Chapter 1
The frat house occupied the southeast corner of the second floor, next door to the command center and across the hall from Pops' bedroom. Two bunk beds dominated the cramped space—Billy and Jake in one, Jr. and Celeb in the other—with Colt's mattress wedged between them on the floor. Empty beer bottles lined the windowsill. The floorboards near Jake's bunk had been pried up and replaced so many times the nails barely held.
At 4:30 a.m., Pops was already up. His boots creaked on the stairs as he made his way to the kitchen, where he started the coffee pot and poured two fingers of whiskey into a tumbler. He lit a cigar, cracked the window, and stood there in the pre-dawn dark, watching the horizon.
By 5:30, the sky was turning gray.
Pops climbed back upstairs and threw open the frat house door. He banged his fist against the doorframe. "Up! Let's go! Daylight's burning!"
Jake groaned and rolled over. "Jesus, Pops—"
"Don't 'Jesus' me, boy. Move your ass."
Jr. was already sitting up, rubbing his eyes. Celeb swung down from the top bunk, landing hard on Colt's mattress. Colt cursed and shoved him off.
Billy threw his legs over the side and stood, pulling on his jeans. "We're up, Pops."
"Damn right you are." Pops jabbed the cigar toward the stairs. "Breakfast in ten. Don't make your mother wait."
The whole clan gathered around the long table in the kitchen: Tom and Sarah at the head, Pops with his coffee and whiskey, the boys shoulder to shoulder, Rebecca pouring orange juice for Jr., Ray shuffling through paperwork, and Josh standing at the counter with a clipboard.
Sarah set down platters of eggs, bacon, and biscuits. "Eat up. Long day ahead."
Josh cleared his throat. "All right, listen up. Ray, you're handling the feed delivery with Tom. Jake and Celeb, south fence line—posts are rotting out past the creek. Jr., you're on the drone sweep with the wiz kids, then help your dad with the equipment shed."
He looked at Billy. "You're taking the north section. Check the water lines, fix anything that's broke, and radio in by noon."
Billy nodded, shoveling eggs into his mouth. "Which truck?"
"The old Ford. Keys are on the hook."
Jake smirked. "Hope it makes it that far."
"It'll make it," Billy said.
Pops exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Better. That's a long walk back."
By 6:45, Billy was loading his pack into the bed of the old Ford—undershirt, radio, Glock, cell phone, two sandwiches his mother had wrapped in foil, bottles of water, and a red bandanna. The truck coughed to life, and he pulled out onto the dirt road heading north.
The sun was just clearing the hills when he disappeared over the ridge.
Chapter 2
Billy drove north for twenty minutes, the old Ford rattling over ruts and rocks as the landscape opened into scrub grass and mesquite. The radio crackled occasionally with chatter from the ranch—Jake complaining about fence posts, Jr. laughing at something in the background. Billy smiled and kept his eyes on the road.
By 7:15 a.m., he'd reached the northern water station. He parked the truck in the shade of a cottonwood and killed the engine. The heat was already building. He grabbed his pack from the bed, slung it over his shoulder, and started toward the pump house.
He didn't see them until it was too late.
Two men stepped out from behind the structure—one tall and rangy, the other thick-shouldered with a beard. Both had rifles.
"Easy, Benson," the tall one said. "Drop the pack."
Billy froze. His hand twitched toward his waistband where the Glock sat, but the bearded one raised his rifle. "Don't."
Billy's jaw tightened. He let the pack slide off his shoulder and hit the dirt.
"Now the gun. Two fingers. Slow."
Billy pulled the Glock from his waistband and tossed it into the dust.
"Good boy," the tall one said. "Now turn around. Hands behind your back."
"Who the hell are you?"
"Shut up and turn around."
Billy hesitated, calculating. The bearded one stepped forward and jammed the rifle barrel into his ribs. "Do it."
Billy turned. Rough hands yanked his wrists together, and he felt the bite of coarse rope wrapping around them. They pulled it tight, cinching it hard—the fibers digging into his skin. His fingers started to tingle.
