Chapter 1: The Abduction
Billy Benson heard Jake grunt behind him, then the sound of his brother hitting the ground.
They'd been checking the fence line in the northeast pasture, the section that bordered the old Hendricks property—empty for two years now. Just the two of them, which wasn't unusual. Billy and Jake did everything together, had since they were toddlers sharing that same bunk bed in the frat house.
Billy spun around and saw three men in ski masks. One stood over Jake, who was face-down in the dirt. Another was already moving toward Billy.
"Jake!" Billy lunged forward, but something cracked across the back of his skull. Not hard enough to knock him out, but enough to drop him to his knees, vision blurring.
"Don't fight it, kid," a voice said. Rough, deep. Texas accent but not local. "Make this easy."
Billy tried to push himself up, but hands grabbed him—strong hands, more than one set. They yanked his arms behind his back. He felt rope bite into his wrists, tight, professional knots that didn't give even when he twisted.
"Jake!" Billy's voice came out raw. He could see his brother now, face still in the dirt, not moving. "What did you do to him?"
"He's breathing. Both of you behave, you'll stay that way."
They hauled Billy to his feet, spun him around. Through the haze in his vision, he counted three men. No—four. The fourth was dragging Jake toward a white van with no plates, parked in the scrub behind a stand of mesquite.
Billy tried to plant his feet, but his boots just scraped uselessly through the caliche. They were moving him toward the van too. His heart hammered against his ribs.
"Where are you taking us? What do you want?"
No answer.
They shoved him into the van's cargo area. The space reeked of old metal and fear-sweat—someone else's fear, or maybe Billy was already sweating through his shirt. Jake was there, slumped against the wall, wrists tied behind him like Billy's. His eyes were open now, but unfocused.
"Jake. Jake, you with me?"
Jake's gaze found him. "Billy—"
"Shut up." One of the men leaned in, holding two strips of cloth. Blindfolds.
"No—wait—" Billy tried to pull back, but there was nowhere to go. Rough hands yanked the cloth tight across his eyes. The world went black.
He heard Jake struggling, heard the muffled curse as they blindfolded him too.
"Listen up," the rough voice said. Billy felt hot breath near his ear. "You make noise, you try anything, your brother pays for it. Understand?"
Billy's jaw clenched. He nodded once.
The van doors slammed shut. Engine rumbled to life.
Billy focused on his breathing, trying not to panic. He could hear Jake beside him, breathing hard through his nose. They were pressed shoulder to shoulder—Billy could feel Jake's muscle trembling, or maybe that was his own.
"Jake," Billy whispered.
"Here." Jake's voice was tight but steady. "I'm here."
"We're gonna be okay."
"Yeah." Jake didn't sound convinced.
The van bounced over rough terrain—they were off-road now, heading away from the ranch. Every jolt sent Billy sliding against the metal wall. His wrists were already going numb from the ropes.
He thought about the cell phone in his back pocket. Still there—he could feel it pressing against him. They hadn't searched them. Sloppy. Or maybe they just didn't care.
The van drove for what felt like an hour but might've been twenty minutes. Time stretched weird when you couldn't see. Finally, they stopped. Doors opened. Hands grabbed Billy again, hauled him out into air that was hotter, drier. Wherever they were, there was no shade.
"Move."
They walked Billy forward, boots crunching on gravel. He heard Jake beside him, stumbling. Then the temperature dropped—they'd gone inside somewhere. A building. The air smelled like dust and motor oil.
"Sit."
They shoved Billy down onto a wooden chair. His hands were still tied behind his back, but now they were wrapping more rope around his chest and gut, pinning his arms tight against his body. The rope dug into his ribs with each breath. They weren't lashing him to the chair—just restraining him where he sat.
Billy turned his head, listening. He could hear movement to his left. Jake. They were doing something to Jake, more rope sounds, Jake's breathing going sharp and strained.
"What are you doing to him?" Billy's voice cracked.
"Making sure you both cooperate."
