Chapter 1: Friday Afternoon
Billy Benson and his brother Jake, Celeb Beaumont their best friend, along with Billy and Jake's nephew Billy Jr., and his three buddies—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Danny Rodriguez—had just finished setting up their campsite Friday afternoon. The woods sat deep in the Nelson property, fresh prime woodland that generations had used for hunting. The tents were set, kitchen area ready, and the beer already cooling in the creek. The boys had spent the last thirty minutes taking pictures with their hunting rifles, posing like they'd already bagged their bucks. Tomorrow would be the hunt.
Little could they know that tomorrow, all seven of them would be tied up in the woods, about to be trucked away.
"Jake, you're holding that rifle like it's a damn broomstick," Billy called out, grinning as his brother struck another pose. "No wonder you couldn't hit that eight-pointer last season."
"Screw you," Jake shot back, flipping him off while keeping his smile for the camera. "That buck was at least three hundred yards out."
"Two hundred. I was standing right next to you."
"Boys, boys," Celeb interrupted, slinging an arm around both their shoulders. "Save the competition for tomorrow. We've got beer to drink and steaks to burn."
Billy Jr. looked up from his phone where he'd been reviewing the photos. "Uncle Jake, you look constipated in this one."
The three older guys and the four fifteen-year-olds burst out laughing. Ryan Mattern grabbed the phone to look. "Oh man, he's right. You're gonna want to delete that before Edna sees it."
"Give me that—" Jake lunged for the phone, but Billy Jr. was already backing away, holding it out of reach.
"Twenty bucks and it's yours," the kid said, eyes gleaming.
"You little shit."
"Language he learned from Pops," Billy said, cracking open one of the beers from the creek. The water had made it ice cold. "Speaking of which, the old man made us promise to bring back at least two bucks or he's never letting us hear the end of it."
"Two bucks between seven of us?" Danny Rodriguez shook his head. "That's embarrassing."
"Then we better make it four," Celeb said. "One for each family, and one for Pops to mount in the ranch house so he can brag about how he trained us."
They'd left the Benson Ranch around noon with half the consortium seeing them off. Tom and Sarah Benson had packed enough food for an army. Rebecca had made Billy and Jake promise three times to keep an eye on Billy Jr. Pops had handed out cigars like they were heading to war, not a weekend hunting trip. Caroline Beaumont had kissed Celeb on both cheeks and told him not to let "those Benson boys" get him in trouble.
Sheriff Wayne Nelson had stopped by in his patrol car just as they were loading up the trucks. "You boys have your radios?"
All seven had patted their belts where the consortium emergency radios were clipped. Pops and Billy had built the system eight months ago when the Beaumonts joined up—a network that connected all the families across half of Kings County. Hit the button once, and a mechanical voice said "911 Emergency," scrambling the frequency so everyone could talk at once.
"Good," Wade had said. "Not that you'll need them for deer, but your mothers will have my hide if I don't check."
Now, with camp set and the sun starting to dip toward the horizon, the seven of them sat around the fire pit they'd built. Billy Jr. and his crew were already talking about where they'd set up tomorrow—the clearing near the creek, the ridge overlooking the valley, the old deer trail Pops had shown them last year.
"I'm telling you," Ryan Mattern said, "we should split up. Cover more ground."
"No way," Billy Renzo countered. "We stay in pairs minimum. That's what Pops always says."
"Pops also says 'don't be a dumbass,' but that doesn't stop Uncle Jake," Billy Jr. added.
Jake threw a stick at him. "Keep it up, kid. See where that gets you."
But he was smiling. They all were. The frat house crew—Billy, Jake, Celeb, and Billy Jr., who all shared one room back at the ranch with bunk beds and secret beer stashes under the floorboards—had been looking forward to this trip for weeks. And having Billy Jr.'s buddies along made it feel like passing down something important. The four fifteen-year-olds were ranch kids through and through: expert riders, crack shots, electronics whiz kids who could hack a drone network as easily as they could track a buck.
"Alright," Billy said, standing up and raising his beer. "Tomorrow we hunt. Tonight, we celebrate not being under the watchful eyes of our mothers, wives, and girlfriends."
"Hear, hear!" they all shouted.
As the sun set over the Nelson property and the woods grew dark around them, the seven settled in for the night. They had no idea that less than a mile away, four men were watching their campfire through binoculars, counting heads, and making plans.
Tomorrow would not go the way any of them expected.
Chapter 2: Saturday Morning
Billy Jr.'s phone alarm went off at 5:30 AM, piercing the quiet of the woods with an insistent beeping. He fumbled for it in the darkness of the tent, silencing it quickly before it woke the entire campsite.
Too late.
"Up and at 'em, kid," Uncle Billy's voice came from outside, already awake and moving. "Deer don't wait for teenagers to finish their beauty sleep."
Groaning, Billy Jr. unzipped his sleeping bag and crawled out into the cold morning air wearing the long t-shirt he'd slept in. His breath came out in visible puffs. The sky was just beginning to lighten at the edges, that deep blue-gray that comes right before dawn. His three buddies emerged from their tent shirtless, immediately wrapping their arms around themselves against the morning chill.
Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake were already at the camp stove, both bare-chested as they worked on getting water boiling. Celeb stumbled out of the third tent looking half-asleep, his hair sticking up at odd angles.
"Jesus, it's cold," Danny Rodriguez said, teeth chattering.
"Should've worn a shirt to bed like Junior," Ryan Mattern muttered.
"Where's the fun in that?" Jake said cheerfully, apparently immune to the cold as he held up foil pouches of dehydrated scrambled eggs and sausage. "Breakfast of champions. Just add water and pretend it's real food."
"Better than MREs," Celeb said, stretching his arms over his head and yawning. "At least that's what Pops always says."
"Pops thinks everything's better than MREs," Billy said, accepting a pouch and tearing it open. "The man once told me a leather boot would taste better than ham and lima beans."
They sat on logs around the dead fire from last night, six shirtless guys and Billy Jr. in his long t-shirt, spooning lukewarm reconstituted eggs into their mouths and washing it down with instant coffee that could strip paint. The teenagers grimaced but didn't complain—this was part of it, part of being men on a hunting trip.
"This tastes like cardboard," Ryan Mattern muttered.
"Cardboard with a hint of rubber," Danny Rodriguez agreed.
"Quit your bitching," Jake said cheerfully. "When you bag a ten-point buck today, you won't even remember breakfast."
Billy Jr. shoveled in another spoonful and chased it with coffee. His long t-shirt hung loose over his jeans, the consortium radio clipped to his belt underneath where no one could see it. All the guys had their radios nearby—most were still in the tents with their hunting gear, ready to clip on once they changed into their camo.
"Alright," Billy said, standing up and stretching. "Let's finish eating, then we'll change into our gear. Weapons check, radio check, and we move out in twenty minutes."
Billy Renzo stood up. "I'm gonna grab my camo—"
"Nobody move."
The voice came from behind them, hard and unfamiliar. Billy spun around and found himself staring at four men emerging from the tree line. They wore mismatched camo, had scraggly beards, and were pointing shotguns directly at the group.
