Chapter 1
The first thing Billy noticed was the smell—thick, rotting vegetation mixed with stagnant water that seemed to coat the inside of his nostrils. His head pounded like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his skull, and his mouth felt stuffed with cotton.
Where the hell...?
He tried to move and panic shot through him like ice water. His arms were stretched wide, wrists bound tight to what felt like wooden stakes driven deep into the swamp floor. The murky water came up past his knees, soaking through his jeans. Something had crawled up his leg—he could feel it moving under the denim.
The gag in his mouth tasted like diesel fuel and dirt. He tried to work it loose with his tongue but it was tied too tight, cutting into the corners of his mouth.
Then he saw them. Two cameras mounted on metal poles, their red recording lights blinking at him like predator eyes. One positioned directly in front of him, the other off to the side capturing his profile. Professional equipment, not some cheap setup.
His girlfriend's house. He'd been driving to Beth's to watch the A&M game with her family. They'd just gotten that new satellite dish, the big screen TV. He remembered pulling over when he saw the truck on the shoulder, the guy waving him down like he needed help...
Billy's breathing quickened, coming in short bursts through his nose. The cameras kept recording, documenting every moment of his growing terror as the reality of his situation settled in like the swamp water around his legs.
Someone had planned this. Someone was watching.
Chapter 2
"Would you look at that picture!" Pops Benson leaned forward in his recliner, squinting at the crisp HD image on the massive screen. "Hell, I can see every blade of grass on that field. Best damn deal we ever made, getting these new setups."
It had been three weeks since both families signed up for the satellite package—free 65-inch TVs and premium channels, all for the same price they'd been paying for basic cable. The installer had been friendly enough, some cousin of a friend, and had thrown in the joint deal when he heard the Bensons and Daniels were neighbors.
Josh Jr. bounced on the couch in his maroon Texas A&M jersey, number 12 stretched tight across his nine-year-old frame. "Dad, can we bet on the coin toss?"
"Your mama will skin us both," Josh laughed, popping open another Lone Star. Empty bottles already cluttered the coffee table, catching the light from the new TV. At 29, Josh was the oldest of the Benson boys, followed by Luke at 26, then Jake at 23, with Billy the baby at 19.
Tom cracked his knuckles. "Twenty says A&M takes it."
"You're on, old man," Josh shot back while Luke and Jake shouted their own wagers from the kitchen doorway.
Three miles down County Road 47, Sheriff Ryan Daniels admired his own new 65-inch screen while checking his watch. "Where the hell is Billy? Kid's gonna miss kickoff on this beautiful picture."
His son Mike shrugged from the Daniels' couch. "Probably sweet-talking Beth. You know how he is."
"Better get here soon if he wants in on our action," Ryan said, eyeing the coin toss. "I got fifty riding on this quarter. And hell, at least we can see every detail now with these new TVs."
From the Benson kitchen, Rebecca's voice carried over the sizzling pot roast. "Y'all better not be gambling in there!" Sarah laughed, stirring gravy alongside her daughter-in-law.
Carol Daniels called from her own kitchen where green bean casserole bubbled in the oven. "Ryan, you tell that boy of yours no betting around the girls!"
Both families had been planning this—game at separate houses, feast together at the Bensons' afterward. Their first big game night with the new satellite setup.
The coin spun high in the HD clarity, catching stadium lights—
Both screens went black.
"Damn satellite," Tom muttered, jabbing the remote. "Three weeks and already acting up."
Josh grabbed the other remote, clicking frantically. Josh Jr. groaned.
At the Daniels house, Ryan was doing the same dance with their remote when—
The picture flickered back. But instead of the football field, a large still image filled both screens: Billy Benson staked out in dark swamp water, shirtless, his head bent down in exhaustion or unconsciousness, arms stretched wide and bound to wooden stakes.
At the bottom of the screen, white text scrolled like a news ticker: $1,000,000 IN 48 HOURS OR HE DIES SLOWLY... INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW... DO NOT CONTACT POLICE...
In the bottom right corner, a small live video box showed Billy in real time—his bare chest rising and falling, his head lifting slightly, water lapping at his knees.
"JESUS CHRIST!" Tom Benson roared, lunging toward the screen.
Josh Jr.'s scream pierced the air. "UNCLE BILLY! UNCLE BILLY!"
Sarah's pot crashed to the kitchen floor. Rebecca came running, saw the screen, and collapsed against the doorframe, sobbing.
"That's my boy! That's my baby!" Sarah screamed, her voice cracking.
At the Daniels house, chaos erupted simultaneously. Beth was shrieking, "BILLY! OH GOD, BILLY!"
Carol Daniels dropped the casserole dish, green beans scattering across the linoleum.