Billy heard a creak—wood on wood, something being positioned. Then Jake made a sound, half-grunt, half-gasp. The sound of rope pulling tight. Another creak.
"Jake?"
"I'm—" Jake's voice was higher than normal, strained. "I'm okay."
He wasn't okay. Billy could hear it. Jake's breathing had gone ragged, like he was trying not to cry out.
"What did you do?" Billy twisted in the chair, useless. "Let him go—"
"Shut up." A hand cracked across Billy's face, hard enough to snap his head sideways. His cheek burned. "You want your brother to suffer more? Keep talking."
Billy bit down on his tongue, tasted blood.
Footsteps. Moving away. A door opened and closed.
Silence.
Billy waited, counting his heartbeats. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
"Jake?" he whispered.
"Here." Jake's voice was tight, barely above a breath. "Billy, they—my wrists are tied. Crossed. Pulled way up over my head. Ropes around my elbows too, tied to something above me. And my neck—there's rope around my neck."
Billy's stomach dropped. Strung up. They'd strung Jake up like—
"Can you breathe?"
"Yeah. Barely. If I don't move." Jake's voice shook. "Billy, my shoulders—"
"Don't talk. Save your strength."
"What do they want?"
"I don't know." Billy's throat felt like sandpaper. "But we're gonna get out of this. You hear me? We're getting out."
Jake didn't answer.
Billy sat in the darkness behind the blindfold, listening to his brother's labored breathing, and tried to believe his own words.
Somewhere in the building, a camera clicked. Then another.
They were taking pictures.
The photo would arrive at the Benson Ranch in less than an hour.
Chapter 2: The Call
Tom Benson's phone buzzed at 4:47 PM.
He was in the barn office going over feed orders when the text came through. Unknown number. No message. Just an image attachment.
Tom opened it.
The photo showed two young men. One sat in a wooden chair, ropes wrapped around his chest and stomach, arms pulled behind him, head down. The other was strung up beside him—wrists crossed and bound high overhead, elbows tied back, a rope visible around his neck. His T-shirt was soaked through with sweat.
Both wore blindfolds.
Tom's phone nearly slipped from his hand.
Billy. Jake.
A second text came through:
$2,000,000. Small bills. Instructions to follow. You have 48 hours. No police. No FBI. If we see badges, your sons die. If you don't pay, your sons die. Proof of life updates will be provided.
Tom's legs went weak. He grabbed the edge of the desk.
"Sarah!" His voice came out raw.
Footsteps running. Sarah burst through the barn office door, her face already pale. "What? What's wrong?"
Tom held out the phone. Sarah took it, looked at the screen, and her knees buckled. Tom caught her.
"Oh God. Oh God, Tom—"
"Dad?"
Josh appeared in the doorway, then Ray behind him, then Billy Jr.—Jake and Billy's fifteen-year-old nephew.
"What happened?" Josh said. Then he saw his mother's face. "What's wrong?"
Tom handed Josh the phone. Josh stared at the screen. His face went white.
"Jesus Christ."
Ray looked over his shoulder. "No. No, that's not—"
Billy Jr. pushed between them and grabbed the phone. He stared at the photo—his Uncle Billy tied to that chair, Uncle Jake strung up like that, sweat-soaked, that rope around his neck.
"Those sons of bitches," Jr. said, his voice shaking. "Those goddamn—"
"Language," Sarah said automatically, but her voice had no force behind it.
"Where's Pops?" Tom said.
"Back pasture," Ray said. "I'll get him on radio—"
"No." Tom's voice came out hard, command clear. "Billy, hit the emergency button. Get everyone on the network. Now."
Billy Jr. was already moving. He unclipped the radio from his belt and his thumb found the red emergency button.
He pressed it three times.
The mechanical voice activated immediately, broadcasting across all six ranch frequencies:
"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY."
Every radio in the consortium—clipped to belts, mounted in trucks, sitting on kitchen counters—received the signal. The scrambled network opened automatically, a wide-open channel connecting all six families.
