Chapter 1: Dawn at the Benson Ranch
The bugle sounded like a dying goose being strangled by a cat.
At precisely 5:30 AM, Pops stood in the hallway outside the Frat House, his Vietnam-era bugle pressed to his lips, blasting reveille with all the musical talent of a rusty gate. The sound ricocheted off the walls, invaded dreams, and murdered any hope of sleeping in.
"Jesus Christ!" Jake bolted upright in the top bunk, slamming his head into the ceiling. "Every goddamn morning!"
Billy groaned from the bottom bunk below him, pulling his pillow over his head. "Somebody shoot that thing."
"Somebody shoot him," Celeb muttered from the other top bunk, his arm dangling over the side.
On the floor between the two bunk beds, Colt rolled over on his mattress and squinted at the door. "That man's gonna give us all PTSD."
"UP AND AT 'EM, YOU LAZY SONS OF BITCHES!" Pops' voice boomed through the door, followed by three more tortured notes from the bugle. "DAYLIGHT'S BURNING!"
Billy Jr. sat up in the bunk below Celeb, rubbing his eyes. At sixteen, he was already broad-shouldered and ranch-hardened, looking more like eighteen. "You know," he said, yawning, "we got a whole-ass command center next door with fifty thousand dollars of equipment. We could set up an alarm system."
"Where's the fun in that?" Jake swung his legs over the side of the bunk and dropped to the floor. "The old man lives for this shit."
Billy finally emerged from under his pillow, blinking at the early morning light creeping through the window. "What time did we finally crash last night?"
"Two-thirty," Colt said, sitting up and running a hand through his dark Louisiana hair. "After y'all insisted on one more hand of poker."
"You insisted," Billy shot back. "You were down forty bucks and wanted to win it back."
"Did you?"
"Hell no."
The door burst open without warning. Pops stood there, seventy-six years old and wiry as barbed wire, wearing his standard uniform: faded jeans, a white undershirt, and a shit-eating grin. The bugle hung from one hand.
"Well, well, well. The princesses are awake." He took a long look at the five of them in various states of grogginess. "You boys look like hammered dog shit. Out late?"
"No sir," they said in unison, too quickly.
Pops' eyes narrowed, then he grinned wider. "Uh-huh. I wasn't born yesterday, you little bastards. I was born seventy-six years ago, which means I've had seventy-six years to learn how to spot bullshit." He pointed the bugle at Jr. "You got beer breath, boy."
Jr.'s eyes widened. "I do not—"
"Don't lie to your great-granddaddy." Pops winked. "I know all about the floorboards. Had the same setup when I was your age." He turned to leave, then paused. "Breakfast in fifteen. Your mama made biscuits and gravy. You're late, you're eating Jake's burnt eggs instead."
"Hey!" Jake protested.
But Pops was already gone, his laughter echoing down the hallway.
The five of them looked at each other.
"He knows about the beer," Colt said.
"He's known the whole time," Billy said, standing and stretching. "Probably thinks it's funny."
"It is funny," Celeb said, climbing down from his bunk. "We've been so careful, and that old man's been laughing at us for months."
Jr. was already pulling on jeans and a t-shirt. "Come on. I'm not eating Jake's eggs."
"My eggs aren't that bad," Jake said, but he was moving fast too.
They dressed quickly—jeans, work shirts, boots—and filed out of the Frat House into the hallway. The smell of coffee, bacon, and fresh biscuits pulled them toward the kitchen like a tractor beam.
The Benson ranch house was a sprawling two-story structure that had grown over four generations, adding rooms and wings as the family expanded. The kitchen was the heart of it all: a huge country kitchen with a table long enough to seat twelve, counters covered in cast iron skillets, and windows overlooking the eastern pastures where the sunrise was just starting to paint the sky orange and gold.
Sarah Benson stood at the stove, flipping bacon with the efficiency of a woman who'd fed ranch hands for thirty years. She was fifty-two, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a University of Texas sweatshirt.
"Morning, boys," she said without turning around. Somehow she always knew.
"Morning, Mama," Billy and Jake chorused.
Tom Benson sat at the head of the table, already working on his first cup of coffee and reading something on his tablet. At fifty-five, he was still broad across the shoulders, though his dark hair was going gray at the temples. He looked up and nodded at them.
"Boys."
Josh was already seated, dressed for work, going over papers spread in front of him. At thirty-two, he was the general manager and looked the part—organized, focused, always three steps ahead. His wife Rebecca sat beside him, her nurse's scrubs visible under a cardigan. She'd work the late shift at Kings County Hospital today.
Ray walked in from the office, coffee cup in hand, phone pressed to his ear. "Yeah, I'll call you back," he said, ending the call. At twenty-eight, the business manager was always on the phone, always negotiating something. He took a seat and immediately started scrolling through emails.
Pops was already in his spot at the far end of the table, a cup of black coffee in front of him and a smug look on his face. He raised his mug at the Frat House crew as they filed in.
"Nice of you to join us, ladies."
"Nice bugle playing, Pops," Jr. shot back, grinning. "You get better every day."
"Damn right I do." Pops took a long sip of coffee. "By the time I'm eighty, I'll be concert-hall ready."
"Please God, no," Sarah muttered, bringing a platter of bacon to the table.
They all found seats—Billy and Jake naturally sitting beside each other, Jr. next to them, then Colt and Celeb filling in. Sarah brought biscuits, gravy, scrambled eggs (perfectly cooked, not Jake's), and a pile of bacon that would've fed a small army.
For a few minutes, there was only the sound of eating—forks on plates, coffee being poured, biscuits being buttered. Ranch breakfasts were serious business.
Finally, Tom set down his coffee cup and looked at Josh. "What're we looking at today?"
Josh swallowed a bite of biscuit and grabbed his notes. "North pasture fences need checking. We've got a section near Willow Creek that took some damage in last week's storm. I need someone to ride out there, assess what needs replacing."
"I'll take it," Billy said immediately.
"Me too," Jake added.
Josh nodded. "Good. Take the truck, bring tools and extra wire. If it's bad, call in and we'll send more hands."
"Ray and I are meeting with the Beaumonts at ten," Tom said. "Consortium business. We've got that shared equipment purchase to finalize."
"Jr., Colt—I need you two working the south barn," Josh continued. "We're rotating feed storage, and it's a mess. Celeb, you're with the new hands repairing the gate on the east access road."
"Yes sir," they said.
Pops leaned back in his chair, lighting up a cigar despite Sarah's disapproving look. "What about me? I'm not dead yet."
"You're on supervision," Tom said dryly.
"Supervision of what?"
"Whatever the hell you want, Pops."
The old man grinned. "Best job on the ranch." He pointed the cigar at Jr. and his friends. "You boys come find me at lunch. I'll tell you about the time I had to outrun the Viet Cong with nothing but a pistol and a bad attitude."
"You told us that one already," Jr. said.
"Then I'll tell it again. Gets better every time."
Rebecca checked her watch and stood. "I've got to head to the hospital. Josh, I'll be home around nine tonight."
Josh stood and kissed her. "Drive safe."
As Rebecca left, Sarah started clearing plates. Billy and Jake stood to help, but she waved them off. "You two have fences to check. Get going before it gets too hot."
Billy and Jake headed back toward the Frat House to grab their work gloves and hats. Jr. called after them, "Y'all got your radios?"
"Always," Billy said, patting his belt.
"Be safe out there."
"It's fence work, Jr.," Jake laughed. "What's gonna happen?"
Twenty minutes later, Billy and Jake climbed into one of the ranch trucks—a beat-up Ford F-250 with 180,000 miles and a temperamental air conditioner. Their hats sat on the dashboard, work gloves stuffed in their back pockets, radios clipped to their belts.
Jake drove, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping along to the country station. Billy rode shotgun, boots up on the dash, watching the landscape roll by—endless Texas pasture, mesquite trees, the sky so big it felt like you could fall up into it.
"Think Pops really knew about the beer the whole time?" Billy asked.
Jake grinned. "Absolutely. That old bastard knows everything."
"Should we move it?"
"Where? He'll just find it again." Jake turned onto the dirt road leading toward the north pasture. "Besides, I think he likes that we're doing the same shit he did."
Billy laughed. "Probably."
