Chapter 1
Jake Benson wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his work glove. The late afternoon sun beat down on the south pasture where he'd been mending fence line for the past three hours. His truck sat parked fifty yards away on the access road, the cooler in the bed calling his name.
He pulled off his gloves and started toward the vehicle, his boots crunching through the dry Texas grass. The ranch was quiet except for the distant lowing of cattle and the occasional cry of a hawk circling overhead. Billy and Celab were working the north section today, and he'd told them he'd catch up with them back at the frat house for beers after dinner.
Jake never saw them coming.
The first indication something was wrong came as a shadow fell across his path. He turned, hand instinctively moving toward the knife on his belt, but a sharp sting pierced his neck. His hand flew to the spot, fingers closing around a small dart.
"What the—"
Two figures emerged from behind his truck. Jake lunged forward, his famous temper flaring, but his legs suddenly felt like they were made of lead. The ground tilted beneath him.
"Get his arms," a voice said. Muffled. Distant.
Jake tried to swing, but his fist moved through molasses. His vision blurred at the edges, darkness creeping in like a closing iris. He felt hands grab him as his knees buckled.
Then nothing.
Pain brought him back.
His head pounded with a rhythm that matched his heartbeat, each pulse sending a spike of agony through his skull. Jake tried to move his hands to his face but couldn't. His arms were pulled behind him, wrists bound tight with coarse rope that bit into his skin. Thick ropes wrapped around his torso, crossing over his sweat-soaked undershirt multiple times, pinning his upper arms against his sides in an iron grip. The wet fabric clung to him, and the ropes dug into his biceps through the damp cotton. His shoulders ached from being wrenched backward, and his forearms were secured behind him. The position was agonizing, designed to immobilize and cause maximum discomfort.
He tried to shift his weight, to relieve some of the pressure, but the ropes around his torso held firm. Every breath made them tighten slightly against his chest and upper arms. His fingers were already tingling, going numb from the circulation being cut off at his wrists.
Complete darkness surrounded him. Not the darkness of a room at night, but absolute blackness. Something covered his eyes—cloth, tight against his face. A blindfold.
Jake could feel his legs were free, at least. His feet rested on the cold concrete floor, though they felt heavy and uncoordinated from whatever drug they'd used on him. The chill from the concrete was seeping through the soles of his boots.
The air smelled of mildew and decay. Wherever he was, it had been abandoned for a long time. He could hear the creak of old wood, feel a slight draft coming from his left.
"He's awake."
Jake's head turned toward the voice. Male. Deep. Somewhere to his right.
"About damn time," another voice said, higher pitched, coming from straight ahead. "Thought you gave him too much."
"I gave him exactly what he needed." Footsteps approached. Jake tracked them by sound. "Jake Benson. Age twenty-two. Second youngest son of Tom and Sarah Benson. Co-owner of the Benson Ranch and member of the consortium that controls a third of Kings County."
Jake said nothing, just turned his blindfolded face toward where he thought the speaker stood. His daddy had taught him long ago: when you don't know what's happening, keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Though right now, keeping his eyes open didn't do him much good.
"Not much of a talker, are you?" The voice was closer now, right in front of him. Jake could feel the man's presence, smell cigarette smoke and coffee on his breath. "That's okay. I'll do the talking. You just need to do the listening—and then the cooperating."
"Go to hell," Jake spat.
The punch came from nowhere, catching him square in the gut. The air exploded from Jake's lungs and he doubled over as much as his restraints would allow, gasping. The blindfold made it worse—he couldn't anticipate, couldn't brace, couldn't see it coming. The ropes around his torso bit deeper into his upper arms as his body tried to curl forward.
"Let's try this again," the man said, his voice eerily calm. "The consortium's automated equipment system. Irrigation controls, security systems, automated feeders, environmental monitors—all of it runs on a centralized network. Very sophisticated. Very expensive. Very vulnerable."
Jake's mind raced through the pain. The system. Billy Jr. and Billy Renzo had been so proud of it, spent months setting it up with help from the other wiz kids. It controlled operations across all six family ranches.
"We want the access codes," the man continued. "All of them. Administrative level."
Jake lifted his head, managing a bloody grin beneath the blindfold despite the pain. "You think I'm gonna give you jack shit?"
The second punch landed in the same spot. Then a third. Jake's vision—what little awareness he had behind the blindfold—went white with pain. He tasted copper. The ropes dug into his biceps as his body convulsed, his sweat-soaked undershirt providing no cushion against the bite of the cord.
"This can go one of two ways, Jake." The man's voice came from above now. Standing. "You can give us the codes now and make this easy. Or we can spend the next few days convincing you. I promise you, the second option is much less pleasant."
"Screw you," Jake managed through gritted teeth.
Another punch. This one to his ribs. Jake heard something crack and agony bloomed through his chest. The chair creaked beneath him as his body jerked against the restraints, the ropes around his torso constricting like a vise.
"Days, Jake. We have days. And I'm just getting warmed up." Footsteps moved away. "Think about it. Think about how much you're willing to suffer for a bunch of computer codes. Because I guarantee you, before this is over, you're going to wish you'd cooperated."
A door creaked open somewhere behind him.
"Oh, and Jake?" the man called back. "The blindfold stays on. Best you don't see our faces. Makes things... simpler for everyone."
The door slammed shut. A lock clicked.
Jake sat in the darkness, every breath sending fire through his cracked ribs, his gut screaming, his head pounding. The ropes around his chest and upper arms felt like iron bands, and his sweat-soaked undershirt clung to him in the cold air. But somewhere in the back pocket of his jeans, pressed against the chair, his cell phone remained undiscovered.
He just had to hold on long enough for someone to realize he was missing. Billy would know something was wrong when he didn't show up for dinner. Billy always knew.
Jake closed his eyes beneath the blindfold and focused on breathing through the pain. He tried to flex his fingers behind his back, to keep the blood flowing, but they barely responded anymore.
He wasn't going to break. No matter what they did to him, he wasn't going to give them a damn thing.
Chapter 2
Billy Benson checked his watch for the third time in ten minutes. Six forty-five. Jake was never late for dinner. Never.