"Get the trucks!" Ryan shouted, already grabbing his keys. "Mike, call your brothers! We're going to the Bensons' NOW!"
Luke and Jake were cursing, pounding the walls. "Who the hell—" "I'll kill them—" "Find these bastards—"
Pops Benson was on his feet, face purple with rage. "Those sons of bitches! Those goddamn sons of bitches!"
Truck engines roared to life. Gravel sprayed as both families converged on the Benson ranch, Beth's sobs echoing across the Texas night.
Chapter 3
The Benson living room had never held this much rage. Truck doors slammed in the driveway as both families poured into the house, voices overlapping in a storm of fury and panic.
"WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY?" Luke Benson roared, his fist connecting with the wall hard enough to rattle the picture frames.
"How the hell did they get into our TV?" Jake demanded, pacing like a caged animal. "This is our house! Our goddamn house!"
Beth collapsed onto the couch, sobbing into her hands while Carol Daniels wrapped her arms around the girl. "My Billy... oh God, my Billy..."
"We need technical help," Sheriff Daniels said, his voice cutting through the chaos. "This isn't some basic cable hookup. Somebody knew what they were doing."
Deputy Mike Daniels nodded grimly at his father. "The Morrison twins," he said suddenly. "Tyler and Cody. They graduated with Billy, and they've got all that fancy computer equipment."
"Those boys are sharp," Tom Benson agreed. "Real sharp. And they'd do anything for Billy."
"Can we trust them?" Ryan asked.
"With Billy's life? Hell yes," Pops growled from his recliner, his weathered hands gripping the armrests. "Known that whole family since the boys were knee-high."
Ryan pulled out his phone. "I'll call them. Sworn to secrecy."
While Ryan made the call, Josh Jr. darted between the adults, his Texas A&M jersey now wrinkled and stained with tears. "Why can't we just go get Uncle Billy? Why can't we just find him?"
"Josh Jr., sit down," Rebecca tried, but the boy was wound up, desperate to help somehow.
"It's not that simple, son," his father said quietly.
Sarah Benson sat in the kitchen doorway, rocking back and forth, Rebecca and Carol flanking her. "That's my baby out there. My youngest..." Her voice broke completely.
Twenty minutes later, two pickup trucks crunched up the gravel drive. The Morrison twins—Tyler and Cody, both nineteen—jumped out with cases of equipment, followed by their older brother Marcus and their parents, Jim and Linda Morrison.
"Jesus," Tyler whispered when they saw the frozen image still displayed on the massive screen. "That's really Billy?"
Jim Morrison's face went stone cold. "Those sons of bitches."
"Can you trace it?" Ryan asked the twins without preamble.
Cody was already studying the satellite dish setup outside through the window. "Maybe. But Sheriff, this is complicated. We're dealing with satellite feeds bouncing off transponders 22,000 miles above us. This isn't going to be quick."
"How long?" Tom demanded.
"Could be hours. Could be longer," Tyler said grimly, opening his laptop. "We need to reverse-engineer the signal path, find the uplink source."
Josh Jr. pressed his face against Tyler's shoulder, watching the screen full of code. "What's all that stuff mean?"
"Josh Jr., leave them alone," Rebecca called weakly.
"It's okay," Tyler said gently, looking at the boy he'd known since birth. "Hey buddy, you want to help us? I know you're all wound up."
Cody nodded at his twin. "We could use someone to hand us cables and keep track of our equipment. You up for it, Josh?"
The boy's face lit up with desperate hope. "Really? I can help find Uncle Billy?"
"You bet you can," Tyler said, giving him a small smile. "Just like when you were little and used to 'help' us fix your dad's computer."
Pops grumbled from his chair, "Damn satellites. In my day, you knew where your enemies were."
Linda Morrison moved to comfort Sarah while Jim stood with the other men, his jaw set hard. Marcus helped his younger brothers set up their equipment while Josh Jr. eagerly sorted through cables.
The women's quiet crying filled the spaces between the clicking of keyboards and the hum of electronic equipment, while outside, the Texas night stretched endlessly—and somewhere out there, Billy was waiting.
Chapter 4
"UNCLE BILLY!" Josh Jr. screamed at the TV, his small fists pounding the coffee table. "LET HIM GO!"
The small live video box in the corner showed movement—dark figures approaching Billy in the swamp.
"Make it bigger," Tom Benson growled. "I need to see what they're doing to my boy."
Tyler's fingers flew across his laptop. "I can route the live feed to full screen."
The image expanded, filling the massive 65-inch display. Billy's terrified face dominated the screen, his eyes wide with panic as two masked figures waded through the murky water toward him.
