Chapter 1
Nine-year-old Billy Benson Jr. steadied his junior rifle against the wooden fence post, squinting down the barrel at the paper target fifty yards away. His great-grandfather Pops sat in his weathered lawn chair, a cold Lone Star sweating in his hand, while his grandfather Tom leaned against the porch railing with a proud grin.
"Remember what I taught you about breathing," Deputy Horse Nelson called out, adjusting his hat against the late afternoon sun. His brother Ryan nodded encouragement from beside him.
Billy Jr. took a slow breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger. The crack echoed across the pasture, and the paper target fluttered.
"That's seven out of ten!" Tom whooped. "Damn fine shooting, son."
Pops chuckled, raising his beer. "Better than his daddy at that age."
Billy Jr.'s face beamed as he carefully lowered the rifle. "Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake are gonna be so proud when I tell them tomorrow! We're gonna get my first squirrel!" He bounced on his toes. "They promised we'd go out to the north pasture right after breakfast."
"Easy there, champ," Horse laughed. "Save some energy for tomorrow."
Fifteen miles north, Billy wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked up at Jake in the rafters. "Almost finished?"
"About ten more minutes," Jake called down, wrestling with the camera wire. "Damn, it's fucking hot up here!"
"105-degree Texas heat. Damn shame we forgot that cooler with the cold beers."
"Still on the back deck unless Ray and Josh got to it."
Billy stacked the last bale of hay against the barn wall. Shirtless, their sweat-soaked shirts hanging on a nail, they were ready to head back to the ranch house where cold beers and Sarah's cooking waited.
Jake dropped down from the rafters, brushing dust from his jeans. "Ready to get out of this oven?"
They walked toward their mule quad, already imagining the cold drinks and family gathered on the porch. Neither heard the footsteps behind them until it was too late.
Billy climbed into the driver's seat when he screamed and fell, convulsing in the dirt as the taser's electricity coursed through him. Jake spun around but didn't have a second to react before the second taser found him.
Chloroform rags covered their mouths as rough hands dragged their unconscious bodies toward a waiting pickup truck.
Back at the ranch house, Sarah checked the kitchen clock again. "They should've been back by now."
Horse and Ryan exchanged glances as Tom stepped onto the porch, scanning the northern horizon. No dust cloud. No sound of the mule quad's engine.
Pops set down his empty beer bottle. The evening air had grown still.
"They probably just lost track of time," Tom said, but his voice carried a note he couldn't quite hide.
Billy Jr., still clutching his junior rifle, looked up at the adults. "Are Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake okay?"
Nobody answered.
Chapter 2
"We're heading out to check on them," Tom announced, grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter.
Horse and Ryan were already moving toward their patrol vehicle. Josh emerged from the back room, pulling on a clean shirt.
"I'm coming too!" Billy Jr. jumped up from the table.
"NOOOOO!" Sarah's voice cut through the kitchen like a whip crack. "You stay right here with me and Rebecca."
Billy Jr.'s face fell, but he knew better than to argue with that tone.
The four men climbed into Tom's F-250 and Ryan's patrol car, headlights cutting through the gathering dusk as they raced toward the northern barn.
They found the mule quad sitting empty beside the barn, keys still in the ignition. Inside, all the hay was properly stacked, the camera wiring completed and secured. Two sweat-soaked shirts hung on a nail by the door.
"They finished the job," Josh said, running his hand along the neat hay bales. "Everything's done."
Horse walked a wide circle around the quad, his flashlight beam sweeping the ground. Years of tracking deer had trained his eye for details others missed.
"Tom!" Horse's voice was sharp. "Over here."
Behind the quad, partially hidden in the tall grass, lay cut lengths of rope and strips of duct tape. Horse knelt and picked up a wadded rag, bringing it close to his nose.
"Chloroform."
The word hung in the air like a death sentence.
Ryan was already on his radio. "Base, this is Unit 12. Patch me through to Sheriff Nelson immediately."
Tom's face had gone white. "Jesus Christ."
The drive back to the ranch house was a blur of gravel dust and racing engines. Tom's truck fishtailed into the driveway as the kitchen door flew open.
"What did you find?" Sarah's voice was barely a whisper.
"They've been taken," Tom said.
Rebecca collapsed into a chair, her hands covering her mouth. Sarah grabbed the counter to steady herself.
Billy Jr. looked from face to face, his junior rifle forgotten against the wall. "What does that mean? Where are Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake?"
Before anyone could answer, headlights swept across the windows. Sheriff Wade Nelson's patrol car pulled up at the same time as Mary Nelson's sedan. Jenna Nelson jumped out of the passenger seat, her face streaked with tears.