"Walk," the tall one said, shoving him toward the truck.
They pushed him against the Ford's tailgate and rifled through his pack. The radio came out first. The bearded one smashed it against the bumper, then stomped on it. The cell phone got the same treatment—screen shattering under his boot heel.
"Hungry?" the tall one asked, unwrapping one of Sarah's foil-wrapped sandwiches. He took a big bite and grinned. "Your mama makes a good sandwich, Benson."
Billy said nothing.
The bearded one picked up the Glock from the dust and tucked it into his belt. "Nice piece."
Then he pulled out a bandanna—not Billy's red one, but a greasy rag from his own pocket. He wadded it up and shoved it into Billy's mouth. Billy gagged, trying to pull away, but the man grabbed his jaw and forced it in. Another strip of cloth came out, tied tight around his head to hold the gag in place.
"Can't have you yelling," the tall one said. He pulled a blindfold from his pocket and wrapped it around Billy's eyes, knotting it at the back of his head.
Everything went black.
Billy felt hands on his shoulders, spinning him around, shoving him forward. His boots scraped against gravel. A door creaked open—the passenger side of the Ford.
"Get in."
They pushed him onto the bench seat, his bound wrists digging into the small of his back. The bearded one climbed in beside him, rifle across his lap. The tall one got behind the wheel.
The engine turned over, and the truck lurched forward.
Billy's pack and the shattered remains of his radio and phone—all of it left behind in the dirt.
Chapter 3
They drove for hours.
The old truck had no air conditioning, and the Texas sun beat down through the windshield. Billy could feel the sweat beading on his brow, dripping down his bare chest, soaking into the waistband of his jeans. The blindfold pressed hot and damp against his face. The gag filled his mouth, making it hard to breathe through his nose.
His wrists were already numb.
The rope dug deep into his skin, and he couldn't feel his fingers anymore. He tried shifting his weight to ease the pressure in his lower back, but every bump in the road sent a jolt of pain up his spine.
"How much you think they'll pay?" the bearded one asked, his voice close in Billy's ear.
"For the youngest Benson?" The tall one laughed from behind the wheel. "Hell, they'll pay whatever we ask. That family's got money."
"What if they don't?"
"Then we make him scream. Send 'em some pictures. Maybe cut off a finger. They'll pay."
Billy's chest tightened. He forced himself to breathe slowly through his nose.
"We tie him up good when we get there," the bearded one said. "Real tight. Take some pictures. Show 'em we mean business."
"Oh, we'll tie him up," the tall one said. "And if they don't comply with all our demands? We'll make sure he knows what happens when Bensons don't cooperate."
Billy's mind raced. Jake had tied him up plenty of times—escape games they'd played since they were kids. Billy had gotten good at working knots, finding slack, staying calm. But this was different. His wrists were already gone, the circulation cut off. He could only imagine what they were planning to do when they got wherever they were going.
He tried to focus. Tried to think.
But all he could do was sit there in the heat and sweat.
Chapter 4
The truck finally stopped.
Billy heard the engine cut, then the creak of doors opening. Hands grabbed him roughly, dragging him out of the cab. His legs buckled when his boots hit the ground—hours of sitting with his wrists bound had left them weak and unsteady. The bearded one shoved him forward.
"Walk."
Billy stumbled blind across uneven ground, the blindfold still tight across his eyes. He could hear the scrape of a door, smell old wood and dust. They pushed him inside—a barn, maybe, or a shed. The air was stifling, thick with heat.
"Sit."
They forced him down onto a wooden chair, his already-bound wrists positioned behind the chair back. The tall one brought more coarse rope and wrapped it around Billy's powerful biceps, lashing them tight to the sides of the chair. He frapped the rope between Billy's arms and the wood, cinching out every bit of slack. Billy's upper body was locked in place.
Then the bearded one grabbed Billy's bound wrists and yanked them upward behind the chair. Billy grunted through the gag as his shoulders screamed in protest. They pushed his wrists as high as they could go and lashed them to the top rung of the chair back. His arms were bent at a brutal angle now, immobile and burning.