"I can't watch this," Sarah whispered, turning away. Rebecca and Carol followed her into the kitchen, their quiet sobs echoing from the other room.
Josh pulled his son tight against his chest as the boy struggled to see the screen. "Easy, buddy. Easy."
One of the masked men held up a mason jar filled with thick, golden liquid. Honey.
"NO!" Tom roared at the screen. "YOU SONS OF BITCHES!"
The man began smearing the honey across Billy's hairy forearms. Billy strained against the wooden stakes, his wrists bleeding where the ropes cut into his skin.
From the kitchen, Tyler and Cody's voices carried over the sound of Billy's pleas—rapid-fire technical jargon nobody else understood.
"—satellite transponder frequency 12.2 to 12.7 gigahertz—"
"—need to reverse the polarity on the LNB feed—"
"—uplink might be bouncing off Galaxy 28 before—"
The second masked man drove his fist into Billy's stomach. Josh Jr. buried his face in his father's chest, but his small body shook with each of his uncle's screams.
For an hour, the nightmare continued. The mosquitoes came in swarms, covering Billy's honey-coated arms. His cries grew weaker.
Finally, the masked figures returned. They cut him down and dragged his barely conscious form toward a dilapidated structure—an old house on stilts.
Inside, they hogtied him on rotting floorboards, the camera capturing every detail.
"Tyler, Cody," Sheriff Daniels called out. "Can you zoom in on that building?"
Tyler emerged from the kitchen, wiping sweat from his forehead. "We can enhance the image, but Sheriff, we're dealing with—"
"Just do it," Tom interrupted harshly.
The image tightened on the old structure. Weathered siding, broken windows, and in the corner—a rusted metal sign barely visible in the darkness.
Josh Jr. lifted his tear-stained face from his father's chest. "Wait," he whispered. "That place..."
"What is it, son?" Josh asked gently.
The boy squinted at the screen. "Me and Uncle Billy... we seen that old house. When we went fishing at Miller's Creek last summer."
The room fell silent except for the clicking of keyboards from the kitchen.
"Miller's Creek," Tom said slowly. "That's only twelve miles east."
From the kitchen, Cody called out, "We're still tracking signal paths through three different satellites. This could be anywhere in a 200-mile radius."
But Josh Jr. was studying the screen with the intense focus only children possess. "That broken window... it looks like a triangle. Uncle Billy said it looked like the A&M logo."
Tyler appeared at his shoulder, laptop in hand. "You sure about that, buddy?"
The boy nodded solemnly. "Uncle Billy never forgets stuff like that."
Suddenly, Cody's voice exploded from the kitchen. "TYLER! GET IN HERE NOW!"
Tyler sprinted back to his twin, laptop still in hand. Frantic whispering erupted between them, punctuated by rapid clicking.
"What is it?" Sheriff Daniels demanded, following them.
"We got something," Tyler said, his voice tight with excitement. "The uplink source... it's not bouncing as far as we thought."
Cody looked up from his screen, eyes wide. "Fourteen miles southeast. The signal's originating from a point fourteen miles southeast of here."
"Miller's Creek," Josh Jr. said quietly from his father's arms.
"EUREKA!" Tyler shouted, pumping his fist. "That's it! That's exactly it!"
For the first time since this nightmare began, hope flickered in the Benson living room.
Chapter 5
The screen flickered, and new text scrolled across the bottom: WE ARE WATCHING YOUR EVERY MOVE. HAVE THE MONEY READY BY TOMORROW NOON OR BILLY DIES.
Sheriff Daniels held up his hand, his voice barely above a whisper. "Everything's stealth from here on out. They're watching and listening to every damn thing we do."
"They're in our damn house," Luke whispered back, his fist clenching.
Tyler looked up from his laptop, speaking in the lowest possible voice. "Then let's give them something to see." He turned to Cody. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Fake bank transfers," Cody nodded quietly, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. "Make it look like they're moving the money."
"Can you do that?" Sheriff Daniels asked in hushed tones.
Tyler pulled out his phone and started typing. Within seconds, phones around the room were buzzing with his message:
WE CAN MAKE FAKE BANK DOCS. MAKE THEM THINK MONEY IS COMING. EVERYONE TEXT FROM NOW ON.
Tom Benson grabbed his phone, his thick fingers clumsy on the keys:
GOOD PLAN. WHAT ABOUT WEAPONS?
Pops struggled with his ancient flip phone, hunting and pecking one letter at a time:
HOW DO I MAKE LETTERS ON THIS DAMN THING?
Josh Jr. rolled his eyes and took his great-grandfather's phone, his small fingers flying across the keypad:
POPS SAYS HE WANTS TO HELP
Sarah's message came through:
KEEP ACTING NORMAL ON CAMERA. I'LL CRY ABOUT THE MONEY.