He stood on the porch of the main house, scanning the horizon for any sign of his brother's truck. The sun was setting, painting the Texas sky in streaks of orange and purple. Celab came out to join him, two beers in hand.
"Still no Jake?" Celab asked, offering one of the bottles.
Billy shook his head, ignoring the beer. "He said he'd be back by six. Said he just had to finish mending that fence line in the south pasture."
"Maybe he ran into trouble with the wire," Celab suggested. "You know how that old fencing gets."
"Then he would've radioed." Billy pulled his own radio from his belt and keyed it. "Jake, you copy? Where you at, brother?"
Static.
Billy's jaw tightened. "Jake, this is Billy. Come in."
More static.
From inside the house, Sarah Benson called out, "Boys! Dinner's ready! Where's Jake?"
Billy and Celab exchanged a look. That knot of worry in Billy's gut—the one that had been tightening all afternoon—pulled tighter.
"I'm going to look for him," Billy said, already moving toward his truck.
"I'm coming with you." Celab tossed both beers onto a porch chair and followed.
They found Jake's truck twenty minutes later, parked on the access road near the south pasture fence line. The driver's door was open. Tools scattered in the bed. The cooler sitting there, unopened.
Billy killed the engine and was out before his truck fully stopped. "Jake!"
Nothing.
Celab jogged to the fence line, scanning for any sign of Jake working. "His gloves are here! And his wire cutters!"
Billy's heart hammered in his chest. He circled Jake's truck, looking for anything—blood, signs of a struggle, tire tracks. Then he spotted it on the front seat.
Jake's radio. Smashed. The casing cracked, the screen shattered, like someone had brought a boot heel down on it hard.
"Celab." Billy's voice came out tight. "Get over here."
Celab jogged back and looked at the destroyed radio. His face went pale. "That ain't an accident."
Billy was already pulling out his phone, his encrypted satellite phone. His fingers flew across the screen, pulling up the emergency protocol Billy Jr. had programmed. He hit the red alert button.
Within seconds, every consortium member's device would be screaming the alarm. Every phone. Every radio. Every iPad in the command center.
"911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Billy Benson."
The automated message would repeat three times on the encrypted frequency.
Billy brought the phone to his ear as it connected to the ranch house. Josh answered on the first ring.
"Billy? What's wrong?"
"Jake's missing." Billy's voice was steady, but his free hand was clenched in a fist. "Found his truck at the south pasture. Door open. Radio smashed. No sign of him."
A pause. Then Josh's voice, harder now, shifting into General Manager mode. "We're code red. I'm calling everyone in. Dad, get to the ranch house now."
Billy could hear the commotion starting in the background—chairs scraping, Sarah's voice rising in alarm, Pops demanding to know what the hell was going on.
"Ray," Josh was saying, "get Sheriff Nelson on the line. Wilson and Ryan too. Billy, you and Celab stay put. Don't touch anything else. This might be a crime scene."
Crime scene. The words made it real.
Billy looked out at the empty pasture, at his brother's abandoned truck, at the fence line Jake had been working on just hours ago.
"Where are you, Jake?" he whispered.
His phone buzzed. A message in the consortium group chat from Billy Jr.: Command center activated. All systems online. On my way to ranch house.
Then another from Billy Renzo: Responding. ETA 10 minutes.
Then Ryan Mattern: Coming.
Then Daniel Rodriguez: On route.
The cavalry was mobilizing. Within half an hour, every member of the consortium would be at the Benson ranch house. The command center would be fully operational. And they would tear Kings County apart until they found Jake.
Billy stared at the smashed radio in his brother's truck.
Someone had taken Jake. Someone had hurt him.
And when Billy found out who, there would be hell to pay.
His phone rang again. Josh.
"Billy, bring that radio. Don't let anyone touch Jake's truck. Sheriff Nelson is on his way to you. The rest of us are gathering at the house."
"Copy that."
Billy carefully picked up the destroyed radio, cradling it like evidence—because that's what it was now. Celab stood beside him, hands on his hips, staring out at the darkening pasture.
"We'll find him," Celab said quietly.
Billy nodded, but the knot in his gut said they needed to find him fast.
Because wherever Jake was, whatever was happening to him right now, Billy knew his brother. Jake was stubborn as a mule and had a temper that could ignite gasoline.
If someone was trying to get something out of Jake Benson, they were going to have one hell of a fight on their hands.
Billy just hoped Jake could hold on long enough for them to find him.
Chapter 3
Jake had lost track of time. Hours? Days? The darkness behind the blindfold made everything blur together into one endless nightmare of pain.
The door creaked open again. Jake's body tensed involuntarily, every muscle screaming in protest. His ribs were definitely broken—at least two of them. Maybe three. His gut felt like it had been used as a punching bag. Because it had.
"Morning, sunshine." The tall one's voice. Jake had started thinking of him as "Smoker" because of the cigarette smell. "Sleep well?"
Jake said nothing. Keeping his mouth shut was getting harder, but he'd be damned if he'd give them the satisfaction.
Footsteps approached. "My partner here thinks you need more convincing. Me? I think you're smarter than that. I think you're ready to talk."
A hand grabbed Jake's hair, yanking his head back. Pain shot down his neck.
"The codes, Jake. Administrative access. That's all we need."
"Go... to hell," Jake gasped out.
The fist came fast—one, two, three punches to his already battered stomach. Jake retched, his body convulsing against the ropes. The bindings around his torso constricted tighter, cutting into his upper arms through his sweat-soaked undershirt. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't—
"The codes!"
Another punch. Jake's head swam. Blood dripped from his split lip onto his chest.
"Stop... stop..." The words came out before he could stop them.
"Finally." Smoker's voice was triumphant. "See? I knew you'd be reasonable. The codes. Now."
Jake's mind raced through the fog of pain. He needed to give them something. Something that would buy time. Billy Jr. had walked him through the system once, showed him the basic structure...
"Alpha... seven... nine... X-ray... Tango... four... one... one..." Jake rattled off a string of characters he half-remembered, half-invented. Close enough to the real format that it might look legitimate. "Charlie... Sierra... nine... zero... zero..."