"Get his boots."
Rough hands grabbed Billy's ankles, shoving his work boots back under the chair. More rope came out, binding his boots together, then running the line up to connect with the rope at his wrists—hogtying him so his legs were pinned beneath the chair with no give.
Finally, they circled his torso. Rope wrapped around his chest, across his pecs and abs, lashing him to the chair back. They pulled it tight, forcing the air from his lungs. Billy could barely expand his ribs to breathe.
The tall one stepped back, admiring their work. "That'll hold him."
The bearded one pulled out a phone. "Time for pictures."
Billy heard the click of a camera. Once. Twice. Three times.
By noon, Billy hadn't radioed in.
Josh tried raising him twice on the ranch frequency. Nothing. He frowned and checked his watch. "That's not like him."
Tom set down his coffee mug. "Where'd you send him?"
"Northern water station. Should've been a two-hour job, max."
Jr. looked up from the command center where he'd been monitoring the drone feeds with Billy Renzo and Ryan Mattern. "Want me to take a look?"
Tom nodded. "Get your gear. I'm coming with you."
They took one of the newer pickups—Tom driving, Jr. riding shotgun with a tablet on his lap pulling up the ranch's GPS grid. The route north was familiar, well-worn dirt roads cutting through mesquite and scrub.
Twenty-five minutes later, they crested the ridge overlooking the water station.
The old Ford was gone.
Tom slowed the truck and pulled up near the pump house. Both doors opened at once. Jr. was out first, scanning the ground.
"Over here," he called.
Billy's pack lay in the dirt, its contents scattered. The radio was in pieces, crushed and stomped. The cell phone screen glittered in shards across the gravel. The foil from Sarah's sandwiches was crumpled nearby, empty.
Tom crouched down, his jaw tightening. He picked up a piece of the broken radio and turned it over in his hand.
Jr.'s eyes swept the scene—tire tracks, boot prints, scuff marks in the dust. His face went pale. "Grandpa..."
Tom stood slowly, his gaze hard. "Hit the button."
Jr. didn't hesitate. He pulled the encrypted satellite phone from his belt and pressed the red 911 emergency button.
The mechanical voice echoed three times across the consortium's encrypted frequency: "911 Emergency. Billy Junior Benson. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior Benson. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior Benson."
Within seconds, voices crackled back.
"Copy that, Jr. What's your twenty?" Wade Nelson's voice, calm and sharp.
"Northern water station. Billy's gone. Truck's gone. Gear destroyed."
A pause. Then Pops' gravelly voice cut through. "Everyone to the ranch house. Now."
Chapter 5
Within thirty minutes, the ranch house was packed.
Pops stood at the head of the long table, cigar clenched between his teeth, eyes hard as flint. Tom and Josh flanked him. Wade Nelson was there with his sons, Wilson and Ryan—both deputies still in uniform. Jake paced near the window, fists clenched. Celeb and Colt stood shoulder to shoulder, silent and tense. Ray was on his phone coordinating with the other consortium families.
Sarah sat with Rebecca at the kitchen counter, her face pale but composed. Her hands gripped a coffee mug so tight her knuckles were white.
Jr. burst through the door with Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez right behind him. The four boys made a beeline for the command center, tablets and laptops already out.
"What do we have?" Pops barked.
Jr. didn't look up from his screen. "Working on it. Pulling GPS data from the old Ford now."
Billy Renzo's fingers flew across his keyboard. "Got surveillance from the county road cameras. Scanning for the truck."
"How long?" Wade asked.
"Give us ten minutes," Jr. said.
Jake slammed his fist on the table. "Ten minutes? Billy could be dead in ten minutes! We need to move now!"
"Sit down and shut your mouth," Pops said, his voice like gravel. "We're not going in blind."
"The hell we're not! They took my brother!"