Tyler made a show of angling his laptop screen just enough that the satellite box's hidden camera could catch a glimpse, while texting:
SHOWING THEM FAKE BANK TRANSFERS. ROUTING NUMBERS, AUTHORIZATIONS.
The group message thread was buzzing:
TOM: GUN SAFE. BACK BEDROOM WINDOW. CLIMB IN QUIET.
RYAN: MEET BEHIND BARN AFTER WE GET WEAPONS.
JOSH: HOW MANY RIFLES WE GOT?
JAKE: ENOUGH FOR EVERYBODY.
MARCUS: WE'RE IN.
Meanwhile, Rebecca paced frantically, crying loudly enough for any listening devices. "A million dollars! How are we supposed to get a million dollars by noon?"
Sarah played her part perfectly, sobbing, "We'll sell everything! The ranch, the cattle, everything!"
Josh Jr. sent another message, grinning despite the circumstances:
UNCLE BILLY TAUGHT ME TO TEXT FAST. THIS IS FOR HIM.
Even Pops managed to hunt and peck out:
DAMN PHONE SMARTER THAN ME
One by one, the men began slipping out of the house, following the text chain of instructions. Behind the barn, an arsenal was quietly assembled while their phones continued buzzing with tactical plans—all while the kidnappers watched their fake breakdown on screen, completely oblivious to the storm of vengeance gathering just outside their camera's range.
Fourteen miles southeast, in a cramped trailer hidden behind the old house on stilts, two men watched the feed with growing excitement.
"You see that?" The first man slapped his partner on the back. "They got the money! They actually got it!"
"Hot damn!" The second man raised his beer bottle. "We're gonna be rich!"
They high-fived, laughing as they watched the families scramble around their living room, apparently preparing the ransom.
"Time to give them a little more motivation," the first man said, grabbing his mask. "Make sure they know we mean business."
Billy had been barely conscious in the hogtied position when they dragged him back to the stakes. The morning sun was already brutal, turning the swamp into a steaming hell.
This time, they didn't stop with his forearms.
The honey came in thick, golden streams—over his head, matting his dark hair, running down his face and neck. They smeared it across his bare chest, his arms, his back, coating every inch of exposed skin.
"Please," Billy whispered, his voice cracked and broken. "Please, I can't—"
But they were already walking away, leaving him staked out under the merciless Texas sun. The honey drew flies immediately—thick black clouds of them buzzing around his head and torso. Billy whimpered as they crawled across his face and into his hair, but the real horror would come after dark.
Everyone in that swamp knew what happened when night fell. The mosquitoes would come in biblical swarms, drawn by the honey and his helplessness.
Then, suddenly, the screen went black.
In the Benson living room, the families stared at the dead screen in horror.
"What happened?" Sarah cried. "Where is he? WHERE IS MY BOY?"
Tom's phone buzzed with urgent messages:
LUKE: WE GOT MAYBE 6 HOURS BEFORE DARK
JAKE: MOSQUITOES WILL EAT HIM ALIVE AFTER SUNSET
RYAN: HAVE TO MOVE NOW
Behind the barn, Tom Benson was already loading his rifle, his phone buzzing with final tactical messages. Time was running out, and they all knew what nightfall in a Texas swamp would mean for Billy.
Chapter 5
The screen flickered, and new text scrolled across the bottom: WE ARE WATCHING YOUR EVERY MOVE. HAVE THE MONEY READY BY TOMORROW NOON OR BILLY DIES.
Sheriff Daniels held up his hand, his voice barely above a whisper. "Everything's stealth from here on out. They're watching and listening to every damn thing we do."
"They're in our damn house," Luke whispered back, his fist clenching.
Tyler looked up from his laptop, speaking in the lowest possible voice. "Then let's give them something to see." He turned to Cody. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Fake bank transfers," Cody nodded quietly, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. "Make it look like they're moving the money."
"Can you do that?" Sheriff Daniels asked in hushed tones.
Tyler pulled out his phone and started typing. Within seconds, phones around the room were buzzing with his message:
WE CAN MAKE FAKE BANK DOCS. MAKE THEM THINK MONEY IS COMING. EVERYONE TEXT FROM NOW ON.
Tom Benson grabbed his phone, his thick fingers clumsy on the keys:
GOOD PLAN. WHAT ABOUT WEAPONS?
Pops struggled with his ancient flip phone, hunting and pecking one letter at a time:
HOW DO I MAKE LETTERS ON THIS DAMN THING?