"The hell—" Jake started, his hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.
"I said don't move!" the lead man barked. He was thick-built with a scar across his cheek and eyes that were too bright, too wired. Tweaking on something, Billy realized. "Y'all just stay right where you are, nice and still."
Billy's mind raced. Four of them, seven of us. But they have the drop on us, and we're half-dressed with our weapons in the tents. His hands slowly rose in a placating gesture.
"That's smart," the scarred man said, grinning. "Real smart. Now all of you, down on your knees. Hands behind your backs."
One by one, they complied, kneeling on the cold ground. Billy Jr. felt his heart hammering as he put his hands behind his back, the long t-shirt bunching up slightly but still covering his belt.
"Check the tents," Scarface ordered. "Grab their rifles. Leave the rest."
Two of the kidnappers moved quickly through the campsite, emerging from the tents with armfuls of hunting rifles. They carried them back toward the tree line while the other two kept their shotguns trained on the captives.
"Nice hardware," the meth-mouthed one said. "These'll fetch good money even if the families don't pay."
"They'll pay," Scarface said confidently. He pulled a coil of rope from his belt. "Tie 'em up. Wrists, elbows, ankles. Make it tight."
The kidnappers worked methodically, starting with Billy. Rough hands grabbed his wrists and wrapped rope around them, cinching it brutally tight. Then his elbows were yanked together behind his back, rope biting into his skin as they were bound close enough to make his shoulders scream. He grunted but didn't give them the satisfaction of crying out.
Jake was next, and he struggled. "You sons of—"
A fist to his kidney cut him off. He doubled over, gasping, as they roped his wrists and elbows with even less care than they'd shown Billy.
Celeb took it silently, his jaw clenched, eyes tracking every movement the kidnappers made.
Then they moved to the teenagers. Billy Renzo tried to stay brave but couldn't help the sharp intake of breath when his elbows were wrenched together. Ryan Mattern's eyes were wide with fear. Danny Rodriguez was shaking, whether from cold or terror Billy couldn't tell.
When they reached Billy Jr., the long t-shirt rode up as they grabbed his wrists. For one heart-stopping moment, Billy thought they'd see the radio. But the kidnapper was already wrapping rope around his wrists, pulling them together, then moving up to his elbows. The shirt fell back down, covering his waist.
"Ankles," Scarface ordered.
They forced each captive onto their sides and tied their ankles together, the rope tight enough to cut off circulation. Billy Jr. could feel his feet already starting to tingle.
"Gag 'em. Can't have them yelling for help."
Thick black duct tape came out, and one by one they slapped it across each mouth, pressing it down hard. Billy Jr. tasted adhesive and tried not to panic as his breathing became restricted to just his nose.
"Get 'em to the truck," Scarface said. "Move it."
Two kidnappers grabbed Billy under the arms and dragged him through the woods. Branches scraped against his bare chest and stomach. His bound ankles bumped over roots and rocks. Behind him, he could hear the others being dragged as well—grunts of pain muffled by tape, the sound of bodies being pulled through underbrush.
After what felt like forever but was probably only a couple of minutes, they broke through into a small clearing where a beat-up pickup truck sat waiting, its tailgate already down.
"In you go," one of the kidnappers said cheerfully, and Billy was lifted and dumped unceremoniously into the truck bed. His shoulder hit the metal hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.
One by one, the others were thrown in—Jake, Celeb, then the four teenagers. Seven bound, gagged, half-naked bodies piled into the bed of a pickup truck like cordwood. Billy Jr. landed near the wheel well, his face pressed against the cold metal, his bound hands trapped beneath him.
Through the gaps in the truck bed, he could see them loading the rifles into the cab. Then Scarface appeared at the tailgate, grinning down at them.
"Y'all just sit tight now," he said. "We're gonna take some real pretty pictures, make some phone calls, and if your rich families do what they're told, maybe you'll see home again."
He slammed the tailgate shut.
The engine roared to life, and the truck lurched forward. Billy Jr. felt every bump and pothole as they drove deeper into the woods. The ride seemed to go on forever—ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Every jolt sent waves of pain through his bound shoulders. Next to him, he could hear his friends' muffled breathing through their noses, fast and panicked.
Finally, the truck stopped.
The tailgate dropped open with a metallic clang. "End of the line, boys," Scarface announced. "Everybody out."
They were dragged from the truck bed one by one, still bound hand and foot, and deposited on the forest floor covered in pine needles. Billy Jr. looked around as best he could with the tape across his mouth and his limited mobility. They were in a small clearing surrounded by thick woods. No trail visible, no landmarks he recognized. A mile inland, maybe more.
"One per tree," Scarface directed, pointing to a line of trees at the clearing's edge. "Sit 'em down, backs against the trunks. Space 'em out nice so we can get everyone in the shot."
Two kidnappers grabbed Billy under the arms and dragged him to a thick oak. They propped him up against it, his bare back scraping against rough bark as they positioned him. His bound arms were awkwardly trapped behind him, pressed between his body and the tree trunk.
Jake was next, dragged to a tree about six feet to Billy's left and roughly seated. Then Celeb on Billy's right. The four teenagers were positioned beyond them—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Danny Rodriguez, and finally Billy Jr. at the end of the line.
Billy Jr. felt hands grab him, haul him up, drag him to the last tree. His back hit the bark hard, and he grunted through the tape. His bound arms were crushed uncomfortably behind him. The long t-shirt had ridden up slightly during the manhandling, but it still covered his belt, still hid the radio.
"Now tie their necks," Scarface ordered, tossing rope to his men. "Keep 'em in place."
One by one, rope was looped around each captive's neck and pulled snug—not tight enough to strangle, but enough that they couldn't lean forward or turn their heads more than an inch. The ropes were tied off behind the trees, holding them firmly in position.
Seven captives seated against trees in a row, six bare-chested and shivering in the morning cold, one in a long t-shirt. All with their wrists and elbows bound behind them, ankles tied together, thick black tape across their mouths, necks secured to the trees.
"Perfect," Scarface said, pulling out a phone and stepping back. "Say cheese, rich boys."
The camera clicked.
Again.
Again.
He walked down the line, getting different angles, making sure each face was clearly visible. Billy Jr. stared at the phone with wide eyes, knowing these photos would be sent to their families. His mom was going to lose her mind.
"Got it," Scarface said, reviewing the photos with obvious satisfaction. "Your families are gonna shit themselves when they see these." He looked up at his three companions. "Let's get out of here. Make camp a ways off. We'll send the photos tomorrow morning, give the families all night and morning to sweat."
"What about them?" Meth-mouth asked, gesturing at the bound captives.
"What about 'em? They ain't going anywhere." Scarface walked up to Billy and squatted down in front of him, grinning with his tobacco-stained teeth. "You boys just sit tight. Try to get some sleep if you can. Tomorrow's gonna be a big day."
The four kidnappers walked back to their truck, laughing and passing around a bottle of whiskey. The engine started, and they drove off deeper into the woods, the sound fading until there was nothing but silence.