Jr.'s voice came out rough but clear:
"This is Billy Jr. at Benson Ranch. We have an emergency. Billy and Jake have been kidnapped. Ransom demand received. All families respond."
Static. Then voices started coming through, overlapping:
"This is Sheriff Wade Nelson responding. Say again?"
"Beaumont Ranch here, what's happening?"
"Renzo Ranch on the line—"
"Mattern here—"
"Rodriguez checking in—"
Jr. took a breath, steadying himself. "Billy and Jake were taken. Dad just received a ransom photo by text. Two million dollars. Forty-eight hour deadline. The message says no police, no FBI, or they kill them."
Silence on the line. Then an explosion of voices.
Sheriff Wade's voice cut through: "Everyone quiet. Tom, forward me that text and that number. Don't respond to it."
"Already done, Wade," Tom's voice came through his own radio. "But they said no badges."
"I'm not coming as sheriff, I'm coming as family. Give me ten minutes."
Then another voice, gravelly and hard: "What did those bastards do to my boys?"
Pops.
Everyone in the barn office turned. Pops stood in the doorway, his radio in his hand, his face red, his jaw clenched.
Tom held out his phone. Pops took it, stared at the photo. His hands started shaking—not from weakness, from rage.
"Jr.," Pops said, his voice deadly quiet. "Get to the frat house. Set up the command center. Call your boys—Ryan, Billy, Daniel. Get them over here with their equipment."
"Yes sir." Jr. was already moving toward the ranch house.
Pops keyed his radio. "Listen up, all of you. We've got forty-eight hours to find my grandsons before these sons of bitches kill them. Wade, you can come do your sheriff work, but we're not waiting around for the law to save them. We're going to find them and we're going to get them back. Everyone understand?"
"Pops—" Sheriff Wade's voice was careful. "We need to do this smart."
"Smart means fast. Those boys are hurting right now. You see that picture? Jake's strung up like a goddamn—" Pops's voice broke. He cleared his throat. "We find them. We get them out. That's the mission."
"Agreed," Robert Beaumont's voice came through. "Caroline and I are five minutes out."
"Renzo Ranch standing by."
"Mattern ready."
"Rodriguez ready to move."
Jr. burst into the frat house—the bedroom in the ranch house where he lived with Jake, Billy, and Celeb. Four bunks, two against each wall. Billy's and Jake's bunks still made from this morning. Celeb's empty—he was out on the range somewhere.
Jr. grabbed his phone and started a group text to Ryan Nelson, Billy Renzo, and Daniel Rodriguez:
911. Billy and Jake kidnapped. Get to frat house NOW. Bring ALL your equipment. We're tracking them.
Replies came instantly:
OMG on my way - Ryan
5 minutes out - Billy R
Coming - Daniel
Jr. sat down at the desk and opened his laptop. His hands were steadier now—he had a mission, something to do besides stare at that photo.
Billy and Jake always had their phones. Always. In their back pockets, on vibrate during work.
If those phones were still on them, Jr. could find them.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Pops filled the doorway.
"Can you track them?" Pops asked.
"If their phones are on, yeah. I can ping their locations, maybe even get audio if I can access the mics remotely."
Pops nodded once. "Then get to work, son. Your uncles are counting on you."
Jr. pulled up the tracking software he and Billy had installed on all the family phones eight months ago—part of the consortium's safety network.
He typed in Billy's number. Hit enter.
The screen flashed: SEARCHING...
Then: SIGNAL FOUND. LOCATION ACQUIRING...
Jr.'s heart hammered. "I got Billy's phone. It's on. It's on vibrate but it's active."
"Where?"
"Hold on, it's triangulating—" The map loaded. A red dot appeared. "Northeast of here. About forty miles. Middle of nowhere, looks like old ranch land."
"Jake's phone?"
Jr. typed in Jake's number. Same process.
SIGNAL FOUND. LOCATION ACQUIRING...
The second red dot appeared. Same location.
"They're together. Same building, looks like."
Pops leaned over Jr.'s shoulder, studying the map. "That's the old Garrett property. Been abandoned for five years. Perfect place to hole up."
