeds. Billy Renzo sat beside him with the drone controls. Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez were in the third truck with their own iPads, cross-referencing data.
"Thermal still shows three upstairs, one in the basement," Billy Jr. reported over the comms network. "No change in positions."
"Good," Robert's voice came back. "We have surprise on our side."
The trucks rolled through the darkness, the consortium families united in one purpose: bring Jake home.
Inside the basement, Jake had lost track of time. Hours? It felt like days. Every rope cutting into him, every position uncomfortable, every breath a reminder of the noose around his neck.
His wrists were raw and bleeding from constant struggling. The rope around his left bicep had cut so deep the arm had gone numb. He couldn't feel his hands anymore. His legs were dead weight.
But Jake Benson didn't quit.
He heard footsteps above him. Heavier now, unsteady. The kidnappers were drinking. Their voices carried through the floorboards—louder, sloppier, celebrating their big score.
Then one of them came down the stairs.
Jake tensed, every muscle coiling despite the ropes. Through the burlap sack he could see dim light, could hear the man's boots on the wooden steps.
"Still trying to get loose, cowboy?" The voice was slurred. Drunk. The man with the scar.
Jake made a muffled sound behind the duct tape gag. Defiant even now.
"Stubborn son of a bitch, aren't you?" The man walked closer. Jake could smell the whiskey on him. "Your family hasn't responded yet. Maybe they don't want you back."
Jake grunted, pulling against the ropes. The chair creaked but didn't budge.
"Oh, you don't like that?" The man laughed. "Let's see how tough you are."
The kick came without warning—a boot to the side of the chair. Jake felt it tipping, tried to compensate, but bound as he was there was nothing he could do.
The chair fell backward.
Jake's world inverted in an instant. His weight, his bound wrists, everything pulling against the ropes in ways they weren't meant to handle. The rope around his left bicep—already cutting deep into the muscle and ink—suddenly bore impossible tension as his body weight wrenched against it.
The pain was instant and blinding.
Something in his left arm snapped. Then his right. Both biceps, the bones fracturing under the pressure of the ropes and his own weight as the chair hit the dirt floor.
Jake screamed behind the gag, a muffled, agonized sound. White-hot pain exploded through both arms. He couldn't move them, couldn't feel anything but the fire burning through the broken bones.
"Shit!" The drunk kidnapper stumbled backward. "What the—"
"What did you do?" Another voice—the driver, running down the stairs. "You idiot, if you killed him—"
"He's not dead! The chair just fell!"
Jake lay on his back, the chair beneath him, every rope still holding. But now his arms were broken, useless, and the pain was overwhelming. He tried to breathe through his nose, tried to stay conscious, but the agony was all-consuming.
"Get him back up!"
"I can't, he's tied too tight!"
"Then leave him! We'll deal with it when we get the money."
The footsteps retreated back up the stairs. The basement door slammed.
Jake lay there, chair on its back, him on top of it, every rope still cruelly tight. Both arms broken in the ropes. The hogtie connection to his ankles pulling at a new, more painful angle. The rope around his neck threatening to choke him with every breath in this position.
And still, Jake fought. His mind raced through the pain, looking for options, looking for escape. His arms were useless now—bones broken, muscles destroyed. But he was a Benson. He didn't quit.
He just needed to survive long enough for his family to find him.
"Vehicle approaching the farmhouse," Billy Jr.'s voice crackled over the comms. "Wait... it's leaving. One of the heat signatures just got in a vehicle and is heading out."
The convoy was two miles away now, closing fast.
"Can you track it?" Wade asked.
"Drone four is on it," Billy Renzo reported. "Looks like... yeah, one of them is running. The van is heading south."
"Let him go," Robert said. "Two targets are easier than three. We stay on mission."
"Thermal now shows two upstairs," Billy Jr. confirmed. "Basement signature is... wait, it's different. Horizontal now instead of vertical."
A pause. Then Billy Jr.'s voice, tight with concern: "Something's wrong. Uncle Jake's position changed. He's on the ground."
"Convoy, speed up," Wade ordered. "We're going in now."
The trucks accelerated through the darkness, headlights still off, racing toward the abandoned farmhouse where Jake lay broken and bleeding, still tied to that goddamn chair.