Tom stepped forward. "Jake—"
"No!" Jake's face was red, his jaw clenched. "You don't get it! Those bastards have Billy tied up somewhere, and we're sitting here playing with computers!"
Pops moved fast for a seventy-six-year-old man. He got right in Jake's face, cigar smoke curling between them. "You think I don't know what they got? You think I don't want to put a bullet in every son of a bitch who touched that boy? But if you go off half-cocked, you'll get him killed. Now sit. Down."
Jake's chest heaved. For a moment, it looked like he might swing. Then he stepped back, breathing hard.
"Disgruntled employees," Ray said quietly, breaking the tension. "Has to be. We let three guys go last month for stealing equipment. Two of them made threats on their way out."
"Names," Pops said, eyes still on Jake.
"Curt Hayes and Dwayne Polk. Both from over near Brownwood."
Wade pulled out his phone. "I'll run them. See what we're dealing with."
Jr. looked up suddenly, his face lit by the tablet screen. "Got it. GPS puts the truck heading west on County Road 47, then south on 183. Last ping was..." He zoomed in. "Abandoned ranch property. The old Mercer place."
"How far?" Tom asked.
"Ninety miles. Maybe two hours if we push it."
Jake was already heading for the door. "Let's go."
"Not yet," Pops said.
Jake spun around. "What?!"
"We don't know what we're walking into. How many men. What kind of firepower. Whether they've got lookouts."
"I don't give a damn—"
"Well you better start!" Pops' voice cracked like a whip. "Because if you get yourself killed being stupid, Billy dies too. You hear me?"
Jake's hands were shaking. He opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded once.
Pops straightened. "Jake, Celeb, Colt—get the rifles. Check the ammo. Tom, Josh, you're with me. Wade, bring your boys."
Jake was already moving toward the gun safe, his jaw still tight.
"Jr.," Pops said. "You and the wiz kids stay on comms. We need eyes in the sky. Get those drones up."
"Yes, sir."
Sarah stood, her voice quiet but firm. "Bring him home."
Pops met her eyes. "We will."
Chapter 6
The photos came through twenty minutes later.
Ray's phone buzzed first. He looked at the screen, and his face went white. "Pops..."
The image had been sent to every consortium member—a group text with no message, just three photos. Billy blindfolded and gagged, tied brutally to a wooden chair, rope cutting into his bare chest and arms, his wrists yanked high behind him. Sweat glistened on his skin. Even through the blindfold, you could see the strain in his face.
Jake snatched the phone from Ray's hand. His whole body went rigid. "Those motherfuckers."
Sarah gasped, her hand going to her mouth. Rebecca put an arm around her.
Tom's jaw was locked tight, but his eyes blazed. "Forward those to Wade. Now."
Jake threw the phone back at Ray. "We're wasting time! Let's move!"
"Jake—" Josh started.
"No! Look at him!" Jake jabbed his finger at the screen. "They've got him trussed up like a goddamn animal! We go now!"
Pops grabbed Jake by the shoulder, hard. "We are going. Right now. But you listen to me—you don't go in there swinging. You follow orders. You stay sharp. Because Billy needs us thinking, not feeling. You copy?"
Jake's nostrils flared, but he nodded.
"Good." Pops turned to the room. "Rifles loaded. Sidearms too. Jr., you and the boys—you're coming with us. Bring the tablets and the satellite phones. I want those drones feeding us live footage the whole way."
Jr. looked up, eyes wide. "We're going?"
"Damn right you are. We need comms and eyes on target. But you stay back with the trucks unless I say otherwise."
Billy Renzo was already strapping on a holstered Glock. Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez did the same, their faces set and serious.
Sarah stood. "Mary, Edna, Caroline—you're staying here with me and Rebecca. We'll monitor everything from the command center. You see anything, you radio immediately."
The women nodded, already gathering around the iPads.
Wade clipped his badge to his belt. "Wilson, Ryan—full tactical. This is a rescue op, but if they resist, we end it."
"Yes, sir," both deputies said in unison.