More footsteps on the stairs. Tom, Sarah, Josh, and Ray crowded into the doorway.
"You found them?" Tom asked.
"Their phones," Jr. said. "Both active. Same location."
Tom looked at Pops. "We need to move."
"Not yet," Pops said. "We go in half-cocked, those boys die. We need eyes on the location first. We need to know how many kidnappers, what kind of weapons, what kind of building we're breaching."
Sheriff Wade's voice came through everyone's radios: "I'm pulling up now. Don't do anything until I get there."
Jr. stared at the two red dots on his screen. Forty miles away. Billy and Jake were forty miles away, tied up, suffering.
His phone buzzed. Ryan, Billy, and Daniel in the group chat:
Outside. Coming in.
The war room was assembling.
Chapter 3: The Breaking Point
Billy couldn't see anything through the blindfold, but he could hear everything.
Jake's breathing had gotten worse. His brother's breaths came in short, careful gasps, like he was trying not to move, trying not to put any weight on that rope around his neck.
"Jake," Billy whispered. "You still with me?"
"Yeah." Jake's voice was strained, barely audible. "Billy, my arms—I can't feel them anymore."
"Just hold on. They're coming for us. Dad, Pops—they're coming."
The door crashed open. Footsteps. Multiple sets.
Billy's heart hammered. "What do you want?"
"Time to show Daddy what happens when he doesn't pay fast enough."
Billy heard movement—someone approaching Jake. His brother's breathing quickened.
"No—" Jake started.
A click. Then a buzzing sound. Electric.
"Jake!" Billy tried to stand, but the ropes around his chest and gut held him pinned to the chair. "Don't—"
Jake's scream tore through the room.
The sound was raw, animalistic. Billy heard his brother's body convulse against the ropes, heard the creak of the beam above, heard Jake gasping for air between the shocks.
"Stop it!" Billy yelled. "Stop hurting him!"
The buzzing stopped. Jake's breathing came in ragged sobs.
"That was setting three," the rough voice said. "We got ten settings. But let's try something more... persuasive."
Billy heard movement. Metal clinking.
"What are you—" Jake's voice broke off in a gasp.
"Nice and sensitive," the voice said. "Right in the armpits. Let's see how loud you can scream."
"No—please—"
The buzzing started again. Jake's scream was different this time—higher, more desperate. The sound of pure agony.
Billy yanked against the ropes, feeling them bite into his chest and wrists. "Stop! Stop hurting him! I swear to God—"
"You'll what?" The voice was amused. "You're tied to a chair, kid."
The buzzing continued. Jake's screams filled the room, echoing off the walls. Billy could hear his brother struggling, the ropes creaking, Jake's voice going hoarse.
"Please—" Jake gasped between shocks. "Please stop—"
The buzzing finally stopped.
Jake's breathing was ragged, wheezing. Billy could hear him crying, trying to muffle the sounds.
"Jake," Billy said, his own voice breaking. "Jake, I'm here. I'm right here."
"Billy—" Jake's voice was barely a whisper.
"Good footage," the rough voice said. "But we need to show Daddy what's coming next. Get the other one ready."
Hands grabbed Billy. Not moving him from the chair, but yanking at his shirt.
"What are you doing?" Billy tried to twist away.
"Making the sequel," the voice said.
They grabbed his tank top and ripped it—fabric tearing, the sound loud in the small space. They pulled it up over his head as far as the ropes would allow, yanking it down his arms, leaving his chest and back exposed.
"No—don't—"
"Hold still." A hand cracked across Billy's face. "This is for the camera."
Billy heard the click. The camera phone.
"Look at this, Daddy," the voice said, clearly speaking for the video. "Your boy Jake here just had a nice little session with our equipment. Made some real pretty sounds. And now we're getting his brother ready for his turn. See how we ripped his shirt off? See those ropes holding him in that chair? In the next video, you'll hear him scream just like his brother."