Still fighting.
Still alive.
Barely.
Chapter 7: Gunfire and Rescue
The convoy killed engines a quarter mile out. Doors opened silently, boots hitting dirt with barely a sound. The consortium moved like a small military unit—because that's essentially what they were.
Billy Jr. and the wiz kids stayed with the trucks as ordered, iPads glowing in the darkness, drone feeds showing every angle of the farmhouse.
"Two heat signatures upstairs, front room," Billy Jr. whispered into the comms. "Third one is at the van. Looks like he's about to leave. Basement signature is still horizontal. No movement."
Pops moved through the darkness like a ghost despite his seventy-six years, the M1 Garand familiar in his hands after fifty years. He'd carried this rifle through rice paddies and jungles, through firefights and ambushes. Tonight it would speak again.
He climbed into position in the old oak tree northwest of the house, settling the rifle against a branch, peering through the scope. Clear sight lines to both entrances. Clear shot through the upstairs windows. And clear line to the van where the third man was climbing into the driver's seat.
"Overwatch in position," Pops said quietly. "I have eyes on the runner at the van."
Wade and Wilson stacked up at the front door, shotguns ready. Robert and Ryan Nelson moved to the back entrance, tactical rifles up. Billy, Josh, and Tom spread out around the perimeter, cutting off any escape routes.
"All positions set," Wade reported. "Junior, status?"
"Two targets still upstairs, front room. Third is in the van, engine just started. No awareness of your presence. You're clear to breach."
"Robert, you see anything from your angle?"
"Negative. Back door is clear. Ready on your mark."
Wade's hand tightened on his shotgun. Somewhere in that basement, Jake was lying on the ground, both arms broken, still tied to that chair. Every second mattered.
"On my count," Wade said. "Three... two... one... breach!"
The front door exploded inward under Wilson's boot. Wade went through first, shotgun up, Wilson right behind him.
"Sheriff's department! Hands up!"
The two kidnappers in the front room scrambled for their weapons. One—the big man with the Glock—managed to get his gun up.
The window beside him shattered. Pops' M1 Garand barked once. The man went down, a red bloom spreading across his chest.
Outside, the van's engine roared. The third kidnapper hit the gas, trying to escape.
Pops swung his rifle, tracked the moving vehicle, led it just slightly. The M1 spoke again. The driver's side window exploded. The van swerved violently, crashed into the old barn, and went still.
Inside the house, the second kidnapper—the driver who'd stayed behind—dove for cover, bringing up his revolver. Robert and Ryan Nelson came through the back door simultaneously.
"Drop it!" Robert shouted.
The man swung his gun toward them. Robert's tactical rifle spoke twice. The kidnapper crumpled.
"Clear front!" Wade called.
"Clear back!" Robert responded.
"Three down," Pops reported from his perch, chambering another round out of habit. "Van driver is down. No other movement visible."
"Basement," Josh said, already moving toward the interior door. "Jake's in the basement."
They found the door, wrenched it open. Stairs descended into darkness.
"Jake!" Billy shouted down. "Jake, we're here!"
A muffled sound from below. Alive. He was alive.
Billy thundered down the stairs, Josh right behind him, flashlights cutting through the gloom. What they found made them both stop cold.
Jake. Lying on his back, the orange ladder-back chair beneath him, every rope still binding him. The burlap sack over his head. His burgundy shirt ripped open, chest exposed, bruises already dark purple. But worse—his arms. The angle was wrong, the way they hung in the ropes. Broken.
"Oh Jesus," Billy breathed.
"Get that sack off him," Josh ordered, his voice cracking.
Billy pulled the burlap sack off Jake's head. Jake's eyes were open, glassy with pain, his face pale beneath the bruising. The duct tape was still across his mouth.
"Easy, brother," Billy said, hands shaking as he carefully peeled the tape away. "Easy. We got you."
Jake gasped, sucking in air. "Billy..." His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Took you... long enough..."
Despite everything, Billy laughed—a sound somewhere between relief and a sob. "Yeah, well, you know how traffic is."
"Arms... broke," Jake managed. "Chair fell... ropes..."
"Don't move," Josh said, already pulling out a knife. "We're gonna cut you loose. This is gonna hurt."