Tom grabbed the keys to the lead truck. "Convoy formation. Three vehicles. Wade's truck up front, mine in the middle, Josh bringing up the rear. Jr. and the wiz kids ride with me. Everyone else divides up. We stay on encrypted comms the whole way."
Jake was already at the gun safe, pulling out rifles and handing them to Celeb and Colt. His hands moved fast, efficiently, but his eyes were dark with rage.
Pops walked over to him, voice low. "Jake. I know what you're feeling. But you keep your head, or you stay here. Which is it?"
Jake met his grandfather's eyes. "I'm going. And I'm bringing him home."
"Then let's move."
The convoy rolled out five minutes later—three trucks loaded with armed men, the wiz kids in the middle vehicle with tablets glowing, drones already launched and circling ahead. The sun was starting to dip toward the horizon.
Inside the ranch house, Sarah watched the convoy disappear down the road, then turned back to the command center where the iPad screens showed live drone feeds.
"Stay safe," she whispered. "All of you."
Chapter 7
Billy had been tied to the chair for hours.
The heat in the shed was unbearable, and his shoulders screamed from the strain of his wrists being yanked high behind him. Sweat dripped down his face under the blindfold, soaking the gag. He could hear the two men outside, their voices drifting through the walls—arguing about money, about timing, about what they'd do if the Bensons didn't pay.
Billy forced himself to focus.
Jake's voice echoed in his head from all those escape games they'd played as kids. Feel the rope. Find the weak point. Work it slow. Don't rush.
He tested the rope around his wrists first, flexing his fingers even though they were numb. The knot was tight, but there was always a weak point. He twisted his hands carefully, feeling for any give in the coarse fibers.
Nothing.
He tried his biceps next, flexing against the rope that lashed them to the sides of the chair. The frapping had eliminated most of the slack, but if he could just create a little space...
He pulled. Twisted. Strained against the bindings.
The rope bit deeper into his skin, but he felt something—the tiniest bit of movement in the chair itself. One of the rungs creaked.
Billy's heart pounded. He worked harder, rocking his weight forward and back, testing the chair's structure. If he could break it apart, maybe—
The door slammed open.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The tall one stormed in, grabbed Billy by the hair, and slapped him hard across the face. The blindfold shifted but didn't come off.
Billy's head snapped to the side, stars exploding behind his eyes.
"Think you're smart?" The bearded one was there now too. He drove his fist into Billy's stomach—a brutal gut punch that drove all the air from his lungs. Billy doubled over as much as the ropes allowed, gagging behind the cloth.
"You try that again," the tall one hissed, pulling out a hunting knife, "and I'll start cutting pieces off. You understand me?"
He pressed the blade against Billy's bare chest, just below his collarbone. Billy felt the cold steel, the sharp edge biting into his skin.
"Nod if you understand."
Billy nodded.
"Good boy." The tall one stepped back, folding the knife. "Now sit there and think about what happens if you don't behave."
They walked out, slamming the door behind them.
Billy sat in the darkness, breathing hard through his nose, his stomach still cramping from the punch. Blood trickled down his chest where the knife had broken skin.
But his mind was already working again.
There has to be a way out.
Chapter 8
Hours passed. Maybe six. Maybe eight. Billy had lost track of time.
The sun had set—he could tell from the drop in temperature, though the shed was still stifling. His throat was raw and dry. His shoulders felt like they were being ripped from their sockets. Every breath was a struggle against the rope crushing his chest.
But he kept working.
The chair rung had a crack in it now. He'd felt it give during his last attempt, before they'd caught him. If he could just get enough leverage...
Billy waited until he heard their voices drift away from the shed—arguing again, this time louder. Drunk, maybe. He couldn't tell.
He rocked forward, then back. Hard.
The rung cracked louder.
He did it again. And again.
Crack.
The wood splintered. Billy felt the rope at his wrists loosen as the rung gave way. He twisted his hands, ignoring the burning pain, working the coarse fibers. His fingers were numb, useless, but he kept pulling.
The rope slipped.
His wrists came free.