Billy Jr. sat with his back against the rough bark, his arms screaming in agony from being bound behind him, the rope around his neck keeping his head still, his legs numb from the ankle bindings. The morning sun was climbing higher now, and he could feel it starting to warm his face, though his bare-chested friends were still shivering.
But under his long t-shirt, pressed against his hip, the consortium radio waited.
Now he just had to figure out how to reach it with his hands tied behind his back and a tree trunk in the way.
Chapter 3: Sunday Morning - 11:00 AM
Rebecca Benson checked her phone for the fifth time in ten minutes. Nothing.
"They said they'd be back by ten," she said, looking up from the kitchen table where she'd been pretending to read the Sunday paper. "It's past eleven."
Sarah Benson didn't look up from the biscuits she was rolling out. "You know how boys are. They probably stopped to clean a buck or got distracted showing off for each other."
"Billy Jr. always texts me," Rebecca insisted. "Even when he doesn't want to, he does. Because he knows I worry."
"Maybe his phone died," Tom Benson offered from his spot by the coffee pot, but even he didn't sound convinced.
Josh came in through the back door, wiping his hands on his jeans. At thirty-two, he was the oldest of the Benson boys and the most level-headed. "They should've been back by now. Even if they got a late start."
"Something feels wrong," Pops said from his chair by the window, his brandy untouched for once. The old Vietnam vet had instincts about these things, instincts that had kept him alive in the jungle. "We should go check on them."
"I'll call Wayne," Tom said, reaching for his phone.
Five minutes later, they'd coordinated with Sheriff Wayne Nelson and Robert Beaumont. Both families were feeling the same unease—their boys should have been home by now.
Ten minutes after that, three trucks were loaded up—Pops driving with Josh and Ray, Sheriff Wayne with his emergency kit, and Robert Beaumont with Tom. They took the old logging road onto the Nelson property, the same route the boys had used Friday afternoon.
The drive took twenty minutes, and nobody spoke much. The woods were beautiful in the late morning sun, but none of them were looking at the scenery.
"There," Josh said, pointing ahead to where tire tracks were visible in the soft earth. "That's where they parked."
They pulled up and climbed out. The campsite was immediately visible through the trees—tents still standing, the fire pit cold, gear scattered around.
But no people.
"Billy!" Josh called out. "Jake! Junior!"
Silence.
They moved into the camp as a group, and what they found made Wayne Nelson's hand instinctively move to his service weapon.
The camp stove was still out, empty foil pouches scattered around like they'd been eating breakfast. Sleeping bags were in the tents, along with hunting vests, extra ammunition, and—
"Their radios," Ray said, crouching down by a pile of equipment near the fire pit. "Six of them. Just... left here in a pile."
"Their rifles are gone," Pops said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd seen bad situations before. He was standing by the tents, looking at the empty rifle cases. "Every single one."
Wayne was already on his radio, calling it in to his office. "This is Sheriff Nelson. I need Horse and Ryan at the Benson hunting camp on our north property. We've got a situation. Seven missing persons, possible—" he paused, looking around at the scene. "Possible kidnapping."
"Kidnapping?" Robert's voice cracked slightly. "You think someone took them?"
"Look at this," Tom called from the edge of camp. He was crouching down, examining the ground. "Drag marks. Multiple sets. Leading off toward... I can't tell. They disappear in the underbrush."
Josh felt his stomach drop. Billy Jr. His son. Fifteen years old and tied up somewhere, or worse—
"Don't," Pops said, gripping his shoulder. The old man's eyes were hard, focused. "Don't go there yet. We find them. We get them back. That's all we think about."
"But if someone took them," Ray said, his business mind already working through scenarios, "why? For ransom? Because we're—"
"Because we're successful," Wayne finished grimly. "Because half of Kings County knows about the consortium. Because someone decided seven men from wealthy ranching families would be worth something."
Robert Beaumont looked like he might be sick. "Celeb. My son. He's only twenty years old and he's—"
"We're going to find them," Pops said, his voice carrying command. "All of them. Wayne, what do we do? What's the protocol?"
Wayne was already pulling out his phone. "I call this in to the state police. FBI if it's confirmed kidnapping. We set up a command post, we—"
"No FBI," Pops said flatly.
"Pops, if they've been kidnapped—"
"No FBI. Not yet." The old man's eyes swept across all of them. "These boys have been gone less than twenty-four hours. Whoever took them is going to make contact. They're going to want something. And when they do, we need to be ready to move fast. The FBI shows up, turns this into a circus, and those bastards might panic. Might hurt the boys."
"He's right," Josh said quietly. "We wait for contact. We see what they want. Then we decide."
Wayne looked between them, his sheriff's training warring with his role as family. Finally, he nodded. "Twenty-four hours. If we don't hear something by then, I'm calling it in. And we search. Every inch of this property."
"Agreed," Pops said.
They spent the next hour combing the campsite, careful not to disturb too much in case it became a crime scene. The drag marks Tom had found led into thick underbrush but disappeared after twenty yards. Whoever had taken them knew the property, knew where to go to avoid leaving a trail.
As they prepared to head back to the ranch, Ray picked up the consortium radios from the pile. He counted them once, then again, frowning.
"What?" Josh asked.
"There's only six here," Ray said slowly. "Billy, Jake, Celeb, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Danny Rodriguez. That's six." He looked up, eyes widening. "Where's Junior's?"
They searched the pile again. Searched the entire campsite. Six radios. Seven men.
"Maybe he didn't bring it," Tom suggested, but he didn't sound convinced.
"He brings it everywhere," Josh said, a tiny spark of hope igniting in his chest. "Rebecca makes him. She's paranoid about him being out of contact."
Pops was grinning now, that feral grin that had scared Vietnamese soldiers fifty years ago. "That's my boy. Smart kid. If he's still got it..."
"Then we can track him," Ray finished, pulling out his phone and opening the consortium network app. "The GPS locator pings constantly when they're turned on."
He pulled up the map, looking for active signals.
Six radios showed up at their current location—the campsite.
Nothing else.
"It's off," Ray said, his voice flat with disappointment. "His radio is off. No signal."
"Or the battery's dead," Tom added.
"Those batteries last a week on standby," Pops said. "Billy built 'em that way. No, the kid turned it off. Or someone turned it off for him."
"So we can't track him," Robert said, defeat creeping into his voice.
"Not yet," Josh corrected. "But if he turns it on—even for a second—we'll know where he is."
Wayne was already heading back to his patrol car. "We go back to the ranch. We wait for contact. Someone took seven men for a reason, and they're going to tell us what they want. When they do, we'll be ready."
They loaded back into the trucks, leaving the campsite behind. The drive back felt longer, heavier. Each of them was thinking about the boys—Billy, Jake, Celeb, and four fifteen-year-olds—tied up somewhere, scared, maybe hurt.
And somewhere out there, Billy Jr. had a radio. Turned off, hidden, but there.
All he had to do was find a way to turn it on.
And they'd come for him.
They'd come for all of them.Chapter 4: Sunday Afternoon - 1:00 PM
The Benson ranch house had never felt so crowded or so quiet at the same time.