"Everything... already hurts..."
Josh started with the rope around Jake's neck, carefully sawing through it. Then the rope connecting his ankles to his wrists—the brutal hogtie that had contributed to breaking his arms when the chair fell.
Wade and Robert came down the stairs, took in the scene.
"Ambulance is twenty minutes out," Wade said. "Can we move him?"
"We're not waiting twenty minutes," Josh said flatly. "We cut him loose, we carry him out, we drive him to Kings County Hospital ourselves. It's fifteen minutes."
"Do it," Robert said. He keyed his radio. "Junior, we have Jake. He's alive. Injuries to both arms, possible fractures. We're transporting directly to Kings County Hospital. Have Rebecca call ahead, tell them we're coming in hot."
"Copy that," Billy Jr.'s voice came back, tight with emotion.
They worked carefully, cutting each rope. The one around Jake's left bicep—dark with blood, cutting deep into the tribal ink—was the worst. When it finally came free, Jake made a sound of pure agony.
"I know, I know," Billy said, supporting his brother's head. "Almost done."
Finally, all the ropes were cut. Jake lay free on the dirt floor, the chair beside him, rope fragments scattered everywhere. His arms hung at wrong angles, both biceps swollen and discolored where the bones had snapped.
"On three, we lift him," Robert said, moving into position. "Support his arms, don't let them move. One, two, three."
They lifted Jake as gently as they could, but every movement sent fresh waves of pain through him. He bit back screams as they carried him up the stairs, through the wrecked farmhouse, out into the night.
The wiz kids had brought one of the trucks up, the back seat already cleared. They laid Jake across it, Billy climbing in to support him, Josh getting behind the wheel.
"Go," Wade ordered. "Fast as you can. We'll clean up here."
Josh didn't need to be told twice. The truck roared to life and shot down the dirt road, Billy cradling his brother, Jake's head in his lap.
"Stay with me," Billy said. "Jake, stay with me. Talk to me."
"Hurts," Jake managed. "Everything hurts."
"I know. We're almost there. Ten minutes. You can make it ten minutes."
Behind them, the other trucks followed, the entire convoy racing through the darkness toward Kings County Hospital.
Pops sat in the second truck, his M1 Garand across his lap, still smelling of gunpowder. He stared out the window, his jaw tight. His grandson. They'd beaten him, broken him, tied him up like an animal.
The three kidnappers lying dead back at that farmhouse had gotten off easy.
Kings County Hospital's emergency entrance lit up as the convoy roared in. Rebecca was already there, waiting, Dr. Peterson beside her—the old war buddy of Pops, the family's doctor for a generation.
They hauled Jake out of the truck as carefully as they could, got him on a gurney. Rebecca took one look at her brother-in-law's arms and her nurse's training kicked in.
"Both biceps fractured," she said, her voice steady despite the horror in her eyes. "Get him to X-ray, now."
Dr. Peterson was already examining Jake, his weathered hands gentle despite their urgency. "Jake, can you hear me?"
"Doc," Jake managed. "Been better."
"I bet. We're gonna get you fixed up. You're gonna be okay."
They wheeled him inside, Rebecca and Dr. Peterson moving with him. The consortium families poured into the waiting room—Bensons, Nelsons, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes. All of them bloodied, armed, exhausted, but together.
Sarah rushed through the emergency entrance, her apron still on from the forgotten stew. She grabbed Tom's arm. "How bad?"
"Both arms broken," Tom said quietly. "Beat up pretty bad. But he's alive, Sarah. He's alive."
She nodded, tears streaming down her face.
Three hours later, Dr. Peterson emerged. The waiting room fell silent.
"He's stable," the doctor said. "Both humerus bones fractured—clean breaks, thankfully. We've set them, stabilized them with splints and slings. He's going to need months of physical therapy, but he'll recover full use of his arms."
The collective exhale was audible.
"The other injuries—contusions, lacerations, rope burns—those will heal. He's young, he's strong, and he's stubborn as hell."
"Can we take him home?" Rebecca asked.
Dr. Peterson looked at her. "You're a nurse. You know what to watch for—infection, circulation issues, pain management. Keep him immobile for at least a week, follow up in my office in three days."
"I can do that."