Billy's chest heaved. His face stung where they'd hit him. The cool air on his exposed skin made him shiver, or maybe that was fear.
"Say goodbye to Daddy," the voice said.
"Dad—" Billy's voice cracked. "Dad, we're—"
A hand clamped over his mouth.
"That's enough." The click of the phone stopping the recording. "Send it. Let Daddy see what he's paying for."
Footsteps. The door slammed.
Billy sat in the darkness, shaking. His shirt hung useless around his arms. His chest felt exposed, vulnerable.
"Billy," Jake whispered, his voice hoarse. "Billy, I'm sorry—"
"Not your fault." Billy's voice came out rough. "None of this is your fault."
"They're gonna do to you what they did to me."
"I know."
"I couldn't—" Jake's voice broke. "I couldn't take it, Billy. I screamed like—"
"You're human. You're allowed to scream."
"You're gonna scream too."
Billy felt the phone in his back pocket vibrate. Three short bursts.
Someone knew where they were.
"Yeah," Billy said quietly. "Probably. But Jake—they're coming for us. I can feel it. They're coming."
Jake didn't answer. His breathing was still labored, still strained.
Billy sat in the chair, blindfolded, half-naked, waiting for the door to open again. Waiting for his turn.
In the darkness, he counted his heartbeats and prayed they'd get there in time.Chapter 4: The Storm
Trucks were already pulling up to the Benson Ranch when Tom walked out of the barn office, his phone in his hand, his face drained of color.
Sheriff Wade's cruiser. The Beaumonts' F-350. The Renzos' Silverado right behind them. All responding to Jr.'s 911 emergency call.
The kitchen and den were filling fast. Sheriff Wade and Wilson carrying tactical bags. Robert and Caroline Beaumont. The Renzo family. The Matterns. The Rodriguezes. All armed, all ready.
Pops stood in the center of the kitchen, his radio in hand. "Tom, what's the status?"
"Jr. has them tracked," Tom said, his voice hollow. "Old Garrett property. Forty miles northeast. Both phones active. Audio is live."
"Good. Then we—"
"There's a video," Tom interrupted. "The kidnappers sent a video."
The room went silent.
"Show us," Pops said.
Tom looked at Jr., who was coming down the stairs with his equipment. "Put it on your iPad. Everyone needs to see what they're doing to them."
Jr. took his father's phone, pulled up the video file, transferred it to his iPad. His hands were shaking.
"Everybody gather around," Pops commanded.
The room pressed in—two dozen people crowding around Jr.'s iPad on the kitchen table.
Jr. hit play.
The video was dark, grainy. Jake, blindfolded, strung up with his wrists crossed above his head, rope around his neck. Then the buzzing sound started. Electric prods touching his chest.
Jake's scream ripped through the iPad's speaker.
His body convulsed against the ropes. The rope around his neck pulled tight. Jake gasped, screamed again as the shocks continued.
"Stop it!" Billy's voice in the background. "Stop hurting him!"
The buzzing stopped. Jake hung there, breathing in ragged gasps.
The video ended.
No one spoke for a moment.
Then Caroline Beaumont turned away, her hand over her mouth. "Oh my God."
"Those bastards," Robert Beaumont said, his voice shaking with rage.
Sheriff Wade's face had gone hard. "That's torture. That's aggravated kidnapping with torture. These aren't amateurs asking for ransom—they're sadists."
"I don't care what they are," Pops said, his voice like ice. "We're going to kill them."
Wade looked at him. "Pops—"
"You heard me. Anyone holding a weapon when we breach is dead. I'm not taking prisoners."
Celeb, standing near the stairs, was gripping the railing so hard his knuckles were white. "How long ago was this sent?"
"Five minutes," Tom said. "Maybe less."
"Then they're still hurting him." Celeb's voice was tight, controlled. Too controlled. "Right now, they're still—"
"Which is why we're moving immediately," Pops said. He raised his voice. "Everyone listen up. Billy and Jake are at the old Garrett property, forty miles out. They're in the barn. We have GPS tracking, live audio, and we just saw what these animals are doing to them. We go in with overwhelming force—six trucks, full breach, no mercy."