Josh Jr. rolled his eyes and took his great-grandfather's phone, his small fingers flying across the keypad:
POPS SAYS HE WANTS TO HELP
Sarah's message came through:
KEEP ACTING NORMAL ON CAMERA. I'LL CRY ABOUT THE MONEY.
Tyler made a show of angling his laptop screen just enough that the satellite box's hidden camera could catch a glimpse, while texting:
SHOWING THEM FAKE BANK TRANSFERS. ROUTING NUMBERS, AUTHORIZATIONS.
The group message thread was buzzing:
TOM: GUN SAFE. BACK BEDROOM WINDOW. CLIMB IN QUIET.
RYAN: MEET BEHIND BARN AFTER WE GET WEAPONS.
JOSH: HOW MANY RIFLES WE GOT?
JAKE: ENOUGH FOR EVERYBODY.
MARCUS: WE'RE IN.
Meanwhile, Rebecca paced frantically, crying loudly enough for any listening devices. "A million dollars! How are we supposed to get a million dollars by noon?"
Sarah played her part perfectly, sobbing, "We'll sell everything! The ranch, the cattle, everything!"
Josh Jr. sent another message, grinning despite the circumstances:
UNCLE BILLY TAUGHT ME TO TEXT FAST. THIS IS FOR HIM.
Even Pops managed to hunt and peck out:
DAMN PHONE SMARTER THAN ME
One by one, the men began slipping out of the house, following the text chain of instructions. Behind the barn, an arsenal was quietly assembled while their phones continued buzzing with tactical plans—all while the kidnappers watched their fake breakdown on screen, completely oblivious to the storm of vengeance gathering just outside their camera's range.
Fourteen miles southeast, in a cramped trailer hidden behind the old house on stilts, two men watched the feed with growing excitement.
"You see that?" The first man slapped his partner on the back. "They got the money! They actually got it!"
"Hot damn!" The second man raised his beer bottle. "We're gonna be rich!"
They high-fived, laughing as they watched the families scramble around their living room, apparently preparing the ransom.
"Time to give them a little more motivation," the first man said, grabbing his mask. "Make sure they know we mean business."
Billy had been barely conscious in the hogtied position when they dragged him back to the stakes. The morning sun was already brutal, turning the swamp into a steaming hell.
This time, they didn't stop with his forearms.
The honey came in thick, golden streams—over his head, matting his dark hair, running down his face and neck. They smeared it across his bare chest, his arms, his back, coating every inch of exposed skin.
"Please," Billy whispered, his voice cracked and broken. "Please, I can't—"
But they were already walking away, leaving him staked out under the merciless Texas sun. The honey drew flies immediately—thick black clouds of them buzzing around his head and torso. Billy whimpered as they crawled across his face and into his hair, but the real horror would come after dark.
Everyone in that swamp knew what happened when night fell. The mosquitoes would come in biblical swarms, drawn by the honey and his helplessness.
Then, suddenly, the screen went black.
In the Benson living room, the families stared at the dead screen in horror.
"What happened?" Sarah cried. "Where is he? WHERE IS MY BOY?"
Tom's phone buzzed with urgent messages:
LUKE: WE GOT MAYBE 6 HOURS BEFORE DARK
JAKE: MOSQUITOES WILL EAT HIM ALIVE AFTER SUNSET
RYAN: HAVE TO MOVE NOW
Behind the barn, Sheriff Daniels was already on his radio, calling for backup. "This is Sheriff Daniels, Kings County. Need immediate state police assistance. Kidnapping in progress, armed rescue operation. Set up roadblocks on all county roads. Stop any vehicle with rope, honey, camping equipment, or suspicious activity."
He turned to the assembled men, his badge glinting in the afternoon sun. "By the authority vested in me by the state of Texas, I'm deputizing every one of you. Tom, Jake, Luke, Josh, Jim Morrison, Marcus—you're all sworn deputies as of right now."
Pops Benson struggled to his feet, his weathered face set with determination. "I'm going too."
"Pops, you should stay—" Tom started.
"Like hell!" the old man snapped. "And that boy's coming with me." He pointed at Josh Jr. "Kid can work that frunkin phone better than any of us. We might need him."
Josh Jr.'s eyes went wide. "Really? I can help save Uncle Billy?"
"Damn right you can, boy," Pops said, ruffling his great-grandson's hair. "You're the only one who can make sense of all them buttons and gadgets."
Time was running out, and they all knew what nightfall in a Texas swamp would mean for Billy.
Chapter 6
When the screen went black, everything changed.
"They cut their feed," Tyler announced, then quickly moved to the satellite dish outside. "But now I'm cutting ours." He yanked the coaxial cable from the dish. "They can't watch us anymore. We can talk normal now."