"Then yes. Home is better. He'll heal better with family around him." Dr. Peterson looked at Pops. "Old friend, I don't want to know what happened to the men who did this."
"Good," Pops said. "Because I wasn't planning on telling you."
Dr. Peterson nodded. "He's in recovery. You can see him now. Then take him home."
They brought Jake out in a wheelchair, both arms immobilized in splints and slings, his torso wrapped where the ropes had cut deepest. His face was pale but his eyes were clear. Angry, but clear.
"Let's go home," he said.
Chapter 8: Home
The convoy rolled up to the Benson ranch at 11:47 PM. Nearly eighteen hours since Jake had left that morning to mend fence. It felt like a lifetime.
They helped Jake out of the truck carefully, Rebecca hovering like a mother hen, checking his splints, his color, his breathing. Jake tolerated it with as much grace as a man with two broken arms could muster.
"I'm fine, Becca," he muttered.
"You're not fine. You're barely upright. Now shut up and let me do my job."
"Yes ma'am."
The house was blazing with light, every window glowing. Sarah had beaten them home from the hospital and had the kitchen in full operation—the beef stew reheated and simmering, additional pots of food pulled from the freezer and warming, enough to feed the small army that had just rescued her son.
Jake stopped in the doorway, taking it all in. The smell of home. The sound of family. The warmth after the cold darkness of that basement.
"Welcome home," Sarah called from the kitchen, her voice still thick from crying at the hospital but steady now. "Sit down before you fall down."
"Yes ma'am."
They settled him into the big leather recliner in the living room, pillows propped around him, his arms in their slings resting on more pillows. He looked like hell—bruised, battered, exhausted—but he was alive and he was home.
The consortium families filled the house. The kitchen table couldn't hold everyone, so they spread out—some at the table, some in the living room, some on the porch. Sarah and Caroline Beaumont shuttled food out in waves: beef stew, cornbread, green beans, mashed potatoes, leftover brisket from the weekend.
Billy Jr. and the wiz kids claimed spots on the living room floor near Jake, balancing plates on their laps. Caleb and Colton flanked them. The frat house crew, reunited.
"So," Jake said, looking at his nephew, "I hear you boys found me."
Billy Jr. nodded, suddenly looking every bit of his sixteen years. "Drones, thermal imaging, and some good old-fashioned detective work."
"Saved my ass."
"That's what family does."
Jake's good eye—the one that wasn't swollen—got a little wet. "Yeah. Yeah it is."
Pops emerged from his room carrying a bottle. Not just any bottle—the Jack Daniel's Single Barrel he kept hidden for special occasions. The one nobody touched without permission.
"Tonight," Pops announced, "we celebrate."
He poured generous measures into tumblers, passing them to the men. Even the wiz kids got a finger each—Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez looking both honored and nervous.
"To Jake," Pops said, raising his glass. "Toughest son of a bitch I know. And I've known a lot of tough sons of bitches."
"To Jake!" the room echoed.
They drank. The whiskey burned going down, smooth and fierce.
"To Pops," Wade added, raising his glass. "Three shots, three kills. Still got it, old man."
"Damn right I do," Pops said with satisfaction.
More laughter. More toasts. The tension of the last twelve hours finally breaking, replaced with the easy camaraderie of people who'd been through hell together.
"So what about the Fourth?" Tom asked, settling into a chair with his bowl of stew. "We still doing the big celebration?"
"Hell yes we are," Josh said. "More reason to celebrate now. Got the whole family intact."
"Wade's still bringing the smoker?" Sarah asked from the kitchen doorway.
"Wouldn't miss it," Wade confirmed. "Robert's got the ribs covered. We'll have enough food to feed half the county."
"Junior, you boys still got those fireworks sorted?" Pops asked.
Billy Jr. grinned. "Yes sir. Billy Renzo's dad got the good stuff from Oklahoma. We've got a whole show planned."
"Just don't blow yourselves up before the Fourth," Rebecca said. "I've had enough patients for one week."
"We'll be careful, Mom."
Jake shifted in his chair, wincing. "I'm gonna be useless for setup. Can't do shit with these arms."
"You just sit your ass in a lawn chair and supervise," Billy said. "Boss people around. You're good at that."
"Fuck you."
"Love you too, brother."