"What's the approach?" Robert Beaumont asked.
"Six trucks in convoy formation. Mine leads—Tom, Jr., Celeb, Josh, and Ray with me. Wade and Wilson second with tactical gear. Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguez—you follow. When we hit the property, we surround the barn. Jr. coordinates positions. Wade runs thermal to get a target count. Then we breach on my signal."
"Rules of engagement?" someone asked.
"Anyone with a weapon dies," Pops said flatly. "Our priority is getting Billy and Jake out alive. Everything else is secondary."
Sheriff Wade nodded slowly. "Understood. But Pops—we need to be smart. If we go in guns blazing and they're holding Billy and Jake at gunpoint—"
"That's why we use thermal first," Pops said. "We identify where our boys are, where the hostiles are, then we breach from multiple points simultaneously. Overwhelming force, no time for them to react."
"Copy that."
Tom moved to the gun cabinet in the den, unlocked it. Rifles, shotguns, handguns, boxes of ammunition.
"Arm up," Pops ordered. "We leave in three minutes."
The room exploded into motion. Men stepping forward, selecting weapons, checking actions, loading magazines. The sounds of slides racking, hammers cocking, shells chambering filled the house.
Jr. stood at the kitchen table, staring at his iPad where the video had frozen on the last frame—Jake hanging there, blindfolded, exhausted.
Ryan Nelson put a hand on Jr.'s shoulder. "We're gonna get them out."
"I know," Jr. said. But his voice shook.
Billy Renzo and Daniel Rodriguez were checking their sidearms, their faces grim.
Celeb grabbed a rifle from the cabinet, checked the magazine, chambered a round. His movements were precise, mechanical. His face showed nothing.
Tom selected his hunting rifle. Josh and Ray did the same.
Pops checked his service pistol, holstered it, slung his rifle over his shoulder. "Two minutes. Everyone who's riding, get to your trucks."
Sarah stood near the kitchen table with Rebecca, both women crying quietly.
Tom crossed to Sarah, pulled her into his arms. "We'll bring them home."
"They're hurting them," Sarah sobbed. "Tom, they're—"
"I know. But we're going to stop it. I promise."
Tom's phone buzzed.
The entire room froze.
Every head turned toward Tom.
He pulled out his phone, looked at the screen. His face went even paler.
"Another video," he said.
"Jesus Christ," someone muttered.
"Put it on the iPad," Pops said, his voice deadly calm.
Tom forwarded it. Jr.'s iPad pinged. Jr. opened the file with shaking hands.
This time, everyone pressed in even closer.
Jr. hit play.
Jake again, strung up. But now metal clips were attached to his armpits. The buzzing started—louder this time, more intense.
Jake's scream was different now—hoarse, breaking. He'd already been tortured. His voice was giving out. But the pain in that sound was worse than the first video.
His body jerked violently against the ropes. The rope around his neck pulled tight. Jake was choking and screaming at the same time.
Then the camera panned.
Billy, still tied to the chair. But now rough hands grabbed his tank top, ripped it. The fabric tore loudly. They yanked it up over his head, down his arms as far as the ropes would allow, leaving his chest and back exposed.
Billy tried to twist away. "No—don't—"
A hand slapped him across the face.
Then the rough voice, speaking directly to the camera: "Your boy Jake's just about done screaming, Daddy. But don't worry—we got a whole fresh one ready to go. See? We're getting Billy all set up for his turn. You got about an hour before we string him up and really go to work. Better get that money ready."
The video ended.
Silence.
Then Celeb threw his rifle onto the couch and punched the wall. Hard. The drywall cracked. His knuckles came away bloody.
"Celeb—" Robert Beaumont started.
"An hour!" Celeb shouted. "They said an hour! We don't have time to—"
"Then we move now," Pops cut in, his voice like a whip crack. "Everyone to your trucks. RIGHT NOW!"
The room emptied in seconds. Men pouring out the door, weapons in hand.