The kitchen filled with bodies and voices, everyone talking at once until Wade raised his hand for silence.
"What do we do?" Sarah's voice cracked. "Call the FBI? State police?"
Wade looked around the room at faces he'd known his whole life. Tom, who'd helped him fix his first truck. Sarah, who'd brought casseroles when Mary was sick. His daughter Rebecca, married to Josh. His daughter Jenna, who loved Billy like family already.
"We do this ourselves," Wade said quietly. "Fast and quiet, before they can hurt the boys or run."
Tom nodded grimly. "Where would they take them?"
Horse spread a county map across the kitchen table. "If they're smart, somewhere isolated. Abandoned buildings. Old line shacks."
"The Murphy place has been empty for three years," Ryan suggested.
"What about the old Sinclair drilling site?" Josh added. "Twenty miles east, nothing but scrub brush for miles."
Wade drew circles on the map as they called out locations. "We'll need to split up. Cover more ground."
Billy Jr. tugged on his grandfather's sleeve. "Grandpa Tom, I can help. I got my radio from Christmas."
Tom looked down at his grandson, then at Wade. The sheriff nodded.
"You'll be our communications base, son. Right here at the kitchen table."
As the men prepared to head out into the darkness, each checking weapons and radios, Billy Jr. understood that his first real test wouldn't be shooting squirrels tomorrow morning.
It would be helping bring his uncles home alive.
Billy and Jake hung side by side, their crossed wrists bound with rope and suspended from a rusted beam three feet off the barn floor. Their elbows had been tied together behind their heads, each bicep lashed tight to their necks in a position that made every breath a struggle.
Their boots and socks had been stripped away, bare feet bound together and dangling uselessly. Duct tape sealed their mouths, forcing them to breathe through their noses in short, desperate gasps.
Sweat beaded on their foreheads and streamed down their faces, dripping from their chins onto their bare chests. Rivers of perspiration poured from their armpits, running down their sides in steady streams. The stifling heat of the abandoned barn made their skin glisten in the dim light filtering through broken boards.
The flash from a camera had jolted them back to consciousness moments before - evidence for the ransom demand. Now their captors had left them hanging in the suffocating darkness, alone except for each other.
Billy turned his head as far as the rope around his neck would allow, his eyes finding Jake's. Even through the pain and fear, the brothers' gazes held steady - a silent communication that had served them through nineteen and eighteen years of life on the ranch.
They weren't going to break. Not yet.
But as another bead of sweat rolled down Billy's temple, both brothers wondered how long they could last in this hell, and whether their family would find them in time.
Billy's phone rang first, the familiar ringtone cutting through the tense kitchen like a blade. Wade nodded to Tom, who answered on speaker.
"We got your boys," a rough voice drawled. "One million dollars. Cash. More instructions coming."
The line went dead.
Seconds later, Jake's phone buzzed with incoming messages. The first photo made Sarah gasp and turn away - Billy and Jake hanging by their wrists, bare-chested and bound, sweat glistening on their tortured bodies.
The second photo was worse. The same angle, but now small bundles of kindling were visible beneath their dangling feet.
The final message was a video. A voice off-camera: "Light them sticks, and your boys gonna dance real pretty. One million. Twenty-four hours."
"Goddamn animals," Pops whispered, his weathered hands shaking.
Ryan was already on his radio to dispatch. "I need a cell tower triangulation on these two numbers, priority one."
Twenty minutes later, the call came back. "Signal originated approximately twenty-five miles northeast of your location. Coverage area roughly three square miles, centered on the old Hackberry Creek area."
Wade studied the map. "That's rough country. Lots of old buildings, abandoned homesteads."
"Time to call in help," Tom said. "The Morrison ranch borders that area, and so does the Castellanos spread."
Wade nodded. "Get them on the phone."
An hour later, the kitchen had become a command center. Jim Morrison arrived with his three sons - Patrick Morrison, 18, red-haired and freckled like his Irish mother; Tyler Morrison, 17; and Sean Morrison, 19.
Miguel Castellanos brought his two boys - Carlos Castellanos, 19, and Diego Castellanos, 18.
"Patrick and Tyler were in Billy's graduating class," Jim explained. "Diego was with Jake. Sean and Carlos went to school with Horse and Ryan."
The kitchen buzzed with quiet, determined voices as weapons were checked and assignments made. These weren't just neighbors - they were an extended family of ranchers who'd grown up hunting together, working cattle together, watching each other's backs.
Billy Jr. sat at his radio station, his small hands steady on the controls, ready to coordinate the search that would bring his uncles home.