The banter flowed as easy as the whiskey. Stories started emerging—Billy recounting the moment they found the mule quad abandoned. Billy Jr. describing the thermal imaging showing Jake horizontal in the basement and the panic that had caused. Pops talking about the shot on the van, tracking it through the scope, leading it just right.
"Fifty years since Vietnam," Robert said, shaking his head in admiration. "Still shooting like a twenty-year-old."
"Some things you don't forget," Pops said quietly.
Jake was fading, the pain medication and exhaustion catching up with him. But he fought to stay awake, soaking in the warmth of his family around him.
"Those three assholes," he said suddenly. "They dead?"
The room went quiet.
"Yes," Pops said simply.
Jake nodded. "Good."
Nobody argued. Nobody questioned. Three men had kidnapped a member of the consortium, had beaten him, broken him, tied him up like an animal. They'd made their choice. They'd paid the price.
"What'd they want?" Jake asked. "Did we ever figure that out?"
"Money," Ray said. "Half a million. They were targeting the consortium, trying to prove we weren't as powerful as people think."
"How'd that work out for them?" Jake asked with a dark grin.
"Not well," Billy said.
More laughter, harder edged this time.
By midnight, people started filtering out. The Nelsons heading home, the Beaumonts, the Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes. Handshakes, hugs, promises to see each other on the Fourth.
"Three days," Wade said at the door. "We'll have the biggest damn celebration Kings County's ever seen."
"Damn right," Pops agreed.
Finally, it was just the Bensons left. Tom and Sarah cleaning up the kitchen. Josh and Rebecca getting Jake's room ready downstairs—no way he was climbing stairs for a while. Ray heading to his quarters. Pops settling into his chair with a fresh cigar.
And the frat house boys—Billy, Jake, Billy Jr., Caleb, and Colton—gathering in the living room one more time.
"Can you make it upstairs?" Billy asked Jake.
"Doc said downstairs for now," Jake said. "Guest room."
"That sucks. You're gonna miss all the good stuff."
"What good stuff? You snoring and Junior stealing the last cinnamon rolls?"
Billy Jr. grinned. "I only steal them because I'm faster than Uncle Billy."
"You're a little shit, Junior."
"Learned from the best."
They helped Jake to the guest room, got him settled. Rebecca came in with more pain medication, checked his vitals one more time, gave strict instructions about not moving too much.
"You need anything, you call," she said. "Josh and I are right down the hall."
"I'm good, Becca. Thank you."
She kissed his forehead. "Get some rest. You earned it."
The boys filed out, heading upstairs to the frat house. But Billy Jr. lingered in the doorway.
"Uncle Jake?"
"Yeah, Junior?"
"I'm glad you're okay."
Jake's throat tightened. "Me too, kid. And Junior? You did good today. Real good. You and your buddies—you saved my life."
Billy Jr. nodded, blinking hard. "That's what family does."
"Yeah. Yeah it is. Now get some sleep. We got a Fourth of July to plan."
Billy Jr. grinned and disappeared.
Jake lay in the dark, his arms throbbing despite the medication, his body one massive bruise. But he was home. He was safe. His family had moved heaven and earth to find him, had armed up and gone to war for him.
Three days until the Fourth of July. Three days until the consortium's first big celebration together.
Jake had survived a kidnapping, two broken arms, and being trussed up like a calf.
He sure as hell wasn't going to miss the party.
He closed his eyes and let sleep take him, the sound of his family moving through the house above him like a lullaby.
Home.
Chapter 9: The Fourth
July 4th dawned hot and clear over Kings County, Texas. By noon, the temperature was pushing ninety-five degrees, but nobody at the Benson ranch seemed to mind.
The lawn area behind the main house had been transformed. Long tables set up under shade canopies, folding chairs arranged in clusters, coolers full of ice and drinks, and in the center of it all—Wade Nelson's massive barrel smoker, already billowing aromatic smoke from the brisket that had been on since 4 AM.
Jake sat in a lawn chair under the largest canopy, his arms still in their splints and slings, a cold beer balanced precariously on the armrest. He'd been relegated to "supervisor" duty, which mostly meant yelling instructions at people who ignored him.
"Billy, you're setting that table crooked!"