They drove in comfortable silence for a while, the kind of silence only brothers who'd shared a room their whole lives could have. No need to fill every moment with words.
"You think Jr.'s gonna beat us in the shoot-off this weekend?" Jake asked eventually.
"Hell no. Kid's good, but he's not that good."
"He's been practicing."
"So have we."
Jake glanced over. "Wanna make it interesting? Loser buys beer for the Frat House next month?"
Billy grinned. "You're on."
They bumped along the dirt road toward Willow Creek, the sun climbing higher, the day heating up fast. Just another morning on the Benson Ranch.
Neither of them noticed the truck following them from a distance, staying just far enough back to avoid raising suspicion.
Chapter 2: The Ambush
By the time they reached the fence line near Willow Creek, the temperature had already climbed into the low nineties. The Texas sun beat down relentlessly, turning the truck cab into an oven despite the struggling air conditioner.
Jake killed the engine and they both climbed out, surveying the damage. A section of fence about twenty yards long had been knocked down by a fallen mesquite branch during last week's storm. The wire was twisted and broken in several places.
"Well, shit," Billy said, pulling off his hat and wiping sweat from his forehead. "This is gonna take a while."
"Couple hours at least." Jake was already unbuttoning his work shirt. "Too damn hot for this."
They both stripped off their shirts, tossing them into the truck bed along with their hats. The sun was brutal, but at least there was a breeze. Billy grabbed the tool belt and wire cutters while Jake hauled out the roll of new fencing wire.
"Let's get this done before we cook," Billy said, setting his radio on the tailgate.
Jake did the same with his radio, then they moved to the damaged section. For the next thirty minutes, they worked in tandem—cutting away the ruined wire, clearing debris, measuring out the new fencing. The kind of work they'd done a thousand times, moving with practiced efficiency.
Billy was bent over, securing a new post, when Jake straightened up suddenly.
"You hear that?"
Billy looked up. "Hear what?"
"Thought I heard—"
The engine sound came clearly then. A vehicle approaching from the access road behind them.
Billy shaded his eyes, looking back toward where their truck was parked. "Probably just one of the hands checking on us."
But as the vehicle came into view—a dusty Chevy Silverado—something felt off. Billy didn't recognize it.
Jake must have felt it too, because he'd gone still, watching.
The truck pulled up about twenty yards away and the doors opened. Three men climbed out, and Billy's stomach dropped.
The Hendricks brothers.
He recognized them immediately—Marcus and Luke Hendricks, both in their early twenties, looking lean and hard and angry. And with them was their cousin, Dale, a thick-necked man with a Confederate flag tattoo on his forearm.
Marcus was holding an AR-15.
"Well, well, well," Marcus said, walking forward with the rifle held casually across his chest. "If it isn't the Benson younger brothers."
Jake's jaw tightened. "What the hell do you want, Hendricks?"
"What do we want?" Luke laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That's rich coming from you. Your family took everything we had."
"We didn't take shit," Jake shot back. "You couldn't compete, that's not our—"
"Shut up!" Marcus raised the rifle, pointing it at Jake's chest.
Billy stepped forward, hands raised. "Easy. Whatever this is about, we can—"
"Boys," Marcus called over his shoulder. "Get the ropes."
Luke and Dale moved fast. Too fast. Billy tried to back up but Dale was on him in seconds, wrenching his arm behind his back. Pain shot through his shoulder.
"Get off me!" Billy twisted, trying to break free, but Dale was bigger and had leverage.
Jake threw a punch that connected with Luke's jaw, snapping his head back. "You son of a—"
The rifle butt caught Jake in the stomach. He doubled over, gasping, and Luke grabbed him, forcing his arms behind his back.
"Tie them up!" Marcus ordered.
Billy struggled as Dale forced his wrists together behind his back, wrapping rope around them with brutal efficiency. The rope bit into his skin, pulled tight enough to make his hands tingle.
"Jake!" Billy shouted, but his brother was already being tied up too, Luke yanking the ropes so hard Jake grunted in pain.
"Shut them up," Marcus said.
A cloth was shoved into Billy's mouth, another tied tight around his head as a gag. He tried to yell but only a muffled sound came out. Beside him, Jake was gagged too, his eyes blazing with fury.
Then came the blindfolds—rough fabric tied over their eyes, plunging them into darkness.
Billy's heart hammered in his chest. This was bad. This was really bad.
"Stupid Benson boys," Marcus said, his voice close now. "You think your family can just push everyone around? Take over the whole damn county?"
A fist slammed into Billy's stomach. He couldn't see it coming, couldn't prepare. The air exploded from his lungs and he doubled over, would have fallen if Dale wasn't holding him up.
Another punch, this one to his ribs.
Then Jake was getting hit too—Billy could hear the impacts, hear his brother's muffled groans through the gag.
Billy took a punch to the face, felt his lip split, tasted blood. Another to his side. His knees buckled but hands grabbed him, kept him upright for more.
"That's enough," Marcus finally said. "Load them up."
Billy was dragged forward, stumbling blind. His boots scraped against dirt, then he was lifted and thrown. He hit metal hard—the bed of a vehicle. A mule or quad by the feel of it. Jake landed beside him with a grunt.
Hands grabbed his ankles, yanking them together. More rope, binding his boots tight.
"Sweet dreams, boys," Luke said, and laughed.
The engine started. Billy lay on his side in the bed, blindfolded and bound, every part of his body aching from the beating. Beside him, he could hear Jake's labored breathing through his gag.
The vehicle started moving, bouncing over rough terrain. Billy had no idea where they were going. All he knew was that they were in serious trouble, and no one knew where they were.
His last thought before panic really set in was of the radios—sitting uselessly on the tailgate of their truck, out of reach.
No one was coming.
Chapter 3: Strung Up
The ride seemed to last forever, though Billy guessed it was only twenty minutes. Every bump and jolt sent fresh waves of pain through his bruised ribs. Beside him, Jake shifted occasionally, probably trying to find a position that didn't hurt.
Finally, the mule slowed and stopped. Billy heard the creak of old hinges—a large door opening. The vehicle moved forward again, then stopped. The engine cut off.
"Get them out," Marcus said.
Hands grabbed Billy roughly, hauling him upright. His boots hit the ground and he stumbled, still blindfolded and bound. Someone shoved him forward and he nearly fell.
"Watch it!" That was Luke's voice, laughing.
Billy's boots scraped across concrete, then wooden planks. The air smelled different here—musty, like old hay and rotting wood. A barn, he realized. They were in a barn.
"String 'em up," Marcus ordered.
More hands on him now. The rope around his wrists was checked, pulled tighter. He groaned through the gag.
Then someone was working on his arms. New rope, wrapping around his elbows. Pulled tight—too tight—forcing his elbows together behind his back. Billy tried to resist but a punch to his kidney made him gasp.
"Hold still, Benson."
More rope around his forearms, lashing them together. Then his biceps, though these were left a few inches apart. His shoulders screamed in protest at the unnatural position.
"Now the other one," Marcus said.
Billy could hear Jake struggling, muffled sounds of protest through his gag. The sounds of more rope, more tying.
"Perfect. Back to back now."
Billy was pulled backward. He felt Jake's bound arms press against his own. More rope, wrapping around both of them, securing them together. Back to back, arms tied to each other's arms.
"Now for the fun part," Luke said, and Billy could hear the grin in his voice.
Someone grabbed his boots. A rope was threaded through his bootlaces, pulled tight, binding his ankles together. The same was being done to Jake—Billy could feel his brother's body tensing.
Then they were being lifted.
Billy's world tilted sickeningly as he felt himself hoisted upward. The rope around his boots pulled taut, taking his weight. Blood rushed to his head as he hung upside down, Jake's weight against his back, both of them suspended by their feet.
The blindfold was suddenly ripped away.
Billy blinked in the dim light, disoriented. He was staring at the barn floor about six feet below him. Turning his head as much as he could, he saw Jake beside him—also upside down, also blinking in confusion, their bodies pressed back to back, arms bound together in an elaborate web of rope.
"There we go," Marcus said, walking into Billy's view. He was holding a phone. "Smile for the camera, boys."
Billy tried to speak through the gag, but only muffled sounds came out.