All six consortium families had gathered in the main living room—the Bensons, the Nelsons, the Beaumonts, the Renzos, the Matterns, and the Rodriguezes. Rebecca sat on the couch between Josh and Sarah, her hands twisted together in her lap. Caroline Beaumont paced by the window. Mary Nelson stood with her husband Wayne, one hand on his arm as if anchoring herself.
The Renzo family had taken over the chairs near the fireplace—Frank and Maria with their three younger kids clustered around them, the youngest girl crying quietly into her mother's shoulder. "Billy always looks out for them," Maria kept saying. "He's a good boy. He'll be okay."
The Matterns stood by the dining room entrance—David and Linda with their twin daughters who kept asking when Ryan was coming home. Linda's face was blotchy from crying, and David had one arm around her, the other holding his phone like it might bite him.
The Rodriguez family filled the remaining couch—Miguel and Carmen with Danny's two younger brothers, both in their early teens and looking scared. "Danny's tough," Miguel said to no one in particular. "He can handle this."
The men—Tom, Ray, Robert, and Pops—stood in various positions around the room, all of them trying not to look at their phones while simultaneously unable to look away.
Horse and Ryan Nelson had arrived twenty minutes ago in their deputy uniforms, their young faces tight with the knowledge that their family was caught up in this too.
When Tom's phone rang at exactly 1:00 PM, everyone jumped.
"Unknown number," Tom said, his voice steady despite his shaking hand. He looked at Wayne, who nodded and quickly set up a recording app on his own phone.
Tom answered and put it on speaker. "Hello?"
"Mr. Benson." The voice was rough, with a hint of amusement that made Rebecca's stomach turn. "I got something that belongs to you. Actually, I got seven somethings."
"Who is this?" Tom demanded.
"Names don't matter. What matters is I got your boys—Billy, Jake, that Beaumont kid, and four teenagers. They're all alive. For now."
Carmen Rodriguez grabbed Miguel's hand. Maria Renzo pulled her youngest closer. Linda Mattern made a small sound of distress.
Josh was on his feet, but Pops gripped his shoulder, holding him in place.
"What do you want?" Tom asked, his voice ice-cold.
"One million dollars. Cash. Small bills. You got forty-eight hours to get it together."
"How do we know they're alive?" Wayne cut in, his sheriff's voice taking over. "We need proof."
"Already sent it. Check your phones."
Almost simultaneously, phones around the room started chiming with incoming messages. Rebecca grabbed her phone with trembling fingers and opened the text.
The photo loaded, and she stopped breathing.
Seven men. Six bare-chested, one in a long t-shirt she recognized immediately as Billy Jr.'s favorite. All of them seated against trees, arms behind them, thick black tape across their mouths. Ropes around their necks holding them in place. Her son's eyes were wide but focused, staring directly at the camera.
"Oh God," she whispered. "Oh God, oh God—"
Sarah made a sound like she'd been punched. Caroline Beaumont's hand flew to her mouth.
"That's my Billy!" Maria Renzo cried out, pointing at the screen. "That's my baby!"
"Ryan," Linda Mattern sobbed. "His face—he looks so scared—"
"Danny," Carmen Rodriguez whispered, her hand over her mouth as tears streamed down her face. "Mi hijo, mi hijo—"
Around the room, mothers and fathers stared at their phones, seeing their sons tied up like animals. The Renzo twins started crying. The Mattern daughters clutched each other. Danny's younger brothers looked at their parents with wide, terrified eyes.
"You son of a bitch," Tom's voice came out shaking with rage. "If you hurt them—"
"They ain't hurt. Yet. But that changes if you don't do exactly what I say." The kidnapper's voice hardened. "One million dollars. You try to involve the cops beyond that sheriff you got there, you try to track us, you try anything cute—I start sending you pieces of your boys. Understood?"
Maria Renzo let out a wail. Carmen Rodriguez buried her face in Miguel's chest.
"We need more time," Robert Beaumont said, stepping forward. "A million dollars in cash, that takes—"
"Forty-eight hours. That's all you get. I'll call with drop instructions." The line went dead.
For a moment, no one moved. Then Rebecca stood up, walked calmly to the kitchen, and threw up in the sink.
Josh was there immediately, holding her hair back, his own face ashen. "He's alive, Bec. He's alive and he's smart. You saw his eyes. He's thinking."
"He's fifteen," she choked out between sobs. "He's fifteen and he's tied to a tree and—"
"And we're going to get him back," Josh said firmly. "All of them. We're going to get them back."
In the living room, Pops had taken command. The old Vietnam vet stood in the center of the room, his brandy finally in hand, his eyes sharp and calculating.
"Alright, listen up," he said, his voice cutting through the various conversations and crying. "First things first—can we get the money?"
Ray was already on his laptop. "Between all our accounts? Yes. The consortium has the resources. But pulling that much cash that fast is going to require coordination. I'll need to hit multiple banks, probably in different cities to avoid raising flags."
"Do it," Tom said. "Whatever it takes."
"We'll contribute whatever you need," Frank Renzo said immediately.
"Same here," David Mattern added.
"Count us in," Miguel Rodriguez confirmed.
"Second," Pops continued, "we don't trust these bastards for a second. They get the money, they might kill the boys anyway to avoid witnesses."
"So what do we do?" Robert asked, his voice hollow.
"We pay," Wayne said, surprising everyone. "We absolutely pay. We do everything they ask. But—" he looked at Pops, and some unspoken understanding passed between them. "We also prepare for a rescue operation."
"You said no FBI," Mary Nelson reminded them.
"No FBI," Pops confirmed. "This is family. We handle it ourselves."
Horse Nelson stepped forward. At twenty-four, he was the youngest deputy, but he'd grown up hunting and shooting on the ranch. "What do you need us to do?"
"Right now? We wait. We let Ray coordinate getting the money. We monitor every phone, every radio, in case Junior manages to turn his on." Pops took a long drink of his brandy. "And we prepare. Weapons, vehicles, medical supplies. When we get a location, we move fast."
"You're talking about a tactical assault," Wayne said slowly.
"I'm talking about getting our boys back," Pops corrected. "By any means necessary."
Rebecca came back from the kitchen, Josh's arm around her shoulders. Her eyes were red but her jaw was set. "I want to help. Whatever you need me to do."
"Me too," Sarah said, standing.
"And us," Caroline Beaumont added.
Maria Renzo wiped her eyes and stood. "My Billy is out there. Tell me what to do."
Linda Mattern and Carmen Rodriguez both nodded, standing with the other women.
Pops looked around the room at all of them—mothers, fathers, siblings, the whole consortium united. "Then we work together. Like we always have."
Josh looked down at his phone again, at the photo of his son tied to a tree. Billy Jr. was trying to look brave, but Josh could see the fear in his eyes. Could see how uncomfortable he must be, how scared.
But he could also see something else—determination. That kid had their radio. He'd kept it hidden. And if anyone could figure out how to use it, it was Billy Jr.
"Hold on, son," Josh whispered to the photo. "We're coming. Just hold on."
In the woods, tied to a tree a mile and a half away, Billy Jr. had no idea the photos had been sent. Had no idea his family had seen him. Had no idea they were already preparing to come for him.