"Keep going."
Jake gave them more—a complete fake administrative code that sounded right, used the right naming conventions, the right length. He'd paid enough attention to Billy Jr.'s lectures to make it believable.
"That's it?" Smoker asked.
"That's... the master admin code," Jake lied, his voice hoarse. "Gets you... into everything."
He heard the shorter one—Jake had dubbed him "Wheezer" because of his labored breathing—typing on a laptop nearby.
"Testing it now," Wheezer said.
Jake's heart pounded. How long would it take them to figure out the code was fake? An hour? Less?
"Uploading the package," Wheezer continued. "If this works, we'll have full control in twenty minutes."
Jake slumped in the chair, buying every second he could.
In the command center at the Benson ranch, Billy Jr.'s eyes snapped to his primary monitor.
"Guys! We've got an attempted login!"
Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez converged on his station immediately. The room—once a spare bedroom next to the frat house—was now a sophisticated tech hub with six monitors, networking equipment, and enough computing power to run a small corporation.
"Someone just tried to use an admin code," Billy Jr. said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "It's formatted correctly but it's not one of ours."
"Where's it coming from?" Ryan Mattern leaned over his shoulder.
"Routing it now... They're using a VPN, bouncing through three countries... hold on..." Billy Jr.'s second monitor filled with trace routes and IP addresses. "There! Got a point of origin. Somewhere in Kings County. Still narrowing it down."
Daniel Rodriguez was already at another terminal. "I'm seeing what they're trying to upload. Guys, this is ransomware. Military-grade encryption. They're trying to lock down the entire consortium network."
"Not on my watch." Billy Renzo's hands moved across his keyboard like a concert pianist. "Activating the honeypot protocols. Let them think they're in, but we'll quarantine everything they do."
Billy Jr. grabbed his encrypted phone and hit Josh's number. His dad answered immediately.
"Dad, we've got a situation. Someone just tried to breach the consortium system with a fake admin code. They're attempting to upload ransomware."
"A fake code?" Josh's voice was sharp. "Who would have a code formatted like ours?"
The realization hit Billy Jr. like a physical blow. "Uncle Jake. Dad, whoever has Uncle Jake made him give them a code. This is why they took him. This is a ransomware attack."
In the background, he could hear the commotion as Josh relayed the information to the others gathered in the main house.
"Can you stop it?" Josh asked.
"Already on it. They think they're getting in, but we're feeding them a false system. We can trace them, figure out where they are."
"Do it. And Billy? Your uncle just bought us time. He gave them a fake code."
Billy Jr. felt a surge of pride mixed with fear. Uncle Jake was tough, but how much longer could he hold out?
"I'm on it, Dad. We'll find him."
At the abandoned house, Wheezer's triumphant expression slowly morphed into confusion, then anger.
"It's not working. The code's getting rejected."
"What?" Smoker moved to look at the laptop screen.
"It's formatted right, it's authenticating, but it's not giving us access. It's like..." Wheezer's face went red. "It's a fake. He gave us a goddamn fake code!"
The kick caught Jake in the ribs—the broken ones. He screamed, the sound tearing from his throat despite his best efforts to stay silent.
"You think you're smart?" Smoker's voice was pure rage now. "You think you can play games with us?"
More kicks. More punches. Jake's world dissolved into agony. The chair rocked beneath him with each impact.
"Enough!" Wheezer grabbed Smoker's arm. "Beating him to death doesn't help us. We need a new approach."
"Oh, I've got an approach." Smoker's voice was cold now. Deadly. "Get the rope. The good rope."
Jake heard them moving around, heard something heavy being dragged across the floor. His mind couldn't process what was happening through the fog of pain.
Hands grabbed his legs. Jake tried to kick out, but his body barely responded. They wrapped rope around his ankles, binding them tight. Then more rope around his calves, his knees. They lashed his legs together until he couldn't move them at all.
"What are you—" Jake started.
"Shut up." They hauled him upright off the chair, his bound arms still behind him. His legs, tied together, couldn't support him. Jake collapsed forward, but they caught him. Held him up.
Something rough and coarse slipped over his head, settling around his neck. A noose.
Jake's blood turned to ice.
"No... wait—"
They weren't listening. Strong hands gripped him, positioned him. Jake felt something solid beneath his feet—a crate? A box? They'd stood him on something, the noose tight around his throat. His bound legs trembled beneath him, barely able to hold his weight.
"You want to play tough guy?" Smoker snarled. "Fine. Let's see how tough you are when you're choking on the end of a rope."
Jake heard the click of a phone camera activating.
"Josh and Ray Benson," Smoker said, clearly recording. "Your brother thought he was clever. Gave us a fake code. So now we're going to be very clear about the consequences. You have six hours to send us the real administrative codes for the consortium system—all of them. Instructions will follow this video."
Smoker moved closer. Even through the blindfold, even through his agony, Jake could feel the phone camera on him.
"If we don't get the codes in six hours, you're going to watch your brother hang by his neck until he's dead. We'll kick this crate out from under him and you can watch him dance. No second chances. No extensions. Six hours. Choose wisely—your brother's life, or your computer system."
The recording stopped.
"Send it," Smoker ordered.
Jake stood there, swaying on the crate, the noose biting into his neck. His legs—bound tight—were already shaking from the strain. If he lost his balance, if his legs gave out, if they kicked the crate away...
"Six hours, Jake," Smoker said, his voice right next to Jake's ear. "Hope your brothers love you more than they love their fancy computer network. Because if they don't send those codes, you're a dead man."
Footsteps retreated. The door slammed.
Jake stood in the darkness, every muscle trembling, the noose a constant pressure around his throat. He didn't dare move. Couldn't move. One wrong shift and he'd lose his balance, and then—
Billy, he thought desperately. Billy Jr. You smart kids better figure this out fast.
Because Jake didn't know how long he could stand like this. His legs were already weakening. The crate beneath his feet felt unstable.
Six hours might as well be six days.
He focused on breathing. Shallow breaths. Steady. Don't panic. Don't move.
Just hold on.
Hold on.
Chapter 4
The video arrived at 9:47 PM.