Marcus snapped several photos from different angles—their suspended bodies, their bound arms, their faces. Then he moved around to get Jake's face too.
"Your daddy's gonna love these," Marcus said, examining the photos on his phone. "We'll see how much the great Benson family values their youngest sons."
Luke walked over, arms crossed. "You boys comfortable? No? Good." He leaned down so his face was level with Billy's. "Here's how this works. Your family pays what we ask, exactly how we ask, and you go home with just some rope burns and bruises. They fuck with us, try anything cute, and we start using these."
He held up a horsewhip—old leather, cracked and stained.
"We'll stripe your pretty boy chests until you're bleeding. Then we'll send more pictures. Understand?"
Billy glared at him, but there was nothing he could do. Jake was making angry sounds through his gag.
"Good talk," Luke said, straightening up.
Marcus was already typing on his phone. "Ransom message sent. Now we wait."
Dale checked the ropes one more time, making sure they were secure. "How long you think before they pay up?"
"Few hours, maybe," Marcus said. "Bensons are rich as hell. They can get the money."
"What if they don't?" Dale asked.
Marcus looked at the suspended brothers and smiled coldly. "Then we start with the whips."
The three Hendricks men walked toward the barn door.
"We'll be back to check on you boys," Luke called over his shoulder. "Try not to pass out. Blood rushing to your head and all that."
The barn door closed with a heavy thud, followed by the sound of a lock clicking into place.
Billy and Jake hung there in the dim light, suspended upside down, bound together, completely helpless.
After a moment, Jake made a sound through his gag—something that might have been a question.
Billy tried to respond but the gag made it impossible to form words. He tested the ropes around his wrists, but they were expertly tied. His shoulders were already aching from the unnatural position, his arms tied so tightly together he could barely move them.
The blood was pounding in his head, pressure building behind his eyes. How long could they hang like this before passing out?
Billy forced himself to think. They needed to stay calm. Someone would realize they were missing. Jr. and Colt would come looking. The family would find them.
They just had to survive until then.
Beside him—behind him—Jake's body tensed and relaxed, probably testing his own bonds. Finding the same thing Billy had: they were trapped, and there was no easy way out.
All they could do was wait, suspended and helpless, while their family received the ransom photos and the Hendricks brothers' demands.
And hope that rescue came before Marcus decided to make good on his threat with the horsewhips.
Chapter 4: Discovery
By noon, the sun was merciless. Jr. and Colt had finished rotating the feed storage in the south barn and were taking a water break in the shade when Jr. checked his watch.
"Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake should've checked in by now," he said, frowning.
Colt wiped sweat from his forehead. "Maybe the fence was worse than Josh thought. Could take 'em longer."
"Maybe." Jr. pulled out his satellite phone and tried Billy's radio. Static. He tried Jake's. More static. Then he called both their cell phones. Straight to voicemail.
"That's weird," Jr. said, his frown deepening.
"Could be a dead zone out there," Colt offered, but he didn't sound convinced.
Jr.'s gut was telling him something was wrong. His uncles always checked in. Always. "Come on. Let's take a ride out there."
They grabbed one of the ATVs and headed north toward Willow Creek, following the same route Billy and Jake would've taken. The ride took about fifteen minutes, bouncing over the rough terrain, kicking up dust.
As they crested the last hill, Jr. saw the truck.
"There," he said, pointing.
But something was off. The truck was just sitting there, doors closed, no sign of his uncles working nearby.
They pulled up beside the F-250 and killed the engine. Jr. climbed off the ATV, his heart starting to pound.
"Uncle Billy! Uncle Jake!" he called out.
Nothing. Just the wind and the distant sound of cattle.
Colt was already at the truck bed. "Jr., look at this."
Their work shirts were there, tossed in the bed. Their hats too. And on the tailgate—
"Their radios," Jr. said, his voice tight. He picked up Billy's radio, then Jake's. Both just sitting there, abandoned.
"They wouldn't leave without their radios," Colt said. "No way."
Jr. looked around, his trained eyes scanning the ground. There—tire tracks. Not from their truck. Another vehicle had been here. And there were boot prints, lots of them, all churned up like there'd been a struggle.
"Colt, look at the ground. Multiple sets of prints. Different treads."
Colt crouched down, examining the marks. His Louisiana hunting instincts kicked in. "At least three, maybe four different people. And look—drag marks here."
Jr.'s blood ran cold. He pulled out his satellite phone and hit the emergency button—the one he and Uncle Billy had programmed into the entire consortium network.
The mechanical voice activated immediately, broadcasting across all frequencies: "911 Emergency. Billy Junior. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior."
The encrypted channel opened. Within seconds, voices started coming through.
"Jr., this is your dad. What's wrong?"
"This is Granddad Tom. Jr., report."
"Billy Junior, it's Pops. Talk to me, boy."
Jr. took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. "I'm at Willow Creek with Colt. Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake's truck is here, but they're not. Their shirts, hats, and radios are abandoned. There are signs of a struggle—multiple boot prints, drag marks, and tire tracks from another vehicle."
Silence for a beat. Then his grandfather's voice, sharp and controlled: "Don't touch anything else. We're coming to you. Josh, get Ray and meet me at the truck. Pops, start calling the consortium families."
"On it," Josh said—Jr.'s father, his voice tight with worry for his brothers.
"I'll call Wade," Pops added.
"Jr., can you follow the tire tracks?" That was Uncle Ray.
Jr. was already looking. "They head west on the access road, but they fade out on the hardpack. I'd need the drones to track farther."
"Get back to the house," Tom ordered. "We'll set up in the command center. Bring the radios and anything else you find. Don't contaminate the scene—your other granddad's gonna want to process it."
"Yes sir." Jr. looked at Colt. "Bag the radios. Be careful."
Colt pulled a plastic bag from the ATV's storage—they always carried emergency supplies—and carefully placed both radios inside.
Jr. took one more look around, his mind racing. His uncles were gone. Taken. And whoever did this had at least a two-hour head start.
He climbed back on the ATV, Colt behind him with the evidence bag.
"Hold on," Jr. said, and gunned the engine.
They raced back toward the ranch house, the ATV flying over the rough terrain. Jr.'s mind was working through scenarios, probabilities, options. Uncle Billy had taught him to think tactically. Stay calm. Assess. Plan.
But underneath the calm was something else: fear. And rage.
Someone had taken his uncles—the two men who'd taught him to shoot, to ride, to work the ranch. Who let him live in the Frat House with them. Who treated him like a brother, not just a nephew.
Whoever did this was going to regret it.
As they approached the ranch house, Jr. could already see vehicles converging. The Beaumonts' truck. The Nelsons' SUV. The Renzos' pickup. The whole consortium was mobilizing.
Jr. pulled up to the house and jumped off the ATV before it fully stopped. He ran inside, Colt right behind him, heading straight for the command center next to the Frat House.
The room was already filling up. Granddad Tom and Dad at the main console. Uncle Ray on the phone. Pops pacing, a cigar clamped between his teeth, his face hard as stone.
Sheriff Wade Nelson was there too—Jr.'s other grandfather—his uniform crisp, his expression grim. Grandma Mary stood beside him, hand over her mouth. Jr.'s mom Rebecca had come home early from the hospital, still in her scrubs, her face pale.
"Jr., give me what you got," Granddad Wade said immediately.
Jr. set the evidence bag on the table and pulled up the photos he'd taken on his satellite phone—the truck, the ground, the tire tracks, everything.
"Multiple assailants, at least three based on boot prints. They came from the west access road. Signs of a struggle. Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake's radios and personal effects left behind, but their cell phones are gone."
Wade studied the photos, his jaw tight. "How long they been missing?"
"Last contact was around eight this morning when they left for the fence line. We found the truck at 12:15. So at least four hours, maybe more."
Granddad Tom's phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and his face went white.
"It's a text. Unknown number."
Everyone went silent.
Tom opened it, and Jr. watched his grandfather's expression go from shock to fury.
"What is it?" Pops demanded.
Tom turned the phone around.
On the screen was a photo—Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake, shirtless, suspended upside down by their feet, bound together back to back, their arms tied in elaborate rope work. Both were gagged and looking at the camera with defiant, angry eyes.