All he knew was that his arms were screaming in pain, the rope around his neck made every breath careful, and somewhere under his shirt, pressed against his hip, was the one thing that could save them all.
He just had to figure out how to reach it.
And he had to do it soon, before the kidnappers came back.
Before things got worse.
Chapter 5: Sunday Afternoon - 4:00 PM
A mile and a half away in the woods, Billy Jr. had been working on the problem for three hours.
The kidnappers had driven off around 9:00 AM after taking the photos. Since then, the seven of them had sat tied to their trees, unable to communicate through the tape across their mouths, unable to move with the ropes around their necks.
Billy Jr. had spent the first hour just trying to cope with the pain. His shoulders screamed from having his elbows bound together behind the tree. His wrists burned where the rope cut into them. His legs had gone numb from the ankle bindings. The tape across his mouth made every breath through his nose feel precious.
But after that first hour of panic and pain, his mind had started working again.
The radio. He still had the radio.
It was clipped to his belt on his right hip, hidden under his long t-shirt. His hands were tied behind the tree trunk, wrists and elbows bound. But if he could just... shift his body... maybe reach around...
He started small. Tiny movements. Flexing his fingers, testing how much range of motion he had. The rope was tight, but there was maybe an inch of play if he really stretched.
He worked his right hand, extending his fingers as far as they would go. His fingertips brushed against the bark of the tree. If he could just shift his whole body to the left, his right hand might be able to reach around to where the radio was clipped.
The problem was the neck rope. Every time he tried to lean, it pulled tight, cutting off his air.
Billy Jr. looked down the line at his uncles. Uncle Billy was six trees down, watching him. Their eyes met, and Billy Jr. saw understanding dawn there. Uncle Billy had figured out what he was trying to do.
Uncle Billy's eyes flicked down to Billy Jr.'s waist, then back up. A tiny nod—as much as the neck rope would allow.
Do it, those eyes said. Whatever it takes.
Billy Jr. took a careful breath through his nose and leaned his body to the left. The neck rope pulled tight immediately, making his vision swim. But his right hand moved, his fingers stretching, reaching around the tree trunk toward his hip.
Not far enough.
He leaned harder, ignoring the rope cutting into his neck, ignoring the black spots at the edges of his vision. His fingers brushed against fabric. The t-shirt. He was close.
One more inch.
He pushed through the pain, through the lack of air, and his fingers found it—the hard plastic edge of the radio. He got one finger on the power button and pressed.
The radio came to life silently in his hand. He'd kept the volume at zero when he'd clipped it on Friday afternoon, a habit from hunting when you didn't want to spook game.
Now he had to find the 911 button. It was on the side, a red button under a protective cover. His fingers fumbled for it, found the cover, flipped it up.
He leaned back, gasping for air through his nose as the neck rope loosened. His vision cleared. Down the line, Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake were both watching him now. Uncle Billy's eyes were wide with hope. Uncle Jake was nodding frantically, understanding what was happening.
They know, Billy Jr. thought. They understand.
He took three deep breaths to steady himself, then leaned left again. The neck rope cut in. His fingers found the radio. Found the button.
He pressed it.
Even with the volume at zero, he knew what was happening. The mechanical voice would be broadcasting his identifier.
Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake were both staring at him, their eyes asking the question.
Billy Jr. managed a tiny nod despite the neck rope.
I did it. They're coming.
At the Benson ranch house, every consortium radio and phone in the building suddenly came to life.
"911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr." The mechanical voice repeated through speakers, radios, and phone apps. Then again: "911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr."
Everyone froze.
Ray dove for his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. "It's Junior! His radio just activated!"
Josh grabbed his phone, opening the consortium tracking app. A red dot pulsed on the map—one mile and a half northeast of the abandoned campsite.
"Got him," Wayne said, his sheriff's training taking over instantly. "Horse, Ryan, gear up. Full tactical. Tom, Robert, Frank, David, Miguel—who's coming?"
"All of us," Tom said without hesitation.
"I'm in," Robert confirmed.
"We're going," Frank Renzo said, speaking for David Mattern and Miguel Rodriguez who both nodded.
"Pops?" Josh asked.
The old man was already pulling on his jacket, his Vietnam-era web gear appearing from somewhere. "Somebody's gotta keep you boys from getting killed. Let's move."
The women started to rise, but Pops held up a hand. "Ladies, you stay here. Keep the younger kids calm. Monitor the radios. If something goes wrong, you're our backup."
Rebecca looked like she wanted to argue, but Sarah grabbed her hand. "We'll be here. You bring our boys home."
"All of them," Maria Renzo added, her voice fierce despite her tears.
Ten minutes later, four trucks rolled out of the Benson ranch loaded with weapons, gear, and grim-faced men. Wayne Nelson was in the lead in his patrol car, lights off. Behind him came Pops driving with Josh and Ray. Then Tom and Robert. Finally, Horse and Ryan Nelson in a second patrol car with Frank Renzo, David Mattern, and Miguel Rodriguez squeezed into the back.
They drove in silence, weapons across their laps, each man thinking about the boys they were going to save.
When they reached the old campsite, Wayne pulled over. "We go on foot from here. Radio silence. Hand signals only."
Pops took point, moving through the woods like he was back in the jungle. Fifty years of age fell away as he led them northeast, following the GPS coordinates on his phone.
They moved as quietly as fifteen armed men could move through dense woods. After twenty minutes, Pops held up a fist. Everyone stopped.
He pointed ahead. Through the trees, they could see a small clearing. And in that clearing, four men sat around a campfire, passing a bottle of whiskey and laughing about something. They were drunk—stinking, falling-over drunk.
Beyond them, about fifty yards away, tied to trees in a row, were seven figures. Six shirtless, one in a long t-shirt. All bound, gagged, and secured by their necks.
Pops gestured to Ray, who pulled out his phone and activated the drone network the four fifteen-year-olds had built. Within seconds, a small quadcopter lifted silently from Ray's backpack and circled overhead, giving them a bird's-eye view.
The high-pitched buzzing sound carried across the clearing.
Billy Jr. heard it first. His head snapped up as much as the neck rope would allow, eyes scanning the sky. There—a small dark shape circling overhead. A drone. Their drone. The network he and his buddies had built.
His eyes went wide, and he looked down the line at his friends. Billy Renzo had heard it too. Then Ryan Mattern. Danny Rodriguez. All four teenagers were staring up at the sky, understanding flooding their faces.
They found us. They're here.
Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake had heard it as well. Billy's eyes were locked on the drone, tracking its movement. Jake was looking around the tree line, searching for movement, for their rescue.
Even Celeb had caught on, his body tensing against his bonds, preparing.
The four kidnappers around the campfire were too drunk to notice or care about the distant buzzing. One of them waved vaguely at the air like he was shooing a mosquito, then went back to his bottle.
Billy Jr. felt hope surge through him for the first time in hours. The drone circled twice more, its camera taking in everything—the drunk kidnappers, the bound captives, the layout of the clearing.
Then it retreated back into the trees.
Any minute now, Billy Jr. thought. Any minute.