Josh's encrypted phone buzzed with an unknown sender. He was in the main house with Ray, Tom, Sarah, Pops, Sheriff Wade Nelson, and Billy when the message came through. The command center was buzzing next door—Billy Jr. and his crew working furiously to trace the earlier breach attempt.
Josh opened the video file. His blood ran cold.
"Ray. Get over here."
The family crowded around as Josh hit play. The video was short. Less than a minute. But it was enough.
Jake. Blindfolded. A noose around his neck. Standing on what looked like a wooden crate, his legs bound together and trembling. His face was bruised and bloodied, his undershirt soaked with sweat and stained with blood. The ropes around his torso were visible, cutting into his arms.
Then the voice: "Josh and Ray Benson. Your brother thought he was clever. Gave us a fake code..."
Sarah's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a sob. Tom's face went white.
Pops set down his brandy glass with a sharp crack. "Sons of bitches."
Billy just stared, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white.
"...Six hours to send us the real administrative codes... If we don't get the codes in six hours, you're going to watch your brother hang by his neck until he's dead..."
The video ended.
Silence filled the room for three heartbeats.
Then chaos.
"We give them the goddamn codes!" Tom roared. "We give them whatever they want!"
"Tom—" Sheriff Nelson started.
"That's my son!" Tom's voice cracked. "That's my boy standing there with a rope around his neck!"
"Nobody's giving them shit." Pops stood up, his seventy-six-year-old frame still solid, still commanding. Every eye turned to him. "And nobody's letting Jake die either. We're going to get him back, and we're going to make these bastards pay for what they've done."
"Dad—" Tom started.
"I've seen this before, son." Pops's voice was steel. "Hostage situations. Threats. Fear tactics. This is Vietnam all over again, just on Texas soil. We don't negotiate with terrorists, and we sure as hell don't let them win."
"Pops is right," Josh said, his voice steady despite the rage and fear coursing through him. "We're not letting Jake die, but we're also not handing over control of a multi-million dollar operation to criminals. Ray, what are our options?"
Ray was already thinking, his business manager brain kicking into gear despite the horror of what they'd just seen. "I can send my admin code. It would give them access to the financial systems, operational controls—"
"No." Billy Jr.'s voice came from the doorway. He stood there with Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. All four boys looked wired, intense. "Uncle Ray, you don't need to do that."
Josh turned. "Billy, this isn't the time—"
"Dad, listen." Billy Jr. strode into the room, Billy Renzo right behind him with a laptop. "We can make them think they're getting in. We route their ransomware to a honeypot—a fake system that mirrors the real one. They'll see what looks like total access, the ransomware will appear to deploy, but it's all contained. They won't actually touch our real systems."
Pops nodded approvingly. "Smart. Real smart. These kids got brains."
"Can you do that in six hours?" Sheriff Nelson asked.
"We can do it in two," Daniel Rodriguez said confidently. "We've already got the framework set up from when we detected their first attempt. We just need to build out the fake admin access and make it look convincing."
"And while they think they're winning," Ryan Mattern added, "we keep working on finding Uncle Jake."
"About that," Billy Renzo said, his face breaking into a grim smile. "We got a ping. Uncle Jake's phone. It's on and we've got a location."
The room erupted again, but this time with purpose.
"Where?" Billy demanded.
Billy Jr. pulled up a map on his phone, casting it to the large screen TV on the wall. A red dot pulsed on the map, out past the county line. "Old Mitchum property. Been abandoned for fifteen years. About forty minutes from here."
Pops squinted at the screen. "I know that place. Hunted that land back in the sixties. Two-story farmhouse, barn's probably collapsed by now. Good sight lines but only two roads in. They picked a decent spot."
"That's good terrain for a snatch," Sheriff Nelson agreed, studying the map. "Remote. No neighbors. Multiple access roads."
"We need to move now," Billy said. "Before they figure out we're coming."
"Hold on." Pops raised his hand, and everyone quieted. When Pops spoke, people listened. "We do this right or we don't do it at all. This ain't some cowboy movie. Jake's life is on the line. Sheriff, what's your tactical assessment?"
Wade Nelson pulled out his radio. "I'm calling in Wilson and Ryan—my boys know how to handle this. We coordinate approach vectors, establish a perimeter—"
"Good," Pops interrupted. "But this is a family operation, Wade. With all due respect to your badge, that's my great-grandson with a noose around his neck. The Bensons are going in."
"Pops, this is a law enforcement situation—"
"The hell it is." Pops's eyes flashed. "This is about family. Jake's one of ours. I've led men through worse than this in rice paddies halfway around the world. I can sure as hell lead my family through a rescue operation in my own county."
Tom stepped forward. "I'm with Dad."
"Me too," Ray said.
"All of us," Billy added, and Celab—standing in the corner—nodded emphatically.
Sheriff Nelson looked at Josh. "You're the General Manager. What do you say?"
Josh met Pops's eyes. Saw the determination there. The experience. The absolute refusal to let his great-grandson die.
"Pops has tactical command," Josh said. "Sheriff, you coordinate with your deputies. But Pops leads this operation."
Pops nodded once, sharply. "Alright then. Here's how we do this. Billy Jr., you and your boys—I want eyes in the sky. Get those fancy drones up and tell me what we're walking into. How many hostiles, their positions, entrances and exits."
"Yes, sir," Billy Jr. said. "We can have drones up in ten minutes."
"Do it. And get that fake computer system ready. When I give the word, you send those bastards their 'codes' and make them think they won. Keep them distracted while we move in." Pops turned to the room. "Josh, Ray, Tom, Billy, Celab—you're the assault team with me. We go in light and fast. Sheriff, your boys set up a perimeter. Nobody gets in or out except us."
"What about weapons?" Tom asked.
"Rifles, sidearms, nothing automatic—we're not trying to start a war, just end one." Pops was in full command mode now, his seventy-six years falling away. "We get in, we neutralize the targets, we get Jake out. Clean and simple."
Sarah stepped forward. "And what if something goes wrong?"
Pops looked at his daughter-in-law, and his expression softened just slightly. "Sarah, I didn't survive two tours in 'Nam by letting things go wrong. We're bringing your boy home. That's a promise."