Below the photo was a message:
$500,000. Cash. We'll send instructions. No cops or they die. You have 24 hours.
The room erupted.
"Those sons of bitches!" Pops roared.
Jr.'s mom made a choked sound, tears streaming down her face. "My God, they're—"
"They're alive," Josh said firmly, putting his arm around his wife. "They're alive and we're getting them back."
"I'm calling in my deputies," Granddad Wade said, reaching for his phone.
"No!" Tom grabbed his arm. "Read the message. No cops."
"Tom, I am the cops. And those are my—" Wade stopped, looking at his daughter Rebecca, at his grandson Jr., his voice breaking. "That's family. That's my grandson's uncles. That's Billy—he's dating Edna."
Grandma Mary was crying quietly. Robert Beaumont had his arm around Caroline, both looking stricken.
Jr. stepped forward, his voice cutting through the chaos. "We don't need cops. We need intel." He looked at his friends—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez—who'd just arrived and were staring at the photo in horror.
"Get the drones up. All of them. Thermal and night vision. Start with a five-mile radius from the truck and expand. Check every barn, every abandoned building, every structure in the county."
"On it," Billy Renzo said, and all four wiz kids ran for the equipment.
Jr. turned to the adults. "We find them first. Then we decide what to do."
His father Josh looked at him and nodded. Granddad Tom put a hand on Jr.'s shoulder. "Do it."
Jr. moved to the main console and pulled up the county maps. Colt was beside him, already marking the search grid.
Pops came up behind them, his voice gravelly. "Your uncles are tough, boy. Toughest damn kids I ever raised. They'll hold on."
"I know, Pops." Jr.'s jaw was set. "And we're gonna find them."
"Damn right we are," Pops said, squeezing his great-grandson's shoulder.
And whoever took them was going to wish they'd never heard the name Benson.
Chapter 5: The Gathering
The command center had never been this crowded. What had started as the wiz kids' high-tech playground was now the nerve center of a rescue operation.
Jr. stood at the main console, fingers flying across the keyboard as he pulled up satellite imagery of Kings County. Around him, the room hummed with controlled chaos.
Billy Renzo and Ryan Mattern were at the drone station, running pre-flight checks on all six units. Daniel Rodriguez had the thermal imaging system booting up, multiple monitors flickering to life.
"Drone One ready," Billy Renzo called out.
"Drone Two ready," Ryan added.
Colt was marking coordinates on the digital map, creating a search grid that expanded outward from Willow Creek in concentric circles.
The adults filled the rest of the space. Granddad Tom stood behind Jr., watching the screens. Josh paced, phone pressed to his ear, coordinating with the other consortium families. Uncle Ray was pulling up property records, looking for abandoned structures, anywhere someone could hide two kidnapped men.
Pops sat in the corner, a cigar smoldering between his fingers, his face carved from stone. But his eyes—those old Vietnam vet eyes—were sharp and calculating.
Sheriff Wade Nelson was on his radio, keeping it off official channels. "Ryan, Wilson, I need you both at the Benson ranch. Now. And keep it quiet."
Jr.'s mom Rebecca sat with Grandma Mary, both women pale but composed. Sarah Benson was making coffee—because that's what you did in a crisis, you kept people functioning.
The door opened and more people poured in. Robert and Caroline Beaumont. Behind them, the Renzos—Antonio and Maria, Billy Renzo's parents. Then the Matterns—Richard and Susan. The Rodriguezes—Carlos and Elena.
All of them, every consortium family, dropping everything to be here.
"What do we know?" Robert Beaumont asked, his voice tight.
Tom pointed at the screen showing the ransom photo. Several of the mothers gasped. Maria Renzo crossed herself.
"Half a million dollars," Tom said. "Twenty-four hours. No cops."
"Wait," Billy Renzo said suddenly from his station. "Jr., we've got surveillance cameras on the north access roads, right? From the security system we installed last month?"
Jr.'s head snapped up. "The motion-activated ones. Jesus, Billy, you're right!" He pulled up another screen, accessing the camera network. "If they came from the west on the access road..."
His fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up footage from earlier that morning. "Here—Camera 12, timestamp 8:47 AM."
The screen showed grainy but clear footage of a dusty Chevy Silverado driving along the access road.
"Zoom in," Wade said, moving closer.
Jr. enhanced the image. Three figures visible in the truck. The driver's face came into focus.
"Marcus Hendricks," Wade said, his voice like gravel. "And that's Luke in the passenger seat."
"Keep going," Josh said. "Show us what happened."
Jr. switched to Camera 15, which covered a wider angle near Willow Creek. The timestamp read 9:02 AM. The Silverado pulled up about twenty yards from Billy and Jake's truck. The brothers were visible in the frame, shirtless, working on the fence.
The room fell silent as they watched the three Hendricks men climb out. Marcus with the rifle.
"Those bastards," Pops growled.
On screen, Marcus approached, rifle raised. The confrontation was brief—Jake throwing a punch, the rifle butt to his stomach. Then all three Hendricks were on them.
Jr.'s mom made a small sound as they watched Billy and Jake being forced to the ground, hands wrenched behind their backs.
"They're tying them up," Colt said quietly.
The footage showed it all—the ropes being wrapped around their wrists, the gags and blindfolds being applied. Then the beating. Billy and Jake couldn't defend themselves, couldn't even see the blows coming.
Several of the mothers turned away. Sarah Benson's hand covered her mouth. Rebecca's eyes were filled with tears.
Then Billy and Jake were dragged to the mule that must have been in the bed of the Silverado. They were thrown in, their boots tied together.
"Time stamp," Wade said, his sheriff's training taking over despite the personal connection. "9:14 AM. That's when they left with them."
Jr. switched cameras, tracking the Silverado as it headed west. "They went to... Camera 18 catches them again at 9:31. Heading toward the old Hendricks property."
"That's our confirmation," Tom said.
"Hendricks," Antonio Renzo spat. "Has to be Marcus, Luke, and Dale. They've been bitter since we formed the consortium."
"You think they'd go this far?" Caroline asked, though the answer was now on the screen.
"Their ranch went under because of us," Ray said, not looking up from the property records. "Marcus and Luke blamed the Bensons specifically. Said we drove them out."
"We outbid them fair and square," Josh said, his voice tight with barely controlled rage. "That's business."
"To them, it's revenge," Wade said grimly.
Jr. spoke up, his voice cutting through. "We need current eyes on the location. Billy, get Drone One in the air. Start with the old Hendricks property—we know they headed that direction."
"On it." Billy Renzo's fingers danced across the controller. Through the window, they could hear the high-pitched whine as Drone One lifted off.
The main screen split, showing the drone's camera feed. It climbed rapidly, then banked west.
"Ryan, get Drone Two up. Cover the northeast quadrant. Daniel, I need thermal ready the moment we get close to any structures."
"Thermal is live," Daniel confirmed.
Deputy Ryan Nelson and Deputy Wilson "Horse" Nelson arrived, still in uniform. They were Wade's sons, which made them Jr.'s uncles on his mother's side. Both men looked grim.
"Dad," Ryan said to Wade. "What do you need?"
"Right now? Nothing official." Wade's jaw was tight. "But if we locate them, we're gonna need backup. The kind that doesn't ask questions."
"We're in," Horse said immediately.
On the screen, Drone One was approaching the old Hendricks property. Jr. leaned forward, studying the feed.
"There—that barn. Zoom in."
The camera focused. An old barn, weathered and sagging. But parked beside it—
"Vehicle," Jr. said. "Chevy Silverado. Same one from the surveillance footage. Get me a plate."
Billy Renzo adjusted the camera, enhancing the image. "Got it. Running it now through the DMV database."
Ray was already on it, fingers flying across his keyboard. "Registered to... Dale Hendricks. Marcus and Luke's cousin."
"It's them," Pops growled. "Those sons of bitches."
"Wait," Jr. said. "We need visual confirmation. Billy, take it around. Look for entry points, exits. Daniel, hit it with thermal."
The drone circled the barn. Daniel's screen lit up with heat signatures.
"I've got two heat signatures, vertical orientation, in the center of the structure," Daniel said, his voice excited. "Roughly human-sized. And three more signatures, moving, on the west side—looks like they're in a side room."