Billy didn't waste a second. He reached up and yanked the blindfold off, blinking in the dim light. Then the gag—he spat out the filthy rag and gasped for air. His hands shook as he worked the rope around his biceps, then his chest, then his boots.
Thirty seconds. That's all he had.
The last rope fell away. Billy stood—his legs nearly buckled, but he caught himself against the wall. He looked around. The shed had one door. No windows. He could hear voices outside, maybe twenty yards away.
He moved to the door and eased it open.
Cool night air hit his face. The old Ford was parked near a dilapidated barn. Beyond that, scrub and mesquite stretched into darkness. No lights. No roads visible.
Billy took a breath and ran.
His boots pounded against dirt and rock. His legs screamed in protest, weak from hours of being bound. He didn't care. He ran toward the tree line, toward cover, toward anything that wasn't here.
"Hey! HEY!"
The shout came from behind him. Then another.
"He's running! Get him!"
Billy pushed harder. His lungs burned. His vision swam. He could hear them now—boots crashing through brush, getting closer.
The terrain sloped downward. Billy couldn't see in the darkness. His boot caught on a rock.
He went down hard.
His hands hit the dirt, his knee cracked against stone. He tried to scramble up, but they were on him.
The bearded one tackled him from behind, driving him face-first into the ground. Billy fought, throwing an elbow, but the tall one grabbed his arms and wrenched them back.
"You little shit!" The bearded one punched him in the ribs. Once. Twice.
Billy gasped, the air driven from his lungs.
They dragged him to his feet, both men gripping his arms tight. Billy's chest heaved, blood dripping from his scraped hands and knees.
The tall one's face was dark with rage. "You just made a big mistake, Benson."
They hauled him back toward the shed.
Chapter 9
They threw Billy back into the shed, and he hit the floor hard.
"You think you're clever?" The tall one kicked him in the side. Billy curled up, trying to protect his ribs.
The bearded one grabbed a length of rope from the corner. "We were gonna be nice. Wait for the money, let you go. But you had to make this difficult."
They hauled Billy to his feet and dragged him to a wooden beam that ran across the ceiling. The tall one threw the rope over it while the bearded one wrenched Billy's arms behind his back again.
Billy struggled, but he had nothing left. His legs were weak, his body battered.
They bound his wrists together with fresh rope—tighter this time, the coarse fibers cutting deep into already-raw skin. Then they ran the rope up through a pulley hook on the beam and pulled.
Billy's arms were yanked upward behind him, forcing him onto his toes. The rope kept going. Higher. His shoulders burned, then screamed as they were pulled beyond their natural range. He couldn't suppress a groan through gritted teeth.
"That's it," the tall one said, tying off the rope. "Let him hang there and think about what happens when you don't cooperate."
Billy's entire weight hung from his wrists now, his toes barely scraping the ground. The pain in his shoulders was excruciating, radiating down his spine and up into his neck.
The bearded one circled him, then drove another fist into Billy's exposed stomach. Billy's body jerked, but he couldn't double over, couldn't protect himself. He gasped for air.
"One more for good measure." Another punch to the ribs. Billy felt something crack.
The tall one pulled out his phone. "Time for new pictures. Show the Bensons what happens when they don't pay up fast enough."
The camera clicked. Billy hung there, arms stretched brutally behind and above him, head hanging forward, chest heaving, blood and sweat mixing on his skin.
"Perfect," the tall one said, already typing. "Let's see how fast they move now."
They walked out, leaving Billy suspended in the darkness.
Every breath was agony. His shoulders felt like they were tearing apart. Time became meaningless—just pain, and the desperate need to breathe, and the hope that someone would find him before his body gave out completely.
The new photos hit the consortium group text fifteen minutes later.
Sarah's hand flew to her mouth. Rebecca turned away. Mary Nelson closed her eyes.
In the lead truck of the convoy, Ray's phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and his face went white. "Jesus Christ..."
Jake grabbed the phone. His jaw clenched so tight his teeth could've cracked. "How far out are we?"