Billy Jr. was already moving toward the door with his friends. "Drones launching in five. We'll have thermal and night vision feeds to everyone's phones."
"How long to get the drones in position?" Pops asked.
"Twenty minutes flight time," Daniel Rodriguez said. "We'll have live feeds before you're halfway there."
"Good." Pops turned to Josh. "Get the trucks ready. Three vehicles—we spread out on approach. And somebody get me my old service rifle. If I'm going to war one more time, I'm doing it with a gun I trust."
"On it," Tom said, heading for the gun safe.
Sheriff Nelson was on his radio, calling in Wilson and Ryan. "Boys, we've got a situation. Old Mitchum property. Hostage rescue. I need you there in thirty minutes, armed and ready..."
Pops walked over to where Billy stood by the window. Put a weathered hand on his youngest grandson's shoulder.
"We're getting him back, son," Pops said quietly. "Jake's tough. He's buying us time. Now we make sure his sacrifice counts."
Billy nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"Alright!" Pops's voice rang out across the room. "We move in twenty-five minutes. Gear up, load up, and let's go get our boy."
Twenty minutes later, Billy Jr. stood in the command center with his three friends, watching the drone feeds on multiple monitors. The drones were approaching the abandoned Mitchum property, their cameras switching between thermal, night vision, and standard optical.
"Thermal's picking up signatures," Ryan Mattern said, adjusting the feed. "Two heat sources inside the main structure. Ground level, looks like northeast corner."
"That's gotta be the kidnappers," Daniel Rodriguez said. "Zooming in... wait. There. Third heat signature. Barely moving. That could be Uncle Jake."
Billy Jr. grabbed his encrypted phone and hit Pops's number. His great-grandfather answered immediately.
"Talk to me, Billy."
"Pops, we've got visual. Three heat signatures in the house. Two active, one stationary. I think we found Uncle Jake."
"Can you get me a layout of the building?"
Billy Renzo was already pulling up architectural records. "Sending it to your phone now. Two-story farmhouse, but the second floor's probably unstable. Main entrance, side entrance, back entrance. All doors likely to be unlocked—place has been abandoned for years."
On the other end, Billy Jr. could hear Pops briefing the assault team in the lead truck.
"Good work, boys," Pops said. "Keep those eyes on target. Let me know if anything changes."
"Will do, Pops. And Pops? Bring him home."
"Count on it, son. Count on it."
The line clicked off.
Billy Jr. stared at the thermal image on the screen. The barely-moving heat signature in the corner of that abandoned house.
Uncle Jake.
"Hang on," Billy Jr. whispered. "The cavalry's coming."
Chapter 5
Smoker's phone buzzed. He pulled it out, read the message, and a slow grin spread across his face.
"We're in," he announced, showing the screen to Wheezer. "They sent the codes. Real ones this time."
Wheezer leaned over his laptop, fingers flying. "Testing now... Holy shit. It's working. We've got full admin access. The ransomware is deploying across the entire network."
"How long until the encryption locks?"
"Two hours, maybe three. Then every system they have will be frozen solid. They'll have no choice but to pay."
Smoker pulled out a bottle of whiskey from his bag, unscrewing the cap with a triumphant twist. "Then we celebrate. To easy money."
He took a long pull and passed it to Wheezer, who did the same.
Jake stood on the crate in the corner, blindfolded, the noose tight around his neck, his bound legs trembling. He heard them drinking, heard their laughter, and his stomach turned. Had his family really given them the codes? Had Billy Jr. and the wiz kids failed to stop them?
No. Billy Jr. was too smart for that. This had to be a trick. It had to be.
"You hear that, cowboy?" Smoker called out to Jake. "Your brothers chose the computer system over you. Sent us everything we wanted. You're obsolete now."
Jake said nothing. Just focused on breathing. On standing. His legs were on fire, his calves cramping from the strain of staying on his toes.
"Aw, don't be like that." Smoker's footsteps approached. Jake could smell the whiskey on his breath. "We should celebrate together. After all, you made this possible."
Hands grabbed Jake around the waist.
"Let's see how good you are at this balancing act."
They lifted him—just an inch, maybe two. The noose tightened instantly around Jake's throat, cutting off his air. He couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, couldn't—
They dropped him back onto the crate. Jake gasped, sucking in air, his legs buckling before he forced them straight again.
"Whoa! Almost lost your footing there!" Smoker laughed. "Let's try that again."
"No—" Jake started, but they lifted him again.
The noose constricted like a python. Jake's world went red, then black around the edges. His bound hands clawed uselessly behind his back. His legs kicked instinctively, finding nothing but air.
They dropped him again. The crate caught his feet but Jake's legs gave out. He collapsed, the noose catching him, choking him. His toes scrambled for the crate, found it, pushed himself up. Air. Precious air.
"Man's got determination, I'll give him that," Wheezer said from across the room. "Most guys would've passed out by now."
"Let's see how determined he really is." Smoker grabbed Jake again.
Up. Choking. Darkness closing in. Jake's lungs screamed.
Down. Air. Gasping. Trembling.
Up again. The rope bit into his neck. Jake felt consciousness slipping away.
Down. His legs barely caught him this time.
"Okay, okay, enough." Wheezer sounded almost bored. "We've got two hours to kill before the encryption fully locks. Then we send the ransom demand and get the hell out of here. Let's not accidentally kill him before we're ready to leave."
"Fine." Smoker gave Jake one more shove, making him sway dangerously on the crate. "But when we're ready to go, we're not leaving him standing here. Cut him down and tie him up proper. Can't have him getting loose before we're long gone."
Jake heard them moving around, drinking more, celebrating their supposed victory. His mind raced through the fog of pain and oxygen deprivation. Two hours. He had to hold on for two more hours.
Billy, where are you?
An hour and forty minutes later, Smoker checked his laptop again. "Encryption's at ninety percent. Another twenty minutes and every file they have will be locked down tight."
"Time to secure our friend here and get moving," Wheezer said, standing up and stretching. "Once that ransom demand goes out, this place will be crawling with cops within hours."