"Vertical orientation?" Rebecca asked, her nurse's training kicking in. "What does that mean?"
"It means they're upright but... not standing," Daniel said carefully. "Maybe suspended somehow."
Josh's hands clenched into fists. "That's my brothers."
Tom pulled out his phone. "I'm telling them we'll pay. Buy us time."
"No," Jr. said, and everyone turned to look at him. He met his grandfather's eyes. "If we agree too quickly, they'll know something's up. We need to negotiate. Make them think we're scrambling for the money. Meanwhile, we plan the rescue."
Tom stared at his sixteen-year-old grandson, then slowly nodded. "Smart. Okay. I'll stall them."
"I'm calling in favors," Wade said. "We're gonna need more than just family for this."
"The whole consortium is here," Robert Beaumont said, gesturing to the crowded room. "That's thirty armed men right there, Sheriff. All of us know how to shoot."
"And all four of us," Billy Renzo said, indicating himself and the other wiz kids. "We can run tactical from here, keep the drones on station, give you real-time intel."
Jr. pulled up a tactical map of the barn and surrounding area. "Okay. Here's what we know. Billy and Jake are in the center of the barn, suspended somehow based on the vertical heat signatures. Three hostiles, probably armed. One vehicle outside—they might have others hidden."
He looked around the room at the assembled families, at his father and grandfathers, at Pops who'd actually done this kind of thing in Vietnam.
"We need a plan. And we need it fast. Those twenty-four hours are already counting down."
Pops stood up, crushing out his cigar. "Then let's get to work. Jr., you and your tech wizards keep those drones on station. I want eyes on that barn 24/7. Wade, Ryan, Horse—you three figure out how we can hit that place without getting the boys killed. Tom, Josh, Ray—coordinate the consortium members, make sure everyone's armed and ready."
The old man looked around the room, and despite his seventy-six years, he looked every inch the combat veteran he'd been.
"The Hendricks boys just fucked with the wrong family," Pops said. "Time to show them what that means."
Chapter 6: The Plan
The command center had transformed into a war room. Maps covered every screen, thermal imaging showing the barn in real-time, and the consortium families had gathered into focused groups.
Pops stood at the head of the table, a fresh cigar between his teeth, looking like the old cavalry officer he'd once been. Beside him, Wade Nelson had his sheriff's hat off, running his hand through his gray hair.
"Alright, listen up," Pops said, his voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. "We got two options here. Option one: we pay the ransom, hope they keep their word and let the boys go. Option two: we go in and get them ourselves."
"Option three," Wade said quietly. "We do both. Negotiate in good faith to buy time, but prepare for extraction."
Tom nodded slowly. "I like that. Make them think we're playing along while we get our people in position."
"How much time do we have?" Josh asked, checking his watch. "They said twenty-four hours. That's..." he did the math, "roughly nine PM tomorrow."
"We need to move before then," Jr. said from his console. "The longer Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake are in there, the worse it gets. They're suspended upside down—that's dangerous. Blood pooling, circulation issues, potential for—"
"We know, son," Tom said gently, putting a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "That's why we're moving fast."
Rebecca stood up, her nurse's training overriding her fear. "If they've been hanging like that for hours already, we're looking at serious medical concerns. Shoulder dislocation, nerve damage, circulation problems. We need to get them down as soon as possible."
Ray pulled up a financial screen. "The money's not the problem. We can have half a million in cash by morning if we need it. I've already contacted our banks."
"Don't get the cash yet," Wade advised. "That tips our hand. We need to negotiate first, see what they really want."
"They want revenge," Antonio Renzo said darkly. "The money's just a bonus."
Tom's phone buzzed. He looked down at the screen. "It's them. Another text."
The room went silent.
Tom read aloud: "You have our demands. Start gathering the money. We'll send drop instructions tomorrow. And remember—no cops, or your boys die screaming."
Josh's jaw clenched. Sarah put her hand over her mouth. Rebecca grabbed Jr.'s hand.
"Respond," Wade said. "Keep them talking. Ask for proof of life."
Tom typed carefully, his fingers hesitating over each word. Finally, he showed Wade the message: We need more time to gather that much cash. And we need to know they're still alive.
He hit send.
"Now we wait," Wade said.
Jr. turned back to his screens. "Billy, Ryan, Daniel—I want continuous surveillance. Rotating shifts. One of us on the drones at all times. If anything changes, if those heat signatures move, if more vehicles show up, I want to know immediately."
"Got it," Billy Renzo said.
"Colt and I will take first watch," Jr. added.
Pops walked over to the tactical map Jr. had pulled up. "This barn—it's got three entrances. Main door here, side door here, and what looks like a loft access here." He pointed with his cigar. "In Vietnam, we'd hit all three simultaneously. Overwhelm them before they can react."
"These aren't Viet Cong, Pops," Wade said carefully. "They're scared kids with guns."
"Scared kids who kidnapped and beat my great-grandsons," Pops shot back. "Who are threatening to whip them bloody."
"Which is exactly why we need to be smart about this," Wade said. "One wrong move and Billy and Jake are dead."
Tom's phone buzzed again. Everyone crowded around.
A new photo appeared—this one a close-up of Billy's face, still gagged, still hanging upside down, but his eyes were open and defiant. Below it: They're alive. For now. Get the money.
"That son of a bitch," Josh muttered.
But Jr. was studying the photo intently. "Wait. Zoom in on Uncle Billy's face."
Tom expanded the image. Jr. leaned closer, analyzing every pixel.
"What are you seeing?" Granddad Tom asked.
"His eyes. He's looking at something off-camera. And look at his hands behind his back—his fingers are moving." Jr. enhanced that section of the photo. "He's trying to signal something."
"Can you tell what?" Wade asked.
Jr. studied it for a long moment, then shook his head. "Not from this angle. But he's definitely trying to communicate."
"That's my brother," Josh said with fierce pride. "Even tied up and hanging upside down, he's trying to help us find him."
"They already found him," Colt pointed out. "The drones have thermal confirmation."
"But Billy doesn't know that," Jr. said. "He's trying to give us information. Which means he's still thinking, still fighting."
Pops grinned around his cigar. "Damn right he is. Those boys are Bensons. They don't quit."
Tom typed another response: We're gathering the money. It will take until tomorrow afternoon. Don't hurt them.
A moment later: Tomorrow at 6 PM. We'll send coordinates for the drop. Come alone. No phones. No weapons. No cops. Or we start cutting pieces off them.
The room erupted in angry voices.
"Like hell I'm going alone," Tom said.
"You're not going at all," Wade said firmly. "This is a law enforcement matter now. Those are direct threats."
"You heard them—no cops!"
"I'm not suggesting we roll up with squad cars and sirens," Wade said. "I'm suggesting we get them out before any drop happens."
Jr. was still staring at the thermal imaging. The two vertical signatures in the center of the barn hadn't moved in hours. His uncles were still hanging there, helpless.
"We need to move tonight," Jr. said quietly. "We can't wait until tomorrow at six. That's too long."
Tom looked at his grandson, then at Wade, then at Pops.
"The boy's right," Pops said. "Every hour they're in there is another hour something can go wrong. We go in tonight, under cover of darkness. Hit them fast and hard before they know what's happening."
Wade was quiet for a long moment, the sheriff in him warring with the grandfather, the father-in-law, the friend.
Finally, he nodded. "Alright. But we do this smart. No cowboy shit. We plan every detail, every contingency. And we don't move until we're ready."
"How long to plan it?" Josh asked.
Wade checked his watch. "It's two PM now. We scout the location, plan the assault, brief everyone, get into position... earliest we could move is midnight."
"Ten hours," Tom said. "Billy and Jake have to hold on for ten more hours."
Jr. stared at the thermal images of his uncles hanging in that barn and made a silent promise: We're coming. Just hold on.
In the barn, suspended upside down in the darkness, Billy's head was pounding from the blood pooling in his skull. His shoulders screamed in agony from the rope binding his arms so tightly. Beside him—behind him—he could feel Jake's labored breathing.
They'd been hanging for hours now. Billy had lost track of time. Everything hurt. Everything.
But he was still thinking. Still planning.