Pops made a series of hand signals. The men spread out in a wide circle around the clearing, weapons ready. Wayne, Horse, and Ryan moved to positions with clear lines of sight on the kidnappers, their deputy badges giving them legal authority for what was about to happen.
When everyone was in position, Pops counted down on his fingers.
Three.
Two.
One.
"SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT! HANDS IN THE AIR! NOW!"
The four kidnappers barely had time to look up before they were surrounded by armed men emerging from all sides of the clearing. Scarface fumbled for his shotgun, but Horse Nelson was already on him, kicking the weapon away and driving him face-first into the dirt.
"On your face! Hands behind your head!"
Meth-mouth tried to run and made it exactly three steps before Ryan Nelson tackled him like a linebacker. The other two just put their hands up, too drunk to fight, too scared to do anything but comply.
"Don't move! Don't even breathe wrong!" Wayne barked, his service weapon trained on Scarface.
Within ninety seconds, all four kidnappers were face-down in the dirt with plastic cuffs on their wrists. Wayne read them their rights while they blubbered about not knowing the boys were related to the sheriff, about how it was just supposed to be easy money, about how they didn't hurt anybody.
"Tell it to the judge," Wayne said coldly. "You're looking at kidnapping, extortion, assault, and about fifteen other charges I'm going to think up on the drive back."
Pops didn't waste time watching. He was already at Billy's tree, pulling out a knife and cutting the neck rope. Tom was at Jake's. Robert went to Celeb. Josh ran straight to Billy Jr.
"Hold still, son," Josh said, sawing through the rope around his son's neck. "I got you. You're safe now."
He carefully pulled the tape off Billy Jr.'s mouth, trying not to hurt him. The kid gasped, sucking in deep breaths of free air.
"Dad," Billy Jr. croaked, his voice raw.
"I know, buddy. I know. Let's get these ropes off."
Josh moved behind the tree and started working on the wrist and elbow bindings. The rope was tied tight, leaving red marks where it had bitten into skin, but he cut through it methodically. When it finally came free, Billy Jr. brought his arms around front, wincing at the stiffness.
"Can you move them?" Josh asked, coming back around.
Billy Jr. flexed his fingers, rotated his shoulders. "Yeah. Hurts, but everything works."
"Good boy." Josh cut the ankle bindings. "Can you stand?"
"Let's find out."
Billy Jr. pushed himself up from the tree, legs shaky but holding. Josh steadied him until he found his balance.
All around the clearing, the same scene was playing out. Billy and Jake were on their feet, both of them immediately going to help free the four teenagers. Their bare chests showed rope marks on their wrists and arms, but they were moving fine, just stiff and sore.
Celeb was standing with Robert, rolling his shoulders and testing his range of motion. "I'm good," he was saying. "I'm okay, Dad."
Frank Renzo was cutting Billy Renzo free, pulling his son into a tight hug the moment the ropes fell away. David Mattern did the same with Ryan. Miguel Rodriguez had Danny in his arms, speaking rapid Spanish, checking him over like he might break.
The four teenagers were all standing, all moving under their own power. Rope marks on their wrists and ankles, Billy Renzo's arms showing red welts from where his elbows had been bound, but they were intact. They were okay.
Billy walked over to Billy Jr., Jake right behind him. Both uncles wrapped their arms around their nephew.
"You did good, Junior," Billy said quietly. "Real good."
"Scared the hell out of us when we saw what you were doing," Jake added. "But you did it. You saved us."
Billy Jr. just nodded, not trusting his voice.
Wayne Nelson stood over the four subdued kidnappers, his face carved from stone. "You boys picked the wrong families," he said quietly. "And you sure as hell picked the wrong state. You know what Texas does to kidnappers? Life without parole. And that's if the judge is feeling merciful."
Scarface went pale. "We didn't—we weren't gonna—"
"Save it," Wayne cut him off. "You tied up seven people, including four fifteen-year-old boys. You demanded a million dollars. You threatened to send back pieces. A Texas jury's gonna eat you alive."
Pops did a quick head count. Seven captives, all freed and mobile. Four kidnappers, all secured. No serious injuries beyond rope burns and stiffness.
"Alright, let's move out," he ordered. "Get these boys home. Deputies, bring the trash."
The walk back to the trucks took twenty minutes. The seven freed captives walked on their own, fathers staying close just in case, but none of them needed carrying. Billy and Jake led the way with Celeb, the three twenty-year-olds moving like they'd just finished a hard day's work—sore, stiff, but fundamentally fine.
The four teenagers stayed in a tight group with Billy Jr., occasionally reaching out to steady each other when legs got wobbly, but all of them walking under their own power.
The kidnappers were dragged along in cuffs by the deputies, no longer laughing, no longer brave, just four scared men who'd made the worst mistake of their lives.
When they reached the vehicles, Wayne radioed ahead. "This is Sheriff Nelson. We have all seven victims, safe and secure. Four suspects in custody. We're coming home."
At the Benson ranch house, the women heard the transmission and erupted in tears and cheers.
The trucks rolled out, heading back to the ranch. The seven freed captives were divided among the vehicles—Billy, Jake, and Celeb with Pops and Josh. The four teenagers squeezed into Tom and Robert's truck.
It was over.
The boys were coming home.
Chapter 6: Sunday Evening - 6:00 PM
The trucks rolled into the Benson ranch at 6:00 PM sharp, and chaos erupted.
Rebecca was the first one out the door, running toward Josh's truck before it even came to a complete stop. The moment Billy Jr. climbed out, she had him in her arms, sobbing into his shoulder.
"I'm okay, Mom," Billy Jr. said, his voice muffled against her. "I'm fine. Really."
"You're not fine," she said, pulling back to look at the rope marks on his wrists. "Look at you. Oh God, look at—"
"Mom. I'm okay."
But she wasn't listening. None of the mothers were. Maria Renzo had Billy Renzo crushed against her chest, checking him over like he might disappear. Linda Mattern was crying so hard she could barely see Ryan through her tears. Carmen Rodriguez was speaking rapid Spanish to Danny, her hands on his face, his shoulders, making sure every part of him was real and whole.
Sarah Benson emerged from the house and went straight to Billy and Jake, wrapping both her sons in her arms despite the fact that they were twenty and twenty-one and taller than her. "My boys," she kept saying. "My boys."
Caroline Beaumont had Celeb, and she wasn't letting go.
The younger siblings poured out of the house next—the Renzo twins, the Mattern daughters, Danny's younger brothers, all of them converging on the four fifteen-year-olds like they were returning war heroes.
"Did you really get tied up?" one of the Renzo twins asked, eyes wide.
"Were you scared?" a Mattern daughter wanted to know.
"How did you escape?" Danny's brother demanded.
Billy Jr. tried to answer, but there were too many questions coming at once. His three buddies were getting the same treatment, all of them suddenly the center of attention, younger kids hanging on their every word.
"Billy Jr. saved us," Billy Renzo said, and that just made it worse.
"You saved them?!" The Renzo twins looked at Billy Jr. like he'd grown a second head. "How?!"