Or die trying.
The small fires crackled to life beneath Billy and Jake's bare feet. Both brothers jerked their legs up instinctively, their bodies swaying and dancing as they tried to escape the heat licking at their soles. The ropes creaked as they twisted back and forth, their bound feet kicking desperately at the air.
The camera captured every agonized movement, every bead of sweat that dripped from their writhing bodies, before the video was sent.
Back at the ranch house, the kitchen had been transformed into a military command center. Billy Jr. sat at a professional radio console, headset clamped over his ears, his small fingers already familiar with the frequency controls. Pops had spread topographical maps across the entire kitchen table, red pins marking search grid coordinates.
Four teams of four men each stood in the yard, checking their gear one final time. Each man carried sidearms, scoped rifles with laser sights, and military-grade night vision equipment. Horse and Ryan tested their drones, the night vision cameras feeding clear images to handheld monitors.
Father Duffy, the old retired Army chaplain, moved between the groups with his bottle of holy water. Despite Pops being Protestant, the two men had served together in Vietnam and shared a bond deeper than denomination.
"Lord, watch over these men as they go into harm's way," Father Duffy intoned, sprinkling holy water on weapons and vehicles. "Guide their steps and bring your children home safely."
Just as he finished blessing the last truck, Jake's phone buzzed.
The video played on the kitchen screen. Billy and Jake dancing in agony, their feet jerking away from the flames, their bodies swaying in desperate, futile attempts to escape the torture.
"Goddamn sons of bitches!" Pops exploded, his fist slamming the table. "Fucking bastards!"
Father Duffy calmly capped his holy water. "Well, Pops, I reckon you're just adding to my blessing there."
Tom's jaw was set like granite. "Time to go."
The caravan rolled out into the Texas night, sixteen armed men hunting the men who dared to torture the Benson boys.
Billy Jr.'s voice crackled over the radio: "All teams, this is Base. God speed, and bring my uncles home."
The rescue teams spread across the dark terrain on three separate radio frequencies, unable to communicate directly with each other. Billy Jr.'s voice became the lifeline connecting them all.
"Team Alpha, this is Base. Team Charlie reports movement two clicks south of your position."
"Base, this is Team Bravo. We're moving to grid seven-seven."
Billy Jr.'s small hands worked the radio controls like a seasoned operator, Pops beside him checking signal strength and making sure every relay was crystal clear.
"Base, this is Drone One," Horse's voice crackled through. "I've got a structure, old barn, two heat signatures inside. Sending GPS coordinates now."
Billy Jr. quickly relayed to all teams: "All units, all units, this is Base. Target structure located. GPS coordinates incoming."
Tom's voice came through Team Charlie's frequency: "Base, this is Team Charlie. We're closest to target structure. Moving in now."
Billy Jr. looked at Pops, who nodded grimly. "Team Charlie, this is Base. Sheriff Nelson says GO TOM. Repeat, GO TOM."
The radio crackled with tension as Tom, Ray, and Josh approached the dilapidated barn. Through his headset, Billy Jr. could hear their careful footsteps, their whispered coordination.
Then gunfire erupted.
"Targets down! Targets down!" Tom's voice shouted through the static. "We've got the boys! They're alive!"
"All units, converge on Team Charlie's position," Billy Jr. relayed, his voice steady despite his racing heart.
Twenty minutes later, Billy and Jake were cut down from their bonds, their rope-burned wrists and arms raw but their feet miraculously unharmed - the fires had been too small to do real damage.
"We just want to go home," Jake said weakly as Tom and Ray supported him.
Rebecca's voice came through the radio from the ranch house: "Base, this is Rebecca. I'm calling Memorial Hospital for medical supplies. Have them meet us at the house."
The convoy of trucks rolled back toward the Benson ranch, Billy and Jake wrapped in blankets in the back of Tom's F-250.
By the time they reached home, the hospital supplies were waiting. Rebecca, her RN training taking over, carefully cleaned and dressed the rope burns on their wrists and arms while the family gathered around.
One by one, the neighbor families said their goodbyes and headed home, the Morrison and Castellanos boys grinning with the satisfaction of a job well done.
Finally, it was just the Benson and Nelson families on the porch, cold beers in hand, Billy and Jake recounting their ordeal in quiet voices.
"Sorry, little man," Billy said, ruffling his nephew's hair. "Looks like that squirrel hunt's gonna have to wait until next weekend."
Billy Jr. didn't say a word. He just wrapped his arms around both his uncles and held on tight, the professional radio operator finally just a nine-year-old boy who had his family back.