His fingers had been slowly, painfully working at the ropes around his wrists. Not to escape—they were tied too well for that. But testing them, feeling them, learning them.
And he'd remembered something. Jake's cell phone. It had been in his back pocket when they were grabbed. The Hendricks brothers had taken Billy's phone, but had they checked Jake's back pocket?
Billy twisted his fingers, reaching as far as the ropes would allow. He could just barely brush against Jake's jeans. His brother tensed, making a questioning sound through his gag.
Billy couldn't explain. Couldn't tell him what he was trying to do. He just had to hope Jake would understand.
His fingers stretched, straining against the ropes. There—he could feel the edge of Jake's pocket. The hard shape of a phone inside.
If he could just reach it...
Chapter 7: The Phone Gambit
Billy's fingers were going numb from the ropes and the awkward angle, but he kept stretching, reaching. Jake had gone still behind him, probably realizing what Billy was trying to do.
There. Billy's fingertips brushed the edge of the phone through the denim. He hooked his fingers slightly, trying to work the phone up and out of the pocket.
It moved. Just a fraction of an inch, but it moved.
Billy took a shaky breath through his nose—the gag made breathing difficult, especially upside down. He worked his fingers again, feeling the phone shift a little more.
Come on. Come on.
The phone slid up another inch. Then another. Billy could feel sweat—or maybe blood from the rope burns—making his fingers slick. He couldn't lose his grip now.
With one final stretch that made his shoulder joint scream in protest, Billy felt the phone come free of Jake's pocket. It balanced precariously on his fingertips.
Got it.
Now came the hard part. He needed to bring it around where he could see it, manipulate it with his bound hands. The phone was old school—Jake refused to upgrade to the fancy ones Jr. and his friends used. It had actual buttons. That might work in Billy's favor.
Billy carefully, painfully, worked the phone around. His wrists were tied together, but his fingers had some mobility. If he could just—
There. He could see the screen now, though his vision was blurry from hanging upside down for so long. The phone was locked, but Jake used the same stupid PIN for everything: 1-2-3-4.
Billy pressed the buttons by feel, his fingers clumsy. One. Two. Three. Four.
The phone unlocked.
Behind him, Jake made an urgent sound. Billy understood—they didn't have much time. The Hendricks brothers could come back any moment.
Billy navigated by feel to the phone icon, then to recent calls. Jr.'s number would be there—Jake had called him just yesterday about the shoot-off practice.
Found it. Billy pressed the call button.
The phone started to ring. Billy quickly fumbled for the volume button, pressing it down, down, down until the sound was off. The call was going through, but silent.
"Come on, Jr.," Billy thought desperately. "Pick up. Pick up."
In the command center, Jr. was studying the thermal imaging when his satellite phone rang. Unknown number.
"Jr.," he answered, keeping his voice professional. They'd been getting calls from consortium members all afternoon.
Silence. But not empty silence—there was something. Background noise. Breathing.
Jr.'s eyes widened. He hit the mute button on his end and started typing frantically on his keyboard. "Trace this call," he said to Billy Renzo. "Now!"
"On it," Billy Renzo said, fingers flying.
Jr. unmuted. "Uncle Billy? Uncle Jake? If you can hear me, make any sound you can."
In the barn, Billy heard Jr.'s voice coming faintly from the phone speaker. Relief flooded through him. He tried to make a sound through the gag—anything.
"I've got breathing," Jr. said, his voice tight with controlled excitement. "Someone's there. Billy, the trace is working, right?"
"Got a location lock," Billy Renzo called out. "It's... it's the old Hendricks barn. Confirms our drone intel!"
"Uncle Billy, Uncle Jake, we know where you are," Jr. said, his voice urgent but calm. "We're coming. Just hold on. We're—"
Billy's fingers, numb and slick with sweat, lost their grip on the phone.
It fell.
Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Billy watched the phone slip from his fingers, tumble through the air, and crash onto the concrete barn floor six feet below.
The screen shattered. The back popped off. The battery flew out.
"No," Billy tried to say through the gag, but it came out as a muffled groan.
And then, from the side room, they heard it.
"What the hell was that?" Marcus Hendricks' voice.
Footsteps. Fast. Coming toward them.
Billy's heart hammered. Jake's body went rigid against his back.
The door burst open. Marcus, Luke, and Dale rushed in, and Marcus was carrying something that made Billy's blood run cold.
The horsewhip.
"Well, well, well," Marcus said, walking over to the shattered phone on the floor. He picked up the pieces, his face darkening with rage. "Looks like you boys tried to be clever."
Luke kicked the broken phone across the barn. "They called someone. They fucking called for help!"
"Which means they're coming," Dale said, his voice rising in panic. "We gotta go. We gotta go right now!"
"Not before they learn what happens when you fuck with us," Marcus said, uncoiling the whip.
"Marcus, we don't have time—" Dale started.
"Won't take long," Marcus said, his eyes cold. He positioned himself in front of Billy, who hung helpless and exposed.
He pulled back his arm and let the whip fly.
The leather cracked across Billy's bare chest with a sound like a gunshot. White-hot pain exploded across his skin. Billy couldn't scream through the gag—the sound came out muffled and desperate.
The whip came again, a second stripe across his chest, just below the first. Then a third, lower across his abs.
Billy's vision blurred with tears. The pain was overwhelming.
"That's for making us run," Marcus said. Then he walked around to the other side where Jake hung, facing Jake's exposed chest.
Billy couldn't see what was happening, but he heard it. The crack of the whip striking Jake's chest. Once. Jake's entire body went rigid against Billy's back, a muffled cry of agony coming through his gag.
Twice. Another stripe across Jake's chest. Billy felt his brother's muscles tense, heard the desperate, pained sounds.
Three times. The third strike across Jake's chest made Jake's whole body jerk.
"Let's go. Right now," Luke said, already heading for the door.
"What about the money?" Dale asked.
"Forget the money. We hurt them enough. That's what matters." Marcus threw the whip down and headed for the door. "Move! They could be here any minute!"
The three Hendricks men ran. Billy heard the Silverado's engine roar to life, tires spinning in gravel as they peeled out.
Then silence. Just Billy and Jake's ragged breathing through their gags, the burning pain of three whip marks each across their chests, and the throbbing agony from hours of hanging upside down.
But somewhere in the pain and fear, Billy felt something else: hope.
Jr. knew where they were. Help was coming.
They just had to stay conscious long enough for it to arrive.
"Call ended," Billy Renzo said in the command center. "But we had them on the line for forty-two seconds. Got the trace confirmed."
"Did you get audio?" Wade asked.
"Some." Daniel Rodriguez was already pulling up the recording. "There's... breathing. Definitely two people. And then a crash, like something falling. Then voices—male, angry."
He played it back. Everyone leaned in to listen.
The breathing was labored, desperate. Then the crash. Then, faintly: "What the hell was that?"
"That's Marcus Hendricks," Wade said immediately. "I know his voice."
More sounds on the recording—angry voices, but too distant to make out clearly. Then a sound that made Rebecca gasp and cover her mouth.
The crack of a whip. Three distinct strikes. Muffled sounds of pain. A pause. Then three more strikes. More muffled cries.
"Oh God," Rebecca whispered, tears streaming down her face. "They're hurting them. Both of them."
Josh's face had gone white. Tom's hands were clenched into fists. Sarah covered her mouth, her own tears falling.
The recording continued. Then: "Let's go. Right now."
An engine starting. Tires on gravel. Then nothing.
"They're running," Jr. said, his voice tight with controlled fury. "They know we're coming."
He pulled up the drone feed. Sure enough, the Silverado was peeling out from behind the barn, heading east.
"Drone One, follow that vehicle," Jr. ordered. "Don't lose them."
"On it," Billy Renzo confirmed.
Jr. looked at his grandfather. "We need to move now. Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake are hurt. The Hendricks are running. We need to get to that barn."
Wade was already on his radio. "Ryan, Horse, this is Dad. We have a location on the kidnapping victims. Old Hendricks property, County Road 47. Suspects are fleeing in a Chevy Silverado, heading east. I want roadblocks on every access point. Box them in."
"I'm coming," Josh said, already moving toward the door.
"We all are," Tom added.
Pops was already loading his pistol, his face grim. "Let's go get our boys."