Inside the house, the women had already been working. The moment Wayne's radio call had come through that the boys were safe, Sarah Benson had gone into overdrive. She'd called in reinforcements—Mary Nelson, Caroline Beaumont, Maria Renzo, Linda Mattern, Carmen Rodriguez—and together they'd raided every freezer, every pantry, every available resource on the ranch.
Now the kitchen looked like a restaurant in full service. Three ovens were running. The grill outside was heating up. Counter space was covered with food in various stages of preparation.
"How long do we have?" Sarah had asked when the trucks were fifteen minutes out.
"Not long enough," Mary Nelson had answered. "But we'll make it work."
"Steaks," Caroline Beaumont said, pulling packages from the freezer. "Biggest ones we have."
"Potatoes," Maria Renzo added, already scrubbing them in the sink. "Lots of potatoes."
"Corn, beans, biscuits," Linda Mattern was checking the pantry. "We've got cornbread mix—"
"Make it from scratch," Sarah said. "They deserve from scratch."
Carmen Rodriguez was already working on it, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. "Salad?"
"Everything," Sarah said firmly. "Tonight, we give them everything."
By the time the trucks rolled in, the kitchen was a controlled hurricane of activity. Tom Benson walked in, took one look at the organized chaos, and wisely backed out.
"How long until food?" Pops asked, poking his head in.
"Thirty minutes," Sarah said without looking up from the steaks she was seasoning. "Maybe forty."
"Make it thirty," Pops said. "Those boys need to eat."
Now, with all seven safely home and the reunion hugs finally winding down, Sarah rang the dinner bell. It was a literal bell, mounted on the porch, that had called ranch hands to meals for three generations.
"Everybody inside!" she called. "Wash up! Dinner in ten minutes!"
The younger kids scattered, still peppering the four teenagers with questions. Billy Jr. and his buddies headed for the bathroom to wash up, and that's when Billy, Jake, and Celeb found themselves standing alone near the trucks, watching the younger kids fawn over the teenagers.
"You see that?" Jake said, his voice incredulous. "Junior's getting treated like he won the damn Medal of Honor."
"He did save us," Billy pointed out, but even he sounded a bit put out. "With the radio."
"Yeah, but who got beat up?" Jake gestured to his bruised ribs where he'd taken that kidney punch. "Who got tied up first? Who had to sit there for hours with ropes cutting into—"
"We're not heroes," Celeb finished, shaking his head. "We're the idiots who got captured."
Billy rubbed his wrists where the rope marks were still visible. "Junior's smart. I'll give him that. But those kids are acting like the four of them fought off the kidnappers with their bare hands."
"While we just sat there," Jake muttered.
They headed inside, where the dining room had been transformed. Every table in the house had been brought together—the main dining table, the kitchen table, two card tables—creating one long surface that could seat everyone. The food was already coming out: platters of steaks, mountains of mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, green beans, fresh biscuits, cornbread, salad, and what looked like three different kinds of pie on the counter.
"Jesus," Celeb breathed. "They weren't kidding about the feast."
The seven freed captives were given seats of honor at the center of the table. Billy, Jake, and Celeb on one side, the four teenagers on the other. Everyone else filled in around them—parents, siblings, Pops at the head with his brandy, Wayne Nelson still in his sheriff's uniform.
"Before we eat," Tom Benson said, standing, "I want to say something."
The room quieted.
"Today, we almost lost seven members of our family. But because of quick thinking, because of the systems we built together, because of bravery—" his eyes moved to Billy Jr., "—they all came home safe. So tonight, we celebrate. We're grateful. And we remember that this consortium isn't just about business. It's about family."
"Here, here," several voices echoed.
"Now eat," Sarah said, her voice thick with emotion. "Before it gets cold."
They ate. And they ate. The steaks were perfect—medium rare, seasoned just right. The potatoes were creamy. The corn was sweet. The biscuits melted in your mouth. And the beer flowed freely, at least for those old enough to drink it legally.
Pops, of course, had other ideas.
"Junior," he called down the table. "You and your boys did good today. Real good."
"Thank you, Pops."
"That deserves a beer." He pulled four cold ones from somewhere and slid them down the table.
"Pops!" Rebecca started, but Sarah put a hand on her arm.
"Let them," Sarah said quietly. "Just this once."
The four fifteen-year-olds looked at each other, then at their parents, then at the beers in front of them. Permission granted, they each cracked one open.
Billy Jr. took a sip and tried not to make a face. It tasted like the stuff they'd snuck from under the floorboards in the frat house, but somehow better when it was official.
"So," one of Danny's younger brothers said, leaning across the table. "How did you do it? How did you get to the radio?"
And Billy Jr. was off, explaining about the rope, the neck tie, the way he had to lean and lose air to reach around the tree. His buddies chimed in, adding details, and the younger kids hung on every word.
Down the table, Jake took a long pull of his beer and muttered to Billy, "You hear this? He's telling it like he's storming Normandy."
"Kid had to reach a radio on his belt," Billy agreed, keeping his voice low. "We're the ones who got punched and dragged through the woods."
"They tied our elbows together," Celeb added, rotating his shoulder. "You know how much that hurts? I've got rope burn on my biceps."
"But do the kids care?" Jake gestured at the younger siblings, all clustered around the four teenagers. "No. Because Junior figured out how to turn on a radio."
Billy took another bite of steak, chewing thoughtfully. "You know what we should do?"
"What?" Jake and Celeb both leaned in.
"Teach them a lesson. These 'heroes.'" Billy's eyes had that glint that meant trouble. "Remind them that they're not invincible."
Jake grinned, the same troublemaking grin he'd had since he was five. "What did you have in mind?"
"Nothing serious," Billy said. "Just... educational."
"A prank," Celeb realized, his own smile spreading.
"Not just a prank," Jake said, his mind already working. "Payback. They get to be the heroes? Fine. But tomorrow, we show them what it's like to actually be the victims."
"Hogtie them in the barn," Billy suggested, keeping his voice low enough that only Jake and Celeb could hear. "See how heroic they feel then."
"Perfect," Jake said. "After all this hero worship, they need to be brought back down to earth."
"When?" Celeb asked.
"Tomorrow," Billy decided. "Give them one day to enjoy being the big shots. Then tomorrow afternoon, we grab 'em."
The three of them clinked their beer bottles together, the sound lost in the general noise of the celebration around them.
At the other end of the table, Billy Jr. was still answering questions, his buddies adding their own stories, all four of them basking in the attention of being the youngest ones who'd survived a kidnapping and helped save everyone.
They had no idea what was coming.
Pops watched the whole exchange from his seat at the head of the table, his brandy in hand, his eyes sharp despite his age. He'd seen Billy, Jake, and Celeb plotting. He'd seen those grins.
He took a sip of his brandy and smiled to himself.
This was going to be good.
The feast continued until well after dark. Pie was served—apple, cherry, and pecan. Coffee was poured. The younger kids were sent to bed, protesting all the way. The adults lingered, talking in low voices about what came next—the trial, the statements they'd have to give, the media that would inevitably catch wind of this.
But for tonight, they were just grateful.
All seven boys were home.
All seven were safe.
And tomorrow, Billy thought with a grin, tomorrow the real fun would begin.