"It's fine, Jake."
"It's not fine, it's—"
"You want to come fix it with your busted arms?"
Jake scowled. "Asshole."
"Love you too, brother."
The six consortium families arrived in waves throughout the afternoon. The Nelsons, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes—each bringing dishes, drinks, and the easy familiarity of people who'd become more than friends. They'd become family, bound by shared investment in the land and, three days ago, by a rescue mission that had turned into a small war.
Robert Beaumont backed his truck up near the smoker, carefully unloading sheet pans of ribs he'd been preparing since dawn. Wade inspected them with approval.
"Looking good, Robert."
"Damn right they are. How's the brisket?"
"Another hour. Maybe two."
By two o'clock, the party was in full swing. And then the sound started.
A discordant, twanging noise that made several people wince. Pops had emerged from the house carrying his banjo—an ancient instrument he'd had since Vietnam and never properly learned to play.
"Oh no," Billy Jr. muttered.
"Here we go," Caleb said.
Pops settled into a chair near what he'd dubbed his "booze stand"—a card table loaded with bottles of Jack Daniel's, Jim Beam, and a bottle of moonshine Wade's cousin had sent from Tennessee. He started picking at the banjo strings, producing sounds that could charitably be called "music" and more accurately described as "organized chaos."
"That's awful," Jake called out.
"You're just uncultured," Pops shot back, not missing a note. "This is authentic Appalachian folk music."
"That's authentic torture," Billy said.
But nobody made him stop. It was tradition now. Pops and his terrible banjo, holding court from his booze stand, dispensing whiskey and wisdom in equal measure.
The conversation, inevitably, turned to the kidnapping.
"So three shots, three kills," Robert was saying, shaking his head in admiration. "At seventy-six years old. In the dark. One of them in a moving vehicle."
"Wasn't dark," Pops corrected, pouring himself another measure of Jack. "Had moonlight. And that van wasn't moving that fast."
"Still impressive as hell."
"Damn right it is." Pops took a sip, his eyes twinkling. "Fifty years since 'Nam and I still got it."
Wade raised his beer. "To Pops. Best overwatch I've ever seen."
"To Pops!"
Jake shifted in his chair, wincing as his arms protested. Billy caught the movement and grinned.
"So, little brother, tell us again about the chair."
"Fuck off."
"No, seriously. You got grabbed by three guys with guns, driven to a creepy farmhouse, and then what? Decided to smoke a cigarette and give them attitude?"
"I was establishing dominance," Jake said with as much dignity as a man with two broken arms could muster.
"You were tied to an orange chair," Caleb added helpfully.
"With about a mile of rope," Colton continued.
"And a burlap sack on your head," Billy Jr. finished.
"I hate all of you."
The ribbing continued, good-natured and relentless. Jake took it with better grace than expected, probably because he was just happy to be alive and sitting in the sun with his family instead of tied to that goddamn chair in that goddamn basement.
"Hey, at least I didn't break my arms by myself," Jake pointed out. "Took three kidnappers and gravity to do that."
"Fair point," Billy conceded.
The wiz kids had set up a laptop and portable projector under one of the canopies, and by three o'clock they'd gathered a crowd. Billy Jr. pulled up the drone footage from the rescue mission—thermal imaging, aerial views, the entire operation documented in high definition.
"This is when we first spotted the farmhouse," Billy Jr. narrated, advancing the footage. "Thermal showing three signatures upstairs, one in the basement."
"That's Uncle Jake," Daniel Rodriguez added, pointing at the horizontal heat signature.
"Why's he horizontal?" one of the younger Mattern kids asked.
"Chair fell over," Jake called from his lawn chair. "Long story."
The footage continued—showing the consortium vehicles approaching, the tactical positioning, Pops climbing into the oak tree with his rifle. Then the breach, captured from multiple drone angles.
"There," Billy Renzo said, freezing a frame. "That's Grandpa Pops' first shot. Window breaks, target down."
"And here's the van," Ryan Mattern continued the footage. "Trying to escape. Watch the tracking shot—"
The group watched as the thermal image showed the van swerving, crashing. Pops' second kill, captured in infrared.
"Beautiful shot," Robert said quietly.
"Damn right it was," Pops called over, still picking at his banjo.