Jr. checked his tablet. "Forty minutes. Maybe less if we push it."
"Push it," Jake said, his voice ice cold.
Pops looked at the photo, then handed the phone back. His eyes were hard as stone. "Wade—when we get there, we don't negotiate. We don't wait. We go in fast and we end it."
"Copy that," Wade said.
The convoy accelerated into the night.
Chapter 10
The convoy cut their lights a quarter mile out.
Three trucks rolled to a stop on the ridge overlooking the old Mercer place. The compound below was dark except for a single light in what looked like the main house. The shed sat off to the side, barely visible in the moonlight.
Jr.'s tablet glowed in the darkness. "Drones are picking up two heat signatures in the main structure. One in the shed—stationary."
"That's Billy," Tom said quietly.
Pops chambered a round in his rifle. "Wade, you and your boys take the house. Tom, Josh, Jake—you're with me on the shed. Jr., you and the wiz kids stay with the trucks. Eyes on those drones. Anything moves, you radio."
"Yes, sir," Jr. said.
Jake checked his rifle, his face a mask of controlled fury. "What about prisoners?"
Pops looked at him. "There won't be any."
Wade nodded to Wilson and Ryan. "Spread out. Silent approach. On my signal."
The men moved like shadows down the ridge—Pops, Tom, Josh, and Jake breaking right toward the shed while Wade and his deputies angled left toward the house. Celeb and Colt followed Pops' team, rifles ready.
Jr. watched the tablet screen, his heart pounding. Billy Renzo leaned over his shoulder. "Heat signature in the shed hasn't moved. He's still there."
"Come on, Uncle Billy," Jr. whispered.
Pops reached the shed first, Tom and Josh flanking the door. Jake positioned himself to the right, finger on the trigger. Through a gap in the weathered boards, they could see Billy—suspended from the beam, head hanging forward, barely moving.
Jake's breath hissed through his teeth.
Pops held up three fingers. Two. One.
Tom kicked the door in.
They swept inside, rifles up—but the shed was empty except for Billy. No guards. The kidnappers had left him hanging.
"Clear," Tom called.
Jake was already moving, dropping his rifle and pulling out his knife. He cut the rope in one swift motion, and Billy collapsed. Jake caught him, lowering him carefully to the ground.
"Billy. Billy, can you hear me?"
Billy's eyes fluttered open. His voice was barely a rasp. "Jake..."
"I got you, brother. I got you."
Outside, gunfire erupted.
Wade and his deputies had reached the house when the door flew open. The tall one stepped out with a rifle, and all hell broke loose.
Wade fired first—three rounds center mass. The tall one went down.
The bearded one appeared in the doorway, swinging his rifle toward Wilson. Ryan fired twice, dropping him before he could get a shot off.
Silence fell over the compound.
Wade approached the bodies, weapon still raised. He checked for pulses. Nothing.
"Clear," he radioed.
In the shed, Pops knelt beside Billy while Tom cut the ropes still binding his wrists and ankles. Billy's shoulders were dislocated, his wrists raw and bleeding, ribs clearly broken.
"Medic's on the way," Josh said, already on the satellite phone. "Ten minutes out."
Billy looked up at Jake, his voice cracking. "Knew you'd come."
Jake's eyes were wet. "Always, brother. Always."
Pops put a hand on Billy's head. "You did good, boy. You did real good."
Jr.'s voice crackled over the radio. "Pops—we got visual confirmation. Two tangos down. Uncle Billy's status?"
"He's alive," Pops said into the radio. "Bring the trucks down. We're coming home."
The convoy's headlights flared to life on the ridge, cutting through the darkness.
Chapter 11
The medics arrived ten minutes later—two EMTs from the consortium's network who knew to ask no questions. They worked fast, checking Billy's vitals, stabilizing his shoulders, wrapping his ribs.
"We need to get him to the hospital," the lead medic said. "Those shoulders need imaging, maybe surgery—"
"No hospital," Billy rasped, his voice rough. "Home. Rebecca and Doc Peterson."