Chapter 9: The Convoy
Within minutes, the entire consortium had mobilized into a convoy. Tom's truck led the way with Wade riding shotgun, his sheriff's radio crackling with updates. Behind them, a stream of vehicles—Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes, all of them armed and ready.
Billy and Jake rode in Josh's truck, Rebecca between them in the back seat, her medical bag open on her lap. Jr. sat up front with his father, his laptop open, coordinating with the wiz kids back at the command center.
"Hold still," Rebecca said, cleaning the whip marks on Billy's chest with antiseptic. He hissed in pain. "I know it hurts, but these need to be cleaned or they'll get infected."
"Yes ma'am," Billy said through gritted teeth.
She finished with Billy, then turned to Jake. "Your turn."
Jake submitted to the same treatment, wincing as Rebecca cleaned each of the three angry red welts across his chest. They'd already started to bruise, dark purple against his pale skin.
The passenger door opened and Pops climbed into the front seat beside Jr., a cloud of cigar smoke following him. He looked back at his great-grandsons.
"You boys look like hell," he said, but his voice was gentle.
"Feel like it too," Jake admitted.
Pops reached into his jacket and pulled out his silver flask—the one he'd carried in Vietnam. He unscrewed the cap and handed it back to Billy. "Here. This'll help."
Billy took it gratefully and took a long pull. The whiskey burned going down, but it was a good burn. He passed it to Jake, who did the same.
"Pops," Rebecca said warningly, still working on Jake's chest. "They need water, not whiskey."
"They need both," Pops said firmly. "Trust me. I know a thing or two about getting beat up and having to keep moving." He looked at Billy and Jake. "You boys did good in there. Real good. Getting yourselves free like that."
"Didn't have much choice," Billy said. "Wasn't gonna just hang there waiting."
"That's the Benson way," Pops said with approval. He took the flask back from Jake, took a pull himself, then offered it again. "One more. You earned it."
Billy and Jake each took another drink. The whiskey was starting to warm them from the inside, cutting through some of the pain and shock.
Rebecca finished bandaging Jake's chest, then Billy's—clean white gauze covering the whip marks. She pulled two clean t-shirts from the emergency bag Josh always kept in the truck.
"Put these on. Carefully."
Billy and Jake pulled the shirts on gingerly, their shoulders still aching from hours of being tied. The fabric felt strange against their skin after being shirtless and bound for so long.
"Better," Rebecca said, examining them both with her nurse's eye. "You're going to need proper medical attention when this is over. X-rays for your shoulders, probably. But you'll live."
"Damn right we will," Jake said.
Jr. looked back at them, his sixteen-year-old face serious. "Drone One still has them. They're about fifteen miles ahead, just passed Miller's Creek. Drone Two is moving into position to cut off the north route."
"Where are Ryan and Horse?" Josh asked, driving fast but controlled.
"Already setting up roadblocks," Wade's voice came through Jr.'s radio connection. "We've got them boxed in. Three roadblocks—south, north, and east. They've got nowhere to go."
"What about west?" Billy asked.
"That's us," Josh said, his voice grim. "We're coming from the west. We're the wall."
Pops took another pull from his flask, then passed it forward to Josh. "Here. You look like you could use it."
Josh glanced at his father in the rearview mirror, then took the flask and drank. "Thanks, Pops."
"We're all gonna need a drink after this," Pops said. He looked at Jr. "Except you. You get root beer."
"I'm sixteen, Pops," Jr. protested. "And I've been drinking the beer from under the floorboards for months."
"That's different. That's sneaking beer with your uncles. This is serious drinking." Pops grinned. "You can have serious drinking when you're eighteen."
"You let Billy and Jake drink it and they're only twenty-one and twenty-two," Jr. pointed out.
"They just got kidnapped, beaten, and whipped. They get a pass." Pops looked at his great-grandsons. "Speaking of which—when we catch these bastards, you boys want first crack at 'em?"
Billy and Jake looked at each other. The same thought passed between them.
"Yeah," Billy said quietly. "Yeah, we do."
"Fair enough," Pops said. "Wade might have something to say about that, him being the law and all. But I say you earned it."
Rebecca was shaking her head but didn't argue. Even she understood—this was personal.
"Drone One reports they're slowing down," Jr. said, watching his laptop screen. "They see the roadblock ahead. Horse and Ryan have them blocked on County Road 12."
"Are they stopping?" Josh asked.
"No... they're turning. They're heading north on Old Mill Road."
"That's where Drone Two is positioned," Wade's voice came through. "Tom, we need to swing north. Cut them off before they reach the Miller property."
"On it," Tom's voice responded.
The convoy turned, vehicles peeling off in practiced coordination. Billy could see the other trucks through the rear window—at least twenty vehicles, all of them loaded with armed men.
The Hendricks brothers had pissed off the wrong family. And now the entire consortium was coming for them.
Jake took another pull from Pops' flask—Pops had passed it back again—and handed it to Billy. "Think they know how screwed they are?"
"They're about to find out," Billy said, drinking.
"Update," Jr. said, his voice tight with excitement. "They've stopped. They're boxed in. All three roadblocks are in position and we're coming up behind them. They've got nowhere to go."
Josh pressed the accelerator harder. "How far?"
"Two miles. Maybe less."
Pops loaded his pistol with practiced ease. "Boys, you remember what I taught you about intimidation?"
"Show overwhelming force," Jr. recited.
"Make them think they're already beaten," Billy added.
"And never, ever make a threat you're not willing to follow through on," Jake finished.
"That's my boys," Pops said, grinning around his cigar. "We're gonna put on a show these Hendricks bastards won't forget."
Through the windshield, Billy could see dust rising in the distance. The roadblock. And somewhere beyond it, trapped like rats, the three men who'd kidnapped him and his brother.
Billy's chest ached under the bandages. His shoulders throbbed. His head still pounded from hanging upside down.
But none of that mattered now.
They were about to get payback.
Chapter 10: Surrounded
The Hendricks brothers' Silverado sat dead in the middle of County Road 12, boxed in on all sides.
North: Horse and Ryan Nelson's patrol cars, lights flashing.
South: Robert Beaumont and Antonio Renzo's trucks, blocking the road.
East: The Matterns and Rodriguezes, armed and waiting.
And coming up fast from the west: the rest of the convoy, led by Tom Benson.
Marcus, Luke, and Dale stood beside their truck, rifles in hand but lowered. They were surrounded by at least thirty armed men from the consortium families. There was nowhere to run.
The convoy pulled up and stopped. Doors opened. Tom, Josh, Pops, Wade—all of them climbed out. And from Josh's truck, Billy and Jake emerged, moving carefully but standing on their own.
Marcus's face went pale when he saw them. "How did you—"
"Shut up," Wade said, walking forward with his sheriff's badge visible. "Marcus Hendricks, Luke Hendricks, Dale Hendricks—you're under arrest for kidnapping, assault, and extortion."
"Drop the weapons," Horse ordered. "Now."
The three Hendricks men looked around at the wall of guns pointed at them. Slowly, they set their rifles on the ground.
"On your knees. Hands behind your heads."
They complied, kneeling in the dirt.
Billy and Jake walked forward, past their father, past Wade, past Pops. They stopped in front of Marcus.
"You tied us up," Billy said quietly. "You beat us. You whipped us."
Marcus stared at the ground, saying nothing.
"Now it's our turn," Jake said.
Wade handed Billy a bundle of rope. "Make it tight."
Billy and Jake moved behind the Hendricks brothers. They pulled Marcus's hands behind his back roughly, wrapping rope around his wrists with brutal efficiency. Tight. Very tight. The same with Luke. The same with Dale.
Then more rope around their elbows, forcing them together. Around their forearms. Biceps. Just like they'd been tied.
"How's that feel?" Jake asked, yanking the rope tighter on Luke's arms.
Luke grunted in pain. "Too tight. You're cutting off circulation—"
"Good," Billy said coldly, tightening Marcus's ropes even more. "Now you know how it felt."
By the time they were done, all three Hendricks men were hogtied, their arms bound so tightly behind their backs that the ropes were already cutting into their skin, leaving red marks that would soon bleed.
"They're all yours, Sheriff," Billy said, stepping back.