The food started coming out around four o'clock. Wade carved the brisket—perfectly smoked, bark dark and crispy, meat tender enough to pull apart with a fork. Robert's ribs followed, glazed and glistening. Sarah and the other women brought out sides: potato salad, coleslaw, baked beans, corn on the cob, fresh rolls, and three different kinds of pie.
The consortium families loaded plates and settled in to eat, the conversation flowing as easy as the beer and whiskey. Stories were told and retold—the discovery of the abandoned mule quad, the 911 emergency broadcast, Billy Jr.'s calm voice on the radio coordinating the response, the moment they found Jake in that basement.
"Scariest moment of my life," Billy admitted quietly, "was seeing you on that dirt floor, all trussed up, not knowing if..."
He didn't finish. Didn't need to.
"I'm here," Jake said simply. "We're all here. That's what matters."
By seven o'clock, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The heat had broken, a light breeze rolling across the ranch land. Perfect weather for fireworks.
Billy Jr. and the other three wiz kids—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—along with Caleb and Colton, gathered near the launch site they'd set up in the far field. They'd spent weeks planning this show, coordinating sequences, timing fuses, arranging for maximum visual impact.
"Everyone ready?" Billy Jr. called out.
The families gathered on the lawn, settling into chairs and blankets. Jake had a prime spot, his brothers on either side, Pops nearby with his banjo finally silent and a fresh glass of Jack in his hand.
"Light it up, boys!" Tom called.
The first rocket screamed into the sky and exploded in a cascade of red and white stars. Then another. And another. The wiz kids worked with practiced efficiency, lighting fuses, coordinating launches, creating a symphony of light and sound that lit up the Kings County sky.
Mortars boomed. Roman candles shrieked. Aerial shells burst in massive chrysanthemums of color—red, white, blue, gold, silver, green. The show went on for twenty minutes, building to a grand finale that involved what seemed like every remaining firework launching simultaneously.
When the last spark faded and the smoke drifted away, the consortium families erupted in applause and cheers.
"Hell of a show, boys!" Wade called out.
"Damn near professional," Robert added.
Billy Jr. and his crew jogged back, grinning and smelling of gunpowder. They dropped into chairs near Jake, accepting congratulations and bottles of water.
"You boys did good," Pops said, raising his glass. "Real good."
"To the wiz kids!" someone called.
"To the wiz kids!"
They drank. The night settled in around them, comfortable and easy. Fireflies started appearing in the darkness beyond the lights. Someone had put music on—not Pops' banjo, thankfully, but actual music from a speaker. Families talked quietly, kids ran around chasing fireflies, the adults settled in with drinks and the satisfaction of a day well spent.
Jake sat in his lawn chair, both arms still useless, his body still aching, but surrounded by the people who'd moved heaven and earth to save him. His family by blood and by choice. The consortium—six families, one purpose, bound together by land and loyalty and love.
Three days ago, he'd been tied to a chair in a dark basement, wondering if he'd survive. Tonight, he was home, watching fireworks with his family, planning for tomorrow and all the tomorrows after that.
Billy dropped into the chair next to him. "You good?"
"Yeah," Jake said. "I'm good."
"Arms healing?"
"Slowly. Doc says another couple months and I should be back to normal."
"In time for fall roundup?"
"Maybe. If not, I'll supervise."
"You mean boss people around."
"Exactly."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching Billy Jr. and the other boys replay highlights of the fireworks show on one of their iPads, already planning next year's display.
"They saved my life," Jake said quietly. "Those kids. Junior and his buddies. If they hadn't found me when they did..."
"But they did," Billy said firmly. "That's what matters. They found you, we got you out, and you're here. End of story."
"Not quite the end," Jake said, nodding toward the group. "This is the end. All of us, together, celebrating. This is how it ends."
Billy raised his beer. "To family."
"To family," Jake echoed.
Around them, the consortium families continued their celebration—the first of many Fourth of July gatherings to come. The Bensons, Nelsons, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes. Six families, one third of Kings County, and a bond forged in fire and blood and loyalty.
Pops struck up his banjo again, the discordant notes drifting across the ranch. Nobody complained. Some things, no matter how terrible, were tradition.
And tradition, like family, was everything.
THE END
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