They approached Jake. He'd been standing on that crate for what felt like an eternity. His legs had long since gone numb. He was operating on pure stubborn will at this point.
"Alright, cowboy. Time to come down." Smoker grabbed the rope above Jake's head, creating slack. "Step off the crate."
They guided Jake down, his legs nearly collapsing as his feet hit the concrete floor. The noose stayed around his neck, but at least the pressure was gone. For now.
"On your stomach," Smoker ordered, pushing Jake down. Jake's knees buckled and he fell forward, unable to catch himself with his bound arms. His face hit the cold concrete.
Hands grabbed his legs—still tied together—and pulled them back toward his wrists. More rope. They were connecting his bound ankles to his bound wrists, bending him backward.
A hogtie.
Jake grunted in pain as they pulled the rope tight, arching his back at an agonizing angle. His shoulders screamed. His broken ribs protested. But he was alive.
"That should hold him," Wheezer said. "Even if he gets loose somehow, it'll take him hours to get out of that. We'll be in Mexico by then."
"Let's pack up. I want to be on the road the second that encryption hits one hundred percent."
Jake lay on the cold floor, hogtied and helpless, listening to them pack their equipment. The noose was still around his neck, the rope trailing away somewhere above him.
But he was off the crate. And in some twisted way, that was a small victory.
Hang on, he told himself. Just a little longer.
The cavalry was coming. He had to believe that.
Because if they weren't, he was a dead man.
Chapter 6
Back at the ranch house, Sarah Benson sat in the living room with Rebecca, Mary Nelson, Caroline Beaumont, and the other consortium wives. Billy Renzo's mother had her iPad out, as did Ryan Mattern's mom and Daniel Rodriguez's mother. Billy Jr. had set up a live feed link before they left—body cams, drone footage, everything streaming directly to their devices.
"They're in position," Sarah whispered, watching her iPad screen. She could see the thermal imaging showing the consortium men surrounding the abandoned house.
On Rebecca's screen, the drone's night vision showed Pops giving the hand signal.
"They're going in," Mary Nelson said, her voice tight. "Wade, be careful..."
Smoker zipped up his laptop bag and slung it over his shoulder. "Alright, encryption's at one hundred percent. Let's get—"
The front door exploded inward.
"FREEZE! HANDS UP!"
Sheriff Wade Nelson stood in the doorway, service weapon drawn. Behind him, Wilson and Ryan Nelson, both armed. To his left, the side door crashed open—Josh, Ray, and Tom Benson, rifles raised. From the back entrance, Billy and Celab burst through.
The windows shattered as more guns appeared—Robert Beaumont on one side, the Renzo family men on the other. The Mattern men covered the back. The Rodriguez men blocked any escape route through the collapsed barn.
And standing in the center of it all, his old service rifle aimed steady as a rock, was Pops.
Billy Jr. stood just outside the front door with Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez, his phone out, streaming everything back to the ranch house. His other hand held a tablet showing him the multiple camera angles.
"You boys picked the wrong family to fuck with," Pops said, his voice cold as ice.
"Oh my God," Sarah gasped, watching on her iPad. "They got them. Wade got them."
Caroline Beaumont gripped her husband's mother's hand. "Look—there in the corner. That must be Jake."
The thermal feed showed a figure on the floor, barely moving.
Smoker's hand moved toward his waistband.
"Don't even think about it," Wade barked. "Hands where I can see them! NOW!"
Wheezer's face went white. His hands shot up. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!"
Smoker hesitated, calculating. Fifteen armed men surrounding the house, all with clear shots. His hand slowly rose.
"On your knees!" Wilson Nelson ordered, moving forward with handcuffs. "Both of you! Now!"
They complied. Ryan Nelson kicked Smoker's bag away while Wilson cuffed them both, reading them their rights in a voice that promised violence if they so much as twitched wrong.
But Billy wasn't listening. His eyes had found Jake—hogtied on the floor in the corner, blindfolded, the noose still around his neck, barely moving.
"JAKE!" Billy was across the room in three strides, Celab right behind him.
Billy Jr. moved inside now, his phone camera capturing everything, streaming it live. "Uncle Jake, we got you," he said, his voice shaking slightly as he filmed.
"Uncle Jake!" Billy Jr. kept the camera steady even as his hands wanted to shake. "We got you. We got you. You're okay."
At the ranch house, Sarah's hand covered her mouth. "Oh, Jake... what did they do to you?"
Rebecca was already grabbing her medical bag. "I need to get over there. Sarah, come with me. We'll meet them at the house."
"They're cutting him loose," Mrs. Mattern said, watching her screen. "Billy and Celab are getting the ropes off."
"Knife," Billy said, his voice clear on the audio feed streaming to all the iPads.
Celab pulled one from his belt and they started cutting. The hogtie rope first, then the bindings on Jake's legs, then carefully—so carefully—they lifted the noose over his head.
Billy Jr. kept filming, making sure the ladies could see that Jake was alive, that they were freeing him.
Jake gasped as the pressure released from his throat. His arms were still bound behind him, the ropes around his torso still tight.
"Easy, easy," Celab said, cutting the ropes around Jake's chest. "Almost there, brother."
The final rope fell away. Jake's arms dropped, useless and numb. Billy pulled off the blindfold.
Jake blinked against the sudden light, his eyes struggling to focus. Then he saw Billy's face, Celab's face, Billy Jr.'s face behind the camera—all looking at him with worry and relief and rage.
"Billy," Jake croaked, his voice barely there.
"I got you." Billy helped Jake sit up, supporting his weight. "You're safe. We got you."
"He's alive," Sarah sobbed with relief, watching the live feed. "He's alive. Thank God, he's alive."
Mary Nelson squeezed her hand. "They got him, Sarah. The boys got him."
Jake's eyes focused past his rescuers. Saw Smoker and Wheezer on their knees, handcuffed. Saw Sheriff Nelson standing over them. Saw the entire consortium—his brothers, his friends, his family—surrounding him.
Something shifted in Jake's face. The pain, the fear, the helplessness—all of it crystallized into pure, burning rage.
"Jake, no—" Billy started.
But Jake was already moving.