Sheriff Daniels was already on his radio. "This is Sheriff Daniels, Kings County. Code Red kidnapping situation. Need immediate state police backup, helicopter if available. Set up roadblocks on Highway 47, County Road 12, and all access points to Miller's Creek. Stop and search any vehicle carrying rope, honey, camping gear, or acting suspicious."
He turned to the assembled men behind the barn, his voice carrying the authority of his badge. "By the power vested in me by the state of Texas, I'm deputizing every man here. Tom, Jake, Luke, Josh, Jim, Marcus—you're all sworn deputies as of right now. That makes this a legal law enforcement operation."
Pops Benson struggled to his feet, his weathered hands gripping his walking stick. "I'm going too."
"Pops—" Tom started.
"Don't 'Pops' me!" the old man snapped. "And that boy's coming with us." He pointed at Josh Jr. "Kid can work them phones and gadgets better than any of us. We might need him."
Josh Jr.'s eyes went wide with a mixture of terror and excitement. "Really? I can help save Uncle Billy?"
"Damn right you can, boy," Pops growled, ruffling his great-grandson's hair.
Within minutes, a convoy was rolling east on County Road 47—three pickup trucks loaded with armed men, tactical equipment, and grim determination. Tyler and Cody rode in the lead truck with their laptops, Pops in the middle, and Josh Jr. squeezed between them, his phone ready to relay any technical updates to the other trucks.
"Two miles out," Cody called out, watching his GPS coordinates. "Signal's getting stronger."
Josh Jr.'s fingers flew across his phone screen, texting to both trucks behind them:
TWINS SAY 2 MILES OUT. SIGNAL STRONGER. ALMOST THERE.
Tom Benson's voice crackled back over the radio from the second truck: "Remember—we go in quiet until we spot them. No unnecessary risks."
Tyler's laptop beeped with new data. Josh Jr. immediately started texting:
FOUND EXACT COORDINATES. TYLER SAYS OLD HOUSE IS 1.3 MILES EAST OF MILLER'S CREEK BRIDGE.
Jake's voice came from the third vehicle: "What about Billy? How do we know he's still..."
"He's alive," Sheriff Daniels' voice cut through from the second truck. "Has to be. They need him alive for the money."
Pops squeezed Josh Jr.'s shoulder as the boy continued relaying information between the tech team and the rescue party. "Good work, boy. Your Uncle Billy would be proud."
Fourteen miles southeast, Billy hung against his restraints as the Texas sun began its descent toward the horizon. The flies had been merciless throughout the day, but he knew the real nightmare would begin when darkness fell.
The honey had crystallized in places, cracking his skin as he moved. His lips were split and bleeding, his tongue swollen from dehydration. Every breath felt like fire in his lungs.
But it was the approaching dusk that terrified him most. He'd grown up in East Texas—he knew what came out of the swamps when the sun went down. The mosquitoes would come in clouds so thick they'd blacken the air. And with the honey coating his skin...
In the distance, he thought he heard engines. But engines came and went on the county roads. It could be anyone.
As the first mosquito of the evening landed on his honey-crusted forearm, Billy closed his eyes and tried to hold on to hope. Somewhere out there, his family was coming for him.
He just had to survive until they got there.
The sun touched the horizon, and the swamp began to wake up.
Chapter 7
Three pickup trucks rolled to a stop on the gravel shoulder of County Road 47, their headlights cutting through the gathering dusk. The convoy had covered fourteen miles in record time, following Tyler and Cody's GPS coordinates to this remote stretch near Miller's Creek.
"This is it," Tyler announced, checking his laptop one final time. "Signal's strongest right here."
Sheriff Daniels stepped out of the second truck, his deputies following with grim determination. Tom Benson emerged from the third vehicle, rifle already in hand, his face set like stone.
"Pops, you and Josh Jr. stay with the trucks," Tom ordered.
"Like hell," the old man snapped, struggling out with his walking stick. "That boy needs all the help he can get."
Tyler was already assembling his drone, its night vision camera glowing green in the darkness. "Give me thirty seconds to get this airborne."
The small aircraft lifted into the night sky, its camera streaming live footage to Tyler's laptop screen. Dense swampland stretched before them, punctuated by the dark silhouette of an old house on stilts.
"There," Cody pointed at the screen, his voice tight. "Movement in the water, two hundred yards southeast of the house."
The drone's night vision revealed the horrifying truth—a human figure staked out in the marsh, completely covered by a writhing black mass.
"BILLY!" Tom Benson roared, recognizing his son's outline beneath the swarm of mosquitoes. "MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!"
The rescue party plunged into the swamp, following Billy's weak screams that echoed across the stagnant water. Josh Jr. stayed close to Pops, both struggling through the knee-deep muck toward the sound of their family member's agony.