Pops raised his Lone Star toward the star-filled Texas sky. "Damn fine work tonight, boys. Damn fine work."
Saturday morning came with the smell of bacon and coffee drifting across the ranch. Sarah had outdone herself with the hunters' breakfast - eggs, sausage, biscuits, and gravy enough to feed an army.
Which was exactly what gathered around the kitchen table.
"Hell of a lot of firepower for one little squirrel," Ray chuckled, watching the parade of young men loading into trucks.
"Boy's earned himself a proper send-off," Tom replied, ruffling Billy Jr.'s hair.
The caravan stretched down the ranch road - Tom's F-250 leading, followed by the Morrison and Castellanos trucks loaded with teenagers, Horse and Ryan bringing up the rear. All for one nine-year-old boy and his first squirrel.
At the edge of the oak grove, eighteen bodies dropped to the ground in perfect hunter silence. Billy Jr. crouched between his Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake, his junior rifle steady in his small hands.
"There," Billy whispered, pointing to a fat gray squirrel chattering on an oak branch thirty yards out. "See him?"
"I got him," Billy Jr. whispered back.
"Take your time, son," Jake murmured. "Use your scope. Remember what Horse taught you about breathing."
Around them, hardened ranch hands and teenage hunters held their breath. Patrick Morrison gave Tyler a silent thumbs-up. Carlos Castellanos grinned at Sean McMurphy. These boys who had hunted together since they were Billy Jr.'s age now watched the next generation take his shot.
"Easy, easy," Billy coached. "When you're ready, little man."
Billy Jr. settled the crosshairs, took a slow breath, and squeezed the trigger.
The squirrel dropped like a stone.
"YES!" Tyler Morrison whooped, jumping to his feet.
"HELL YES!" Diego Castellanos hollered.
"First shot, clean kill!" Patrick shouted, already running toward the tree.
Patrick scooped up the squirrel by its tail and jogged back, holding it high. "Ladies and gentlemen, Billy Benson the Third's first kill!"
The teenagers surrounded Billy Jr., slapping his back and messing up his hair. "Damn fine shooting, kid!" "Clean as a whistle!" "Better shot than your daddy at that age!"
The ride back was a parade. Billy Jr. sat in the passenger seat of his grandfather's truck, the dead squirrel cradled carefully in his lap, grinning so wide his face hurt.
"You done good, son," Tom said quietly. "Real good."
When they reached the barn, the teenagers weren't finished celebrating. "Wait, wait!" Carlos called out. "This calls for a proper victory lap!"
Before Billy Jr. knew what was happening, six pairs of strong hands lifted him into the air, squirrel and all, and carried him around the barn while the whole crowd cheered.
"Billy! Billy! Billy!" they chanted, setting him down gently by the picnic tables Sarah and Mary had set up for the victory feast.
The barbecue lunch stretched for hours. Pops sat beside his great-grandson, watching him retell the story for the fourth time to anyone who'd listen.
"And then I squeezed real slow, just like Deputy Horse taught me, and BOOM! He dropped right out of that tree!"
"Thirty yards, clean head shot," Jake confirmed. "Kid's a natural."
Pops reached over and took the squirrel from Billy Jr.'s hands, examining it with expert eyes. "Billy, I'm gonna skin this one for you and mount it proper. Get a nice little plaque made up - 'Billy Benson III, First Kill, Age 9.' Put it right up on the wall next to your daddy's first deer."
That's when Billy Jr. broke down. Not from sadness, but from pure joy. Great heaving sobs of happiness as the weight of the whole week - the fear, the radio duty, the rescue, and now this perfect moment - crashed over him.
"Aw hell, don't cry, kid," Ray laughed, but his own eyes were suspiciously wet.
"Those are happy tears, Uncle Ray," Billy Jr. managed through his sobs. "The happiest tears ever."
The applause started with Pops clapping slowly, then Tom joining in, then the whole crowd of family and friends giving the boy the standing ovation he deserved.
Billy and Jake flanked their nephew, arms around his shoulders.
"Next weekend," Billy said, "we'll teach you how to clean what you kill."
"And the weekend after that," Jake added, "maybe we'll go after something bigger."
Billy Jr. wiped his eyes and grinned up at his uncles - the two men who'd promised him this hunt, survived hell to keep that promise, and were already planning the next adventure.
"Can Horse and Ryan come too?"
"Wouldn't be the same without them," Tom laughed.
As the sun set over the Benson ranch, three generations of hunters sat on the porch, planning next weekend's adventure, while Billy Jr. carefully cleaned his junior rifle and dreamed of the mounted squirrel that would soon hang on his wall.
The Benson legacy was in good hands.