Billy Jr. followed with the camera, still streaming. "Uncle Jake, wait—"
"What's he doing?" Mrs. Rodriguez asked, watching her iPad.
"Oh no," Caroline Beaumont said. "Jake, don't—"
Jake's legs didn't want to work, his body screamed in protest, but fury carried him forward. He lurched to his feet, shoving past Billy and Celab.
"Jake!" Tom called out.
Jake didn't hear him. He stumbled outside where Wilson and Ryan were loading the kidnappers into the patrol car. The entire consortium followed—the Benson brothers, the Beaumonts, the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguez men—all of them who'd come to save one of their own.
Billy Jr. came out behind them, still streaming, his camera catching everything.
Smoker looked up just as Jake reached him.
The first punch caught Smoker square in the gut. Just like Smoker had done to him. Over and over and over.
Jake hit him again. And again. All the hours of torture, all the beatings, all the choking—Jake channeled it all into his fists. His broken ribs screamed but he didn't care.
"You son of a—" Jake landed another punch, then another.
Smoker collapsed against the car, gasping. Jake grabbed him, hauled him back up, and hit him again.
"Good," Mary Nelson said fiercely, watching the screen. "Beat the hell out of him, Jake."
Sarah didn't disagree. She watched her son unleash all his rage and pain on the man who'd tortured him, and she felt no sympathy for Smoker whatsoever.
"JAKE!" Wade was there, grabbing Jake's arm. But Jake shook him off, hitting Smoker again.
Tom ran up, wrapped his arms around Jake from behind. "Son! That's enough!"
Jake fought against him, still trying to reach Smoker. "LET ME GO!"
"Jake, stop!" Wade grabbed Jake's other arm. Between him and Tom, they wrestled Jake back, but it took both of them to hold him.
"I'LL KILL YOU!" Jake screamed at Smoker, still struggling. "YOU HEAR ME? I'LL KILL YOU!"
Billy and Celab rushed in, helping to restrain their brother. Robert Beaumont stepped forward too, adding his strength. Jake's legs finally gave out and they caught him.
"Easy, easy," Billy said, holding Jake upright. "He's not worth it. He's going to prison for the rest of his life. That's worse than anything you can do to him."
The consortium men stood in a protective circle around Jake. Billy Jr. lowered his camera slightly, giving his uncle some privacy now, but kept the audio feed going so the ladies knew what was happening.
Jake was breathing hard, his body shaking with adrenaline and pain and rage. His vision blurred. Everything hurt.
"Get me home," Jake gasped. "Just... get me home."
"We need to take you to the hospital," Tom said, his voice tight with concern. "You need medical attention."
"No." Jake's voice was firm despite his condition. "No hospital. Home. Take me home."
"Jake—"
"HOME!" Jake's voice cracked. "Please. Just take me home."
Pops walked up, his weathered face etched with concern but also understanding. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his silver flask.
"Here, son," Pops said quietly, pressing it into Jake's trembling hand. "This'll help more than their damn questions and paperwork right now."
Jake took the flask with shaking fingers, brought it to his lips, and drank. The whiskey burned going down, but it was a good burn. A familiar burn.
"Thank you," Jake whispered.
"Let's get him in the truck," Josh said, appearing at Tom's side. "We'll take him home. Rebecca can look at him there—she's a nurse. If she says hospital, then hospital. But let's get him out of here first."
"They're bringing him home," Rebecca said, already moving toward the door with Sarah. "We'll meet them there."
The other wives started preparing—hot water, clean towels, medical supplies.
The consortium men helped Jake to the lead truck. Billy and Celab supported him on either side, practically carrying him. Billy Jr. walked alongside, his camera down now but the audio still transmitting.
As they settled Jake in the back seat, Pops climbed in next to him, keeping his flask within reach. Billy got in on Jake's other side, refusing to leave his brother's side.
"We're right behind you," Robert Beaumont called out.
And they were. As the Benson truck pulled away from the abandoned Mitchum property, a convoy of consortium vehicles followed. Billy Jr. rode with Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez, all of them monitoring their equipment, making sure the ladies back home knew Jake was safe and coming home.
At the ranch house, Sarah and Rebecca stood on the porch, watching the road, waiting.
"They'll be here in thirty minutes," Sarah said, clutching her phone.
"I've got everything ready," Rebecca replied, her nurse's instincts taking over. "We'll take care of him."
They'd brought him home.
Because that's what family did.
Chapter 7
They got Jake into the main house just after midnight. Rebecca—who the family had nicknamed "The General" years ago for her no-nonsense approach to medical care—had the dining room converted into a makeshift exam room. Clean sheets on the table, medical supplies laid out, hot water ready.
"Put him here," Rebecca ordered, and Billy and Celab carefully helped Jake onto the table. He groaned as his broken ribs protested.
"Everyone out except Sarah," Rebecca said, pulling on latex gloves. "I need room to work."
"The hell you do," Pops said, settling into a chair in the corner. "I'm staying."
Rebecca looked at him, then at the stubborn set of his jaw, and nodded. "Fine. But stay out of my way."
Billy Jr. and his three friends hovered in the doorway. "Can we stay too? We want to tell Uncle Jake what we did."
Rebecca glanced at Jake, who gave a slight nod despite the pain. "Alright. But let me work."
Rebecca catalogued Jake's injuries as she worked: three broken ribs, severe bruising across his abdomen and chest, rope burns on his wrists and neck, possible concussion, dehydration, and exhaustion. Nothing that required a hospital—yet—but he'd be sore for weeks.
"You're lucky," Rebecca said, cleaning the rope burns on Jake's neck. "Another hour on that noose and we'd be having a very different conversation."
"Wasn't planning on giving them another hour," Jake croaked. His voice was raw from the choking.
Sarah held his hand, tears streaming down her face. "When I saw that video—"
"I know, Mom." Jake squeezed her hand. "I'm okay. I'm home."
Billy Jr. stepped closer, unable to contain himself any longer. "Uncle Jake, you gave them a fake code. That was genius."
Jake managed a weak smile. "Figured you smart kids would catch on."
"We did," Ryan Mattern said. "The second they tried to log in, we knew something was up. The code was formatted perfectly—you remembered the structure exactly right."