"UNCLE BILLY!" Josh Jr. shouted into the darkness. "WE'RE COMING!"
Luke reached him first, swatting at the thick cloud of mosquitoes with his bare hands. "Jake! Get the knife! CUT HIM DOWN!"
Jake sliced through the ropes binding Billy's wrists to the wooden stakes. Billy collapsed forward into the water, barely conscious, his honey-crusted skin covered in welts and bites from hundreds of mosquitoes.
"Into the water," Sheriff Daniels commanded. "Wash him off. NOW!"
They dunked Billy completely under the swamp water, scrubbing the crystallized honey from his hair and skin. The mosquitoes dispersed as Billy coughed and sputtered, his eyes struggling to focus.
"He's in shock," Marcus Morrison said, helping lift Billy from the murky water. "We need to get him to the hospital RIGHT NOW."
Tom and Luke carried Billy between them, stumbling back through the marsh toward the waiting trucks. Josh Jr. ran ahead, his small flashlight clearing branches and debris from their path.
"Longview Regional," Sheriff Daniels barked into his radio as they loaded Billy into Tom's truck bed. "Emergency incoming. Severe exposure, dehydration, multiple insect bites. ETA fifteen minutes."
The convoy raced back toward civilization, Tom's truck leading with its hazard lights flashing. As they screamed down Highway 47 toward Longview Regional Hospital, Sheriff Daniels' radio crackled with news that sent relief flooding through every truck:
"Sheriff Daniels, this is State Police. We've got two suspects in custody at the roadblock on Highway 80. Found rope, honey, and camping equipment in their vehicle. They're being held for questioning."
In the lead truck, Pops Benson gripped Josh Jr.'s shoulder as the boy watched his uncle's pale face in the truck bed ahead of them.
"He's gonna make it, boy," the old man said quietly. "Your Uncle Billy's tougher than old leather."
Behind them, the Miller's Creek swamp fell silent except for the distant hum of Tyler's drone, still circling the abandoned crime scene like a mechanical guardian angel.
Chapter 8
The Longview Regional Hospital waiting room had never held so much nervous energy. The rescue party sat in uncomfortable plastic chairs, their clothes still damp and muddy from the swamp, watching the emergency room doors for any sign of news about Billy.
Pops Benson had been pacing for twenty minutes, his walking stick tapping angrily against the linoleum floor. "Goddamn satellites," he muttered, his voice rising with each step. "In my day, we had rabbit ears on top of the TV, and nobody could watch you through the damn thing!"
Tom tried to calm his father. "Pops, keep it down—"
"Keep it down, hell!" the old man exploded. "Those sons of bitches turned our own TVs into spy cameras! Back when I was young, if you wanted to watch somebody, you had to climb a tree and use binoculars like a decent human being!"
Tyler and Cody Morrison exchanged glances, both of them turning red.
"And another thing," Pops continued, waving his walking stick in the air. "What kind of sick bastards use honey to torture a boy? In my day, if you had a problem with somebody, you settled it with your fists, not by staking them out for mosquitoes like some kind of fuckin' medieval—"
"Mr. Benson," Tyler interrupted weakly, "maybe we should—"
"Don't you 'Mr. Benson' me, boy! I'm talking about twenty-two thousand miles of space technology being used to spy on good people! Makes me want to get my shotgun and blow every satellite dish from here to Dallas to fuckin' smithereens!"
Even the Morrison twins were blushing now, shifting uncomfortably in their seats as Pops' voice echoed through the waiting room.
"And don't get me started on them fancy computers bouncing signals off of outer space just so some piece-of-shit kidnappers can—"
"Family of William Benson?"
Everyone turned as a nurse in scrubs approached, clipboard in hand. Pops immediately fell silent, his face still red with anger.
"I'm his father," Tom said, standing quickly. "How is he?"
The nurse looked around at the assembled group—muddy, armed, and still smelling like swamp water. "He's stable, but it's going to be a long recovery. We're looking at about a week in the hospital. He'll need constant allergy medications for the insect bites, strong antibiotics for potential infections, and wound care in a sterile environment."
"Can we see him?" Tom asked.
"Only through the window for now. His immune system is fighting off massive allergic reactions, and we can't risk any additional contamination. The good news is he's young and his auto-immune system is strong. We'll have a better idea of his progress in four or five days."
The group filed past Billy's room window, seeing him unconscious in the hospital bed, IV lines running into both arms, his face and exposed skin covered in angry red welts.
Josh Jr. pressed his small hand against the glass. "He looks terrible."
"But he's alive," Tom said quietly. "That's what matters."
One by one, they headed home to shower, rest, and wait.
The next four days passed like a funeral that wouldn't end.