Wade looked at the three men trussed up on the ground, then at Billy and Jake. He nodded slowly. "Fair enough." He gestured to Horse and Ryan. "Load them up. And don't be gentle."
The deputies hauled the Hendricks brothers to their feet and dragged them toward the patrol cars. Marcus was already grimacing in pain from the tight ropes.
"You can't do this!" Dale shouted. "This is police brutality!"
"Shut up," Horse said, shoving him into the back of the patrol car.
Pops walked over to Billy and Jake, cigar clamped between his teeth. "Feel better?"
"Little bit," Billy admitted.
"Good." Pops clapped them both on the shoulders. "Now let's go home. Your mama's got pot roast and fried chicken waiting, and I've got a bottle of Jack Daniels with your names on it."
The convoy formed up again, this time heading home. Billy and Jake climbed back into Josh's truck, exhausted but satisfied.
The Hendricks brothers were caught. Justice was served.
And the Benson family was going home.
Chapter 11: Home
The sun was setting over the Benson Ranch as the convoy rolled in, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. Every vehicle kicked up dust on the long driveway, and by the time they pulled up to the main house, Sarah Benson was already standing on the porch, her hand over her mouth.
Billy and Jake climbed out of Josh's truck, and their mother ran to them, pulling them both into a fierce hug despite their winces of pain.
"My boys," she said, tears streaming down her face. "My boys."
"We're okay, Mama," Billy said. "We're okay."
"Let me see." She pulled back, looking at their bandaged chests under the t-shirts, their bruised faces, their rope-burned wrists. "Oh my God."
"It looks worse than it is," Jake lied.
"Don't you dare," Sarah said, but she was half-laughing through her tears. "Get inside. Both of you. Rebecca's going to check you over properly, and then you're eating. I made pot roast and fried chicken."
"Yes ma'am," they said in unison.
Inside, Rebecca had set up a makeshift examination area in the living room. She had Billy and Jake sit down, carefully removed their shirts and bandages, and examined the whip marks with her professional nurse's eye.
"These are going to scar," she said quietly. "Three clean strikes each. They'll heal, but you'll have marks."
"Good," Jake said. "Reminder of what we survived."
Rebecca looked at him, then nodded. She cleaned the wounds again, applied antibiotic ointment, and put on fresh bandages. Then she checked their shoulders—testing range of motion, looking for dislocation.
"You're both incredibly lucky," she said. "No permanent damage that I can see, but you need to take it easy for at least a week. No heavy lifting. No ranch work."
"Rebecca—" Billy started.
"Doctor's orders," she said firmly. "And I'm telling Josh to make sure you follow them."
"Yes ma'am."
By the time she finished, the entire consortium had gathered. The dining room table had been extended to its full length, and Sarah, Caroline Beaumont, Maria Renzo, and the other mothers had laid out a feast—pot roast, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, biscuits, and three different pies for dessert.
Everyone squeezed in around the table. Tom at the head, Pops at the other end, and Billy and Jake right in the middle, surrounded by family.
Pops stood up, raising his glass of whiskey. "To Billy and Jake—toughest damn kids I ever raised. They got kidnapped, tied up, beaten, and whipped, and they still managed to free themselves and help us catch the bastards who did it."
"To Billy and Jake!" everyone chorused, raising their glasses.
Billy and Jake grinned, embarrassed but proud.
The whiskey and beer flowed freely. Pops' flask made the rounds. Tom poured Jack Daniels for anyone who wanted it. Jr. and his friends stuck to root beer—mostly—though Billy caught Pops slipping Jr. a small pour when no one was looking.
Stories were told and retold—how Jr. and Colt found the truck, how the wiz kids tracked the Hendricks with drones and surveillance footage, how Billy managed to get Jake's phone and call for help, how they freed themselves from the ropes.
"You should've seen them," Josh said, his voice thick with emotion. "Walking out of that barn on their own two feet. Bloody and beaten but standing."
"That's Benson blood," Pops said, refilling his glass. "We don't quit."
Wade raised his glass to Billy and Jake. "You boys did good. Real good."
"Couldn't have done it without you, Sheriff," Billy said. "Without all of you."
The food disappeared quickly—ranch families knew how to eat. The women brought out the pies, and even those vanished in minutes.
Finally, as the evening wore on and families started heading home, the Bensons began to drift apart. Tom and Sarah to bed. Josh and Rebecca to their room. Ray to his office to make one last phone call.
Pops cornered Billy, Jake, Jr., Colt, and Celeb in the hallway. "You boys heading to the Frat House?"
"Yes sir," Jr. said.
"Good." Pops pulled out a fifty-dollar bill and pressed it into Jr.'s hand. "That's for more beer. The good stuff. You hide it better this time—I'm tired of pretending I don't know where it is."
Jr. grinned. "Yes sir, Pops."
The five of them headed to their room—the Frat House. Jr. immediately pulled out his phone and texted the wiz kids. Within ten minutes, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez had arrived, sneaking in through the back door like they always did.
Colt pulled up the floorboards and retrieved what was left of the stashed beer. "We're running low."
"Pops gave us money for more," Jr. said, holding up the fifty.
"Pops is the best," Billy Renzo said.
They all settled in—Jr. and Billy Renzo on one bunk, Jake and Celeb on another, Colt on his mattress on the floor, with Ryan and Daniel sprawling wherever they could find space.
"Let's see them," Jr. said, looking at his uncles.
Billy and Jake exchanged glances, then carefully lifted their shirts. The white bandages covered the whip marks, but you could see the edges—angry red welts striping across their chests.
"Damn," Daniel said quietly.
"You guys are hardcore," Ryan added.
"We're idiots who got kidnapped," Jake said, but he was grinning. "Don't let it happen to you."
"How'd you get the phone?" Billy Renzo asked. "We heard the recording but couldn't figure it out."
Billy explained—hanging upside down, reaching behind him to Jake's back pocket, working the phone free with numb fingers, dialing Jr.'s number.
"That's some James Bond shit," Colt said admiringly.
"More like dumb luck," Billy said. "If Jake had a newer phone, I never would've been able to unlock it."
"See?" Jake said. "Old phones are better."
They all laughed.
"What about tying up the Hendricks?" Jr. asked. "Did you make it as tight as they did to you?"
"Tighter," Jake said with satisfaction. "Those bastards are going to have rope burns for weeks."
"Good," Jr. said fiercely.
They talked late into the night—drinking beer, eating leftover chicken that Celeb had smuggled from the kitchen, rehashing every detail of the day. The fear, the pain, the rescue, the revenge.
"You know what the worst part was?" Billy said eventually. "Not being able to see. The blindfold made everything worse."
"And the gag," Jake added. "Couldn't talk, couldn't yell, couldn't do anything but make sounds."
"But you got through it," Jr. said. "Both of you. Together."
Billy looked at his brother. Jake looked back. They'd been close their whole lives—sharing a room, sharing everything. But today had proven something they'd always known: they'd do anything for each other.
"Yeah," Billy said. "Together."
Around midnight, exhaustion finally caught up with them. The wiz kids headed home, promising to come back tomorrow. Jr. climbed into his bunk. Colt stretched out on his mattress. Celeb was already half-asleep.
Billy and Jake took their usual spots—Jake in the top bunk, Billy in the bottom, just like always.
"Hey Billy?" Jake said quietly from above.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for getting that phone. For calling Jr."
"Thanks for having it in your pocket," Billy said. "And for not upgrading to one of those fancy ones."
Jake laughed softly. "We make a good team."
"Always have."
Silence for a moment. Then Jake spoke again. "You think those whip marks will really scar?"
"Probably."
"Good," Jake said. "Like I told Rebecca—reminder of what we survived."
"And that we're tougher than we look," Billy added.
"Damn right."
Billy smiled in the darkness. His chest hurt. His shoulders hurt. Everything hurt, really. But he was home. In his own bed. In the Frat House with his brother, his nephew, and his friends.
Safe.
"Night, Jake."
"Night, Billy."
Within minutes, the room was filled with the sound of steady breathing. The Frat House was finally quiet, its inhabitants exhausted but whole.
Outside, the Texas stars shone bright over the Benson Ranch. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new work, new adventures.
But tonight, everyone was home.
And that was enough.
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