Chapter 1
The dust cloud behind the Greyhound bus settled as Jeff Benson shouldered his duffel bag and looked out across the Texas landscape. This was it—everything he'd dreamed about since he was twelve years old watching reruns of Bonanza in his Staten Island bedroom. The endless sky stretched out like blue canvas, and the late afternoon sun painted the scrub brush golden. Real cowboy country.
He'd made it. Away from the cramped streets of New York, away from his father's expectations about college and business school, away from everything that felt small and predictable. Out here, a man could be something different. Something authentic.
The Mendez ranch spread out before him—weathered wooden fences, a red barn that looked like it belonged on a postcard, and horses grazing in the distance. Jeff grinned as he walked toward the main house, his boots (bought new just for this trip) crunching on the gravel drive. Even the air smelled different here—earth and grass and something wild he couldn't name.
A figure emerged from the barn, and Jeff's heart jumped. This was exactly what he'd pictured: tall, lean, with a Marlboro dangling from his lips and a cowboy hat tilted just right. The man's long-sleeve shirt perfect, and his jeans had the kind of honest wear that came from real work, not fashion.
"You must be Jeff," the man called out, walking over with the easy swagger Jeff had always envied in the movies. "I'm Paolo Mendez. Welcome to Texas, city boy."
Jeff extended his hand eagerly, trying to match that confident grip. "Thanks for having me, sir. I can't wait to get started."
This was going to be the summer that changed everything.
Chapter 2
"So, city boy," Paolo said, flicking his cigarette into the dirt, "you ready for some real ranch work?"
Jeff nodded eagerly. "Absolutely. Whatever you need me to do."
Paolo's brothers emerged from the barn—two men who looked like they'd been carved from the same weathered wood as the fence posts. They sized Jeff up with quiet eyes, and he straightened his shoulders, hoping to look tougher than he felt.
"Well, first things first," Paolo drawled, "we got ourselves a little tradition here. Kind of an initiation for city folks who want to learn the cowboy way."
Jeff's pulse quickened with excitement. This was it—the authentic ranch experience he'd been craving. "What kind of initiation?"
"Nothing too serious," Paolo grinned, and his brothers chuckled. "Just need to make sure you can handle being hogtied. You know, in case you ever fall off a horse and need to be secured for your own safety."
Jeff laughed, feeling his chest swell with pride. They were taking him seriously, treating him like a real cowboy. "I can handle it. I'm tougher than I look."
"That's what we like to hear," Paolo nodded approvingly. "Just your wrists to your ankles, nothing fancy. Show us you got what it takes."
"Let's do it," Jeff said without hesitation.
It wasn't until they started wrapping rope around his arms and torso, far more than he'd expected, that Jeff felt the first flutter of confusion in his chest.
"Hey, this seems like a lot of rope for just—"
But one of the brothers was already stuffing a rag in his mouth, and another was wrapping tape around his head. Jeff's eyes went wide as they bound his ankles and legs with quick, practiced movements.
"Easy there, city boy," Paolo said, his voice different now—colder. "Part of the process."
Still Jeff told himself this must be normal. Extreme maybe, but these were real cowboys. They knew what they were doing.
It was only when they marched him toward the old shed and he saw the deer carcass hanging from metal hooks in the ceiling that the last of his cowboy fantasy finally died.
Chapter 3
Jeff's heart hammered against his ribs as they forced him deeper into the shed. The smell hit him first—decay and death, sweet and nauseating. His boots scraped against the dirt floor as he tried to pull back, but the brothers' grip on his arms was iron.
The deer hung motionless from the ceiling hooks, its glassy eyes staring at nothing. Flies buzzed around the carcass in lazy circles.
"What the hell—" Jeff tried to say through the gag, but only muffled sounds came out.
Paolo and his brothers were talking now, rapid Spanish that Jeff couldn't follow. But their tone had changed completely—businesslike, casual, like they were discussing the weather. Paolo pulled out his phone and started filming.