At the Benson ranch, the work continued—cattle still needed feeding, fences still needed mending—but everything felt hollow. Josh moved through his chores mechanically, barely speaking. Luke and Jake worked in silence, their usual banter replaced by grim efficiency. Even Josh Jr. seemed older, helping with small tasks without his usual chatter.
Sarah spent most of her time in the kitchen, cooking for neighbors who kept stopping by with casseroles and condolences, as if someone had actually died. Rebecca tried to keep busy with household tasks, but would catch herself staring out the window toward the direction of the hospital.
The Daniels house felt the strain too. Sheriff Ryan threw himself into the investigation, interrogating the two suspects in custody, but the questions he wanted answered—why Billy, why their families—remained unanswered. Carol found herself checking the locks on doors and windows multiple times each night. Beth cried herself to sleep, blaming herself for Billy going to her house that night.
Even the Morrison family felt the weight. Tyler and Cody had disconnected every piece of electronic equipment they owned, paranoid about being watched. Their parents, Jim and Linda, brought meals to both the Bensons and Daniels, but conversation was stilted, awkward.
The satellite dishes at both houses sat dark and useless. No one wanted to watch TV anymore.
Pops spent most of his time on the front porch, cleaning his shotgun and muttering about "them damn space contraptions." Visitors learned to give him a wide berth.
By the fourth day, the entire community of Kings County felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for news that Billy would be okay—that their safe, small-town world could somehow return to normal.
Four days later, the phone rang at the Benson ranch at 6:47 AM. Tom answered on the second ring.
"Mr. Benson? This is Longview Regional. Your son is ready to be discharged. Someone can come pick him up anytime after ten this morning."
Tom hung up and looked at his family gathered in the kitchen. For the first time in a week, everyone was smiling.
"Let's go bring Billy home."
Chapter 9
All three families were waiting when Josh's truck pulled into the Benson driveway. The Daniels and Morrisons had arrived an hour early, and the kitchen was filled with the aroma of the finest beef the ranch could provide—a far cry from the simple after-game dinner they'd originally planned a week ago.
Billy emerged from the passenger seat slowly, still pale and covered in fading welts, but walking under his own power. Tom steadied him on one side while Josh supported the other.
Sarah rushed toward her youngest son, tears streaming down her face, her hands shaking with excitement. "Oh, Billy! What do you want, honey? Anything! I know—how about some nice hot tea and honey!"
Billy stopped dead in his tracks, his face going white. "Honey?" he repeated, his voice hollow. "Mom, do you think I want honey?"
The entire group erupted in roaring laughter. Sarah burst out laughing too, suddenly realizing what she'd just said. She doubled over, tears of laughter mixing with tears of relief.
Billy looked around at all the laughing faces, then broke into a weak grin. "How about two cold ones instead?"
The laughter grew even louder as Sarah wiped her eyes, still giggling. "Oh my God, Billy! Of all the things to offer you! I'm losing my mind!"
"It's okay, Mom," Billy said, pulling her into a careful hug. "But yeah, definitely beer over honey for a while."
They moved inside for the meal, gathering around the dining room table in front of where the massive TV used to dominate the wall. The empty entertainment center stood like a monument to their violated trust.
Everyone was seated and ready to eat when they noticed two empty chairs.
"Where's Pops and Josh Jr.?" Rebecca asked.
Footsteps thundered down the attic stairs, followed by the sound of something heavy being dragged. Josh Jr. appeared first, struggling with a strange contraption that the adults didn't immediately recognize. Behind him, Pops descended carefully, carrying an old black and white television set.
"It's friggin' rabbit ears, you jerks!" Pops announced, setting down the ancient TV with a satisfied grunt.
Josh Jr. beamed as he held up the antenna contraption—two telescoping metal rods extending from a small base. "Me and Pops found it in the attic! It's how they used to watch TV before satellites!"
Tyler Morrison stared at the vintage equipment. "Is that thing even going to work?"
"Only one way to find out," Pops said, plugging the old set into the wall outlet.
The family watched in fascination as Josh Jr. helped connect the rabbit ears to the back of the television. The screen flickered to life with a high-pitched whine, slowly warming up to reveal a snowy, grainy image.
Josh Jr. adjusted the antenna, and suddenly a picture emerged from the static—a black and white image of a woman in a polka-dot dress standing in what looked like a 1950s kitchen.
"Well, I'll be damned," Pops said, settling into his chair with a satisfied grin. "I Love Lucy!"
The entire room erupted in laughter as Lucy Ricardo appeared on the tiny screen, completely unaware of the trauma her modern descendants had endured. For the first time in a week, the Benson dining room felt safe again—watched only by rabbit ears that couldn't watch back.