"We immediately set up a honeypot," Daniel Rodriguez explained. "A fake mirror of our entire system. When we sent them the 'real' codes, they got full access—to a completely dummy network."
"They thought they were deploying ransomware across the whole consortium," Billy Renzo added. "But it was all contained. They never touched our actual systems."
"How much were they going to demand?" Jake asked.
"One million dollars," Billy Jr. said. "We found their ransom note ready to send once the encryption locked. They were going to give us forty-eight hours to pay or they'd delete everything."
"Idiots," Pops muttered from his corner, taking a pull from his flask. "Messing with the wrong family."
"We've already upgraded the system too," Billy Jr. continued, his eyes lighting up with excitement. "Added two more layers of encryption. Military-grade stuff. Nobody's getting through that without us knowing about it immediately."
"Good," Jake said, wincing as Rebecca wrapped his ribs. "Don't want to go through that shit again."
Sheriff Wade Nelson appeared in the doorway. "Jake, when you're up to it, I'll need a statement. But that can wait until tomorrow. Maybe the day after."
"What are they looking at?" Tom asked, joining Wade. "Prison time?"
Wade's face was grim but satisfied. "Kidnapping, aggravated assault, extortion, attempted computer fraud, conspiracy—we're talking federal charges on top of state charges. They're looking at twenty-five to life. Minimum. And that's if they take a plea deal."
"Good," Jake said flatly. "Hope they rot."
"They will," Wade promised. "I'll make sure of it personally."
The front door opened and Josh's voice called out. "We're back! Where do you want all this?"
"All what?" Sarah asked.
Ray appeared in the doorway, grinning. "We hit up Miller's BBQ in town. Told them to pack up everything they had. We got brisket, ribs, sausage, pulled pork, all the sides—enough to feed an army."
"Because we've got an army to feed," Robert Beaumont said, following with armfuls of takeout containers. Behind him came the Renzo men, the Mattern men, the Rodriguez men—all carrying bags and boxes of food.
"Kitchen!" Sarah directed, laughing despite her tears. "Set it all up in the kitchen!"
The house exploded into controlled chaos. The dining room table that had been Jake's exam room was quickly cleared and reset. Rebecca finished wrapping Jake's ribs and helped him into a clean shirt.
"Can you walk?" she asked.
"I can damn well try," Jake said. With Billy and Celab supporting him on either side, they got him into the kitchen where the entire consortium was gathering.
The counter was covered with food. Brisket, ribs, sausage, beans, coleslaw, potato salad, cornbread—enough to feed fifty people, and they had close to that many in the house.
Pops stood at the head of the table, his flask in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. "Alright, listen up!" His voice cut through the chatter. "Before we eat, I got something to say."
The room quieted.
"Tonight, we got one of our own back. Jake Benson." Pops looked at his great-grandson, his eyes shining. "That boy stood up to torture, didn't break, gave them a fake code that bought us time to find him. And when we did find him, every family here showed up ready to go to war. That's what this consortium is about. That's what family is about."
"Damn right," Tom said, his arm around Jake's shoulders.
"So we're gonna eat, we're gonna drink, and we're gonna celebrate having this stubborn son of a bitch back where he belongs." Pops raised his flask. "To Jake!"
"TO JAKE!" the room erupted.
Pops started pouring. Whiskey in glasses, beer from coolers, even some for Billy Jr. and his friends who'd earned it tonight. The wiz kids had saved the day with their technical wizardry, and everyone knew it.
Plates were filled. The consortium families gathered around—some at the table, some standing, some sitting on counters. The Bensons, the Nelsons, the Beaumonts, the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguez families—all of them together.
Jake sat at the table between Billy and Celab, a plate of brisket in front of him that he was slowly working through. Every bite hurt, but he didn't care. He was home. He was safe. He was surrounded by family.
Billy Jr. sat across from him with his three friends, all four boys talking excitedly about the tech they'd deployed, the honeypot they'd built, the two new layers of encryption they'd added.
"Uncle Jake," Billy Jr. said, "you should've seen it. When they thought they were in, they were celebrating. Had no idea we were watching everything they did, tracking their every move."
"You boys did good," Jake said, his voice rough but sincere. "Real good. You saved my ass."
"We all did," Billy said, squeezing his brother's shoulder. "That's what family does."
Pops made his way around the table, flask in hand, pouring whiskey for anyone who'd take it. When he got to Jake, he paused.
"How you holding up, son?"
"Better now," Jake said. "Thanks for coming to get me, Pops. All of you."
"Nowhere else I'd be," Pops said, filling Jake's glass. "Now drink up. Doctor's orders."
Rebecca rolled her eyes from across the room but didn't argue.
The night wore on. Stories were told—how the drones had spotted the heat signatures, how Pops had led the tactical approach, how Billy Jr. had livestreamed the whole rescue to the ladies back home, how Jake had beaten the hell out of Smoker before they could stop him.
"Broke two of his ribs," Wilson Nelson reported with satisfaction. "He'll be in the infirmary for a week before they can even put him in a cell."
"Good," several voices said at once.
Sarah sat next to Jake, her hand never leaving his arm, as if she needed the physical contact to believe he was really there. Tom kept refilling his son's glass. Ray made sure Jake's plate stayed full. Josh coordinated everything like the General Manager he was, making sure everyone was fed and comfortable.
As the clock pushed toward 3 AM, people started to wind down. The younger kids were asleep on couches. Some of the families began heading home, promising to check in tomorrow.
But the core group remained—the Benson brothers, Pops, Billy Jr. and his friends, Celab, Sheriff Wade and his sons, the Beaumonts.
"Hell of a night," Robert Beaumont said, raising his glass one more time.
"Hell of a family," Pops countered, and they all drank to that.
Jake looked around the room at all of them—his family, his brothers, his friends, the consortium that had dropped everything to save him. His ribs ached, his body was battered, but he'd never felt more grateful in his life.
"Thanks," he said quietly. "All of you. Thanks."
"Anytime, brother," Billy said. "Anytime."
And Jake knew he meant it.
Because that's what family did.
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