The medic looked at Pops.
Pops nodded. "You heard him. Get him home."
They loaded Billy into the back of Tom's truck, Jake climbing in beside him, refusing to let go of his brother's hand. The convoy reformed and headed back toward the ranch, this time with its precious cargo intact.
By the time they rolled up to the ranch house, word had already spread. The entire consortium was there—families spilling out onto the porch, the command center still glowing with iPad screens. Sarah stood at the top of the steps, her hands clasped tight.
Jake helped Billy out of the truck, supporting him as they made their way up. Sarah rushed forward, tears streaming down her face, and wrapped her arms gently around her youngest son.
"My boy," she whispered. "My boy."
"I'm okay, Mama," Billy said, though his voice shook.
Rebecca was already in full nurse mode, barking orders. "Get him inside. Lay him on the dining table—we need space to work. Someone get my kit. Jr., boil water. Mary, I need clean towels."
Old Doc Peterson was waiting in the kitchen, his medical bag open on the counter. He was seventy-eight, white-haired and grizzled, with the same hard eyes as Pops. He'd patched up more ranch hands, soldiers, and wayward boys than he could count.
"Let's have a look at you, son," Peterson said, his voice gruff but kind.
They laid Billy out on the table. Rebecca cut away what was left of his shirt while Peterson examined his shoulders, his ribs, the rope burns on his wrists.
"Dislocated both shoulders," Peterson muttered. "Cracked ribs. Dehydration. But you'll live, boy. You're tougher than you look."
"Learned from the best," Billy said, glancing at Pops.
Peterson worked methodically, relocating Billy's shoulders with practiced efficiency. Billy gritted his teeth but didn't cry out. Rebecca wrapped his ribs, cleaned and bandaged his wrists, started an IV for fluids.
"You're staying in bed for a week," Rebecca said firmly. "No arguments."
"Yes, ma'am," Billy said with a faint smile.
An hour later, Billy was resting in the frat house, propped up on pillows with Jake hovering nearby. The pain meds were kicking in, and he was finally starting to relax.
Downstairs, Pops and Doc Peterson sat at the kitchen table with Tom, Josh, Ray, and Wade. A bottle of Jack Daniels sat between them, glasses already poured.
"To Billy," Pops said, raising his glass. "Tough as nails, that boy."
"To Billy," the men echoed, knocking back their drinks.
Peterson refilled the glasses. "He did good, James. Real good. Most boys would've broken."
"He's a Benson," Pops said simply.
The women had spread out food across the counter—Sarah, Mary, Edna, Caroline, and Rebecca moving between the kitchen and the command center, feeding everyone, making sure no detail was missed.
By midnight, the frat house was packed.
Billy was still propped up in his bunk, groggy but awake. Jake sat on the edge of the bed. Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez had claimed the floor, sleeping bags spread out between the bunks and Colt's mattress. Celeb and Colt were on the other bunk, grinning.
"So," Jake said, smirking at Billy. "How'd those escape skills work out for you?"
Billy laughed, wincing at the pain in his ribs. "Got me halfway there."
Jr. looked up from his tablet. "You actually broke out of that chair?"
"Damn right I did," Billy said. "Just couldn't outrun them on busted legs."
Billy Renzo leaned forward. "Think you could teach us?"
Jake's eyes lit up. "Oh, now there's an idea. How about a bet? We tie you wiz kids up, see if you can escape. Winner gets..."
"Loser does morning chores for a week," Ryan Mattern said.
"Deal," Jr. said, grinning.
"You boys are insane," Billy said, but he was smiling. "And count me in. Soon as I can move again."
Jake ruffled his brother's hair. "That's my boy."
Pops' voice boomed up the stairs. "Lights out in ten, or I'm coming up there with a belt!"
"Yes, sir!" they all shouted back, laughing.
Billy closed his eyes, surrounded by his brothers and friends, safe in the frat house. The nightmare was over.
But in the back of his mind, he knew one thing for certain: he'd never take a solo patrol for granted again.
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