"Necesitamos más cuerda para colgarlo," one of the brothers said.
"Sí, pero primero..." Paolo grinned and pocketed his phone. Then, clear as day in English: "Torture him for ransom."
The words hit Jeff like a physical blow. His knees buckled, and suddenly everything made horrible sense. The remote ranch. The eager way they'd tied him up. His father's money.
What a fucked up idea, he thought, panic flooding his system.
They started playing with him then—tickling his shoulders and arms until he writhed helplessly, punching his chest and face while he couldn't defend himself. Each blow sent shock waves through his bound body.
When they finally strung him up next to the deer carcass, the ropes between his biceps taking his full weight, Jeff understood with crystal clarity that he was very far from Staten Island, very far from anyone who could help him.
The brothers left him hanging there, next to the smell of rotting meat, while Paolo walked outside to make a phone call to New York.
Chapter 4
After several hours hanging there, Jeff had stopped trying to shift his weight to ease the pain in his biceps. The ropes had cut deep grooves into his arms, and his hands had gone completely numb. He drifted in and out of consciousness, the smell of the rotting deer filling his nostrils with every breath.
Then the rope gave way with a sharp crack.
Jeff hit the dirt floor hard, his shoulder taking the impact as his bound arms couldn't break his fall. For a moment he lay there in shock, gasping through the gag, unable to process what had just happened. The rope had actually broken. His weight had finally snapped the line they'd used to hoist him up.
He was down. He was alive.
With effort, he rolled onto his side and began working at the ropes around his ankles. His arms were useless—bound tight against his torso, hands numb from lost circulation. But his fingers could still move, and those old Boy Scout knots from Camp Pouch came flooding back. Feel for the working end. Find the bite. Work it loose.
Sweat poured down his face as he struggled with the bindings, every sound outside the shed making his heart race. They could come back any second.
Finally, his legs came free. Jeff used his shoulder to push himself up against the wall and rubbed the blindfold up until it caught on his brow. The shed came into focus—tools hanging on walls, the deer carcass still swaying slightly from the hooks above.
He had to move. Now.
Jeff stumbled to his feet and ran for the door, his bound arms throwing off his balance. Outside, the Texas sun was blazing, but he didn't care. He ran toward the scrub brush and open prairie, putting distance between himself and the ranch with every painful step.
Hours later, when he finally found cover in the start of a wooded area, Jeff was soaked with sweat and rope burns covered his arms, chest, and gut. But he was free.
Back at the ranch, Paolo walked into the empty shed and stared at the broken rope on the ground.
"¡Mierda!" he shouted. "¡Se escapó!"
The hunt was on.
Chapter 5
For hours, Jeff stumbled through the scrub brush and rocky terrain, his bound arms making every step a struggle. Without the use of his hands for balance, he fell repeatedly, scraping his knees and face on stones and thorny branches. The Texas sun beat down mercilessly, and sweat poured into his rope burns, making them sting like fire.
His shoulders ached from his arms being tied behind his back, and several times he had to stop and lean against mesquite trees just to catch his breath. Every sound—a bird taking flight, branches rustling in the wind—made him freeze in terror, certain the Mendez brothers had found him.
When he finally saw the pickup truck parked in a clearing ahead, Jeff nearly sobbed with relief. Two men stood beside it, and they turned as he crashed through the brush toward them.
"Help!" he gasped, stumbling forward. "Please, I need help!"
The men looked him over—rope burns covering his arms and torso, dried blood on his wrists, his clothes torn and filthy from hours of desperate flight.
"Found him," the older man said into his phone, then hung up. "Paolo's been looking everywhere for you, boy."
Jeff's blood turned to ice. "No... no, you don't understand—"
"We understand perfectly," the younger man said, advancing on him. "You're the rich kid who escaped from our cousins."
Jeff tried to run, but his exhausted legs gave out. They caught him easily, forcing him to the ground. As they began wrapping rope around his ankles and legs, Jeff felt something inside him break completely.
The terror was absolute now. There was no escape. No rescue. Just more rope, more captivity, more pain.
"Primo's gonna be real happy we found you," one of them said, pulling out his phone to text. "Got your little gringo right here."
Jeff closed his eyes and felt the last of his hope die.
Chapter 6
Paolo and his brothers arrived within the hour, their faces grim with business. They hauled Jeff to his feet without a word, loading him into the back of their truck like cargo.
Back at the ranch, they strung him up again—this time by his ankles, hanging upside down from the same hooks that had held the deer. Blood rushed to Jeff's head as they positioned him, the world spinning sickeningly.
"Time to make daddy pay," Paolo said, pulling out his phone to record.
The beating was methodical, calculated. They worked his torso and face, each blow carefully placed to cause maximum pain without killing him. Jeff's muffled screams echoed through the shed as Paolo narrated for the camera.
"Five million dollars," Paolo said into the phone. "Or we send you pieces of your boy."
Jeff hung there, battered and broken, as Paolo sent the video to New York.
The wait felt eternal. Jeff drifted in and out of consciousness, the blood pooling in his head making everything fuzzy. When Paolo's phone finally buzzed with a text, Jeff barely registered it.
"Recibido," Paolo grinned, showing his brothers the screen. "Five million. Transferred."
They cut Jeff down with the same casual efficiency they'd shown throughout his ordeal. He hit the ground hard, his body too weak to break the fall.
"Pleasure doing business with you, rich boy," Paolo said, tossing the knife that had cut his bonds onto the ground beside him.
Then they were gone, leaving Jeff alone in the shed with his torn ropes and the lingering smell of death. Outside, he could hear their trucks driving away, taking his nightmare with them.
But Jeff's hands were still bound behind his back, and his legs were tied tight. The knife lay just out of reach. Panic set in as he realized they'd left him to die slowly.
It took him hours to work his way across the dirt floor to a pile of broken glass in the corner—remnants of old mason jars. With his back to the glass, he began sawing at the ropes around his wrists. The sharp edges cut into his hands and arms as much as the rope, blood mixing with sweat as he worked frantically.
Every few minutes he'd stop, listening for truck engines, terrified they were coming back to finish him off.
When his wrists finally came free, Jeff nearly sobbed with relief. His hands were shredded and bleeding, but they worked. He quickly freed his legs and stumbled toward the door.
This time he ran with both arms free, his balance better despite his injuries. The Texas heat was brutal, but Jeff pushed through the pain and exhaustion, following what looked like tire tracks toward a main road.
He collapsed on the asphalt just as the eighteen-wheeler came around the bend.
The trucker—a weathered man named Roy—found Jeff face-down on the highway, barely conscious. "Jesus, son, what happened to you?"
"My father..." Jeff whispered. "New York... please..."
Roy got him into the cab and did what he could with a first aid kit while Jeff managed to call his father with shaking hands.
"Jeff? Jeff! Where are you?"
"Texas... trucker found me... send money to..." Jeff looked at Roy helplessly.
"Roy Hutchins," the trucker said, taking the phone. "Sir, your boy's in bad shape. I'm gonna get him to medical help, but he says you can send payment?"
Within minutes, Roy's phone buzzed with a Venmo notification: $50,000.
"Private jet's waiting at San Antonio airport," Roy told Jeff as he pulled back onto the highway. "Your daddy's got medics on board."
Roy also called 911, giving the authorities everything Jeff had told him about the Mendez ranch. By the time Jeff was on his father's jet, the Texas Rangers were already making arrests.
"They got 'em," his father said, showing Jeff the text from the Rangers. "All of them. It's over."
Jeff nodded, too exhausted to feel much of anything. His father handed him a bottle of bourbon—the first alcohol Jeff had ever been offered.
"You earned it," his father said quietly.
As the jet lifted off from Texas, Jeff took his first drink and watched the landscape disappear below. The cowboy dreams were dead, but he was alive.
That would have to be enough.