Chapter 7: Monday Afternoon
Billy Jr. should have seen it coming.
The four of them—Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Danny Rodriguez—were in the barn Monday afternoon, working on their drone network. They'd been heroes for exactly twenty-four hours, and the younger kids had finally stopped asking questions.
"Hand me that soldering iron," Billy Jr. said, hunched over the circuit board.
"Which one?" Ryan asked.
"The—"
The barn doors slammed open.
Billy, Jake, Celeb, and Pops stood there, and they were grinning like wolves.
"Oh shit," Billy Renzo said.
"Run!" Danny shouted, but it was too late.
The four men moved fast. Billy tackled Billy Jr., Jake got Ryan and Danny in headlocks, Celeb grabbed Billy Renzo before he made it three steps, and Pops blocked the back door with his arms crossed, still grinning.
"What the—let go!" Billy Jr. struggled, but his uncle had fifty pounds and years of ranch work on him.
"Payback time, Junior," Billy said cheerfully, already pulling out rope. "You got to be the hero yesterday. Today, you get to see what it's really like."
"Pops!" Billy Jr. appealed to his great-grandfather. "You're supposed to be on our side!"
"I am on your side," Pops said, walking over with his own coil of rope. "I'm teaching you a valuable lesson about humility."
Within five minutes, all four teenagers were hogtied on the barn floor—wrists bound behind their backs, ankles tied together, then a rope connecting wrists to ankles so they were arched backward. Pops supervised the whole operation, making sure the ropes were secure but not too tight.
"Not bad," Pops said, examining Jake's knot work on Ryan. "But you left too much slack. Here, let me show you."
"Pops, you're enjoying this too much," Billy Jr. said, but he was laughing despite himself.
"Damn right I am," Pops said cheerfully, tightening the hogtie rope. "You think you're the only one who gets to play hero? I've been doing this since before your daddy was born."
"This is ridiculous!" Billy Renzo protested.
"Is it though?" Jake asked, crouching down next to him. "Because we spent seven hours tied to trees while you four became legends."
"We saved you!" Ryan said.
"Junior saved us," Celeb corrected. "You three just sat there tied to trees like the rest of us."
"That's not—"
Pops pulled something out of his pocket—a can of mashed bananas. "Now, for the finishing touch."
"Pops, no," Billy Jr. said, eyes wide. "Don't you dare—"
"Hold still, boy," Pops said, and carefully smeared mashed banana across Billy Jr.'s face like war paint. Then he did the same to Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Danny, all four boys laughing and protesting while Billy, Jake, and Celeb howled.
"There," Pops said, stepping back to admire his work. "Now you look like proper hostages."
The barn doors opened, and Josh, Ray, and Tom walked in. They took one look at the scene—four hogtied teenagers with banana on their faces, Billy, Jake, Celeb, and Pops standing over them—and burst out laughing.
"Pictures!" Jake said, pulling out his phone. "Ransom photos!"
"No!" all four teenagers shouted.
"Oh yes," Pops said, positioning himself in the frame. "I want copies of these for the Christmas cards."
Billy, Jake, Celeb, Josh, Ray, and Tom gathered around the hogtied boys, taking photos from every angle. Pops knelt down next to Billy Jr. for a particularly good shot, his arm around his great-grandson's shoulders, both of them grinning—one covered in banana, the other in triumph.
"Your mothers are gonna love these," Tom said, snapping another picture.
"We're dead," Danny groaned. "My mom's gonna kill me."
"Our moms are gonna kill them," Billy Renzo corrected, nodding toward the six men.
When the photo session finally ended, Pops stood up and brushed off his hands. He looked at Billy, Jake, and Celeb. "You boys had your fun. But now we're gonna teach them something."
He turned to the four hogtied teenagers. "Now boys, no radio for Junior this time. You're gonna have to get out the old-fashioned way. Just like I had to in Da Nang when the VC got me in '68."
"You got captured?" Billy Jr. asked, momentarily forgetting about the banana on his face.
"For about three hours," Pops said. "Then I got loose, took out two guards, and walked fifteen miles back to base. So let's see what you're made of."
"How long do we give them?" Jake asked.
Pops checked his watch. "I got out in two hours and forty minutes. Let's give them... three hours."
"Three hours?!" Ryan protested.
"Clock's ticking, boys," Pops said, heading for the door. "Better get started."
Billy, Jake, Celeb, Josh, Ray, and Tom followed him out, all of them laughing.
"We'll check on you in an hour!" Jake called over his shoulder.
"Or three!" Billy added.
The barn doors swung shut, leaving the four teenagers hogtied on the floor, covered in mashed banana.
There was a long moment of silence.
Then Billy Renzo started laughing. "Pops hogtied us. Pops."
"And put banana on our faces," Ryan added, giggling despite himself.
"We're never living this down," Danny said, but he was smiling.
Billy Jr. tested his bonds, flexing his wrists. The rope had some give—not much, but Pops had tied it fair. "Alright, you know what? They want to see if we can escape? Let's escape. We've got three hours to beat Pops's record."
"How?" Billy Renzo asked.
"Same way I got to the radio," Billy Jr. said, already working his fingers toward the knot at his ankles. "Patience, flexibility, and refusing to give up."
The four of them got to work, twisting and reaching, helping each other when they could get close enough. It took twenty minutes, but Billy Jr. managed to loosen his ankle rope enough to slip one foot out. From there, the hogtie came apart, and he could work on his wrist bindings.
"Almost got it," he muttered, teeth gritted as he pulled at the knot.
Another ten minutes, and his hands were free. He immediately went to work on his friends' ropes, freeing Billy Renzo first, then Ryan, then Danny.
When all four of them were standing—rope-burned, covered in banana, but free—they looked at each other and grinned.
Forty-three minutes total.
The barn doors creaked open, and Pops walked in with the others behind him. He saw the four boys standing there, ropes on the floor, banana still on their faces, and started laughing so hard he had to lean against the doorframe.
"Forty-three minutes," he said, pulling out his wallet. "I had forty-five. Jake, you win."
"Told you they were smart," Jake said, collecting bills from everyone.
"You bet on us?" Billy Jr. asked, incredulous.
Pops walked over and clapped him on the shoulder, still grinning. "Course we did. And you beat my time by almost two hours. Not bad, boy. Not bad at all."
He pulled out a rag and tossed it to Billy Jr. "Clean yourselves up. Your mothers are gonna want you for dinner, and if they see banana on your faces, they're gonna ask questions none of us want to answer."
As the four teenagers wiped themselves clean and gathered up the ropes, Billy looked at his nephew. "You know this means war, right?"
Billy Jr. grinned back. "Bring it on, Uncle Billy."
"That's my boy," Pops said, wrapping an arm around Billy Jr.'s shoulders. "Real heroes don't need rescuing. They get themselves out."
As they walked out of the barn together—kidnappers and victims, pranksters and pranked—Billy Jr. couldn't help but smile.
Yeah, they'd gotten hogtied in a barn by their own family.
But they'd gotten out in forty-three minutes.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow they'd get revenge.
After all, that was the Benson way.
THE END