Jr. grabbed his equipment bags—laptop, tablet, GPS unit, radio scanner. Ryan, Billy, and Daniel grabbed theirs.
Sarah grabbed Tom's arm as he headed for the door. "Bring them home. Please."
"I will." Tom kissed her forehead, then ran.
Outside, Pops's heavy Ford sat idling. Pops jumped into the driver's seat. Tom took passenger side, rifle across his lap. Jr. climbed into the back with his equipment. Celeb got in beside Jr., his jaw clenched, his bleeding knuckles leaving smears on his jeans. Josh and Ray jumped into the truck bed with their rifles.
Behind them, five trucks: Wade and Wilson's cruiser, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguez.
Jr. plugged everything in, pulled up the GPS. Two red dots pulsing on the screen—Billy and Jake, forty miles away.
"Route's loaded," Jr. said, his voice tight. "Farm Road 1120 northeast. Forty miles."
Pops keyed his radio. "All units, radio silence except for Jr.'s navigation and my commands. We maintain convoy until the property, then we surround. Objective is extraction. Our boys have less than an hour. Move out. Now."
"Copy," came from all five trucks.
Pops shifted into gear and punched the accelerator. The convoy roared forward, six trucks racing through the darkness.
Jr. put on his headphones, listening to the audio feed. Billy and Jake's breathing—both ragged, both in pain, but both alive.
Through the speakers, he heard Billy's voice, strained: "Jake, stay with me."
Jake's weak response: "Trying."
"They're still talking," Jr. said. "Both conscious."
In the passenger seat, Tom stared straight ahead, rifle gripped so tight his knuckles were white.
Beside Jr., Celeb pressed his bloody fist against his leg and stared out into the darkness.
And Pops drove, pushing the truck faster, harder.
Forty miles.
Less than an hour.
The consortium was racing against time.
Chapter 5: Billy's Turn
Billy heard the door crash open.
He'd been counting Jake's breaths in the darkness, trying to focus on anything but the fear clawing at his chest. Jake's breathing had gotten worse—shallower, more labored. His brother was fading.
"Time's up, boys," the rough voice said. "Daddy's taking too long. Let's give him some extra motivation."
Footsteps approaching. Billy tensed against the ropes around his chest and gut.
"No—" Billy started.
Hands grabbed him, yanking him to his feet. The ropes around his chest and gut were cut away. His arms were still bound behind his back, wrists tied tight.
"What are you—"
They shoved him forward, stumbling. His boots scraped on the dirt floor. They stopped him a few feet away—near Jake, Billy realized. He could hear his brother's labored breathing right beside him.
"Billy?" Jake's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
"I'm here, Jake. I'm right here."
Rough hands grabbed Billy's wrists, untied them. For a split second, Billy thought about fighting—but then they yanked his arms forward, crossing his wrists in front of him. New rope bit into his skin, tighter than before, binding his wrists together with his arms crossed.
"Wait—please—"
They pulled his bound wrists up over his head. Billy's shoulders screamed as they forced his arms higher, higher. He felt rope looping around his crossed wrists, then the sound of it being thrown over something above—a beam, the same one Jake was tied to.
They pulled.
Billy's arms were yanked up, his shoulders straining, his body stretching. His boots stayed on the ground, but barely. All his weight hung from his crossed wrists.
"Stop—" Billy gasped.
They pulled tighter. Billy rose up on his toes, trying to take pressure off his shoulders.
More rope wrapped around his elbows, pulling them up and back. The position was excruciating—arms crossed, wrists bound high overhead, elbows pulled back behind him. His shoulder joints felt like they were tearing.
"Please—I can't—"
Then something wrapped around his neck. Rope. Not tight, but there. A warning.
Billy understood immediately. If his legs gave out, if he couldn't hold himself up, the rope around his neck would take his weight.
Just like Jake.
"No—please—don't do this—"
They stepped back. Billy hung there, blindfolded, shirtless, his chest heaving. Every breath pulled at his shoulders. His arms were already going numb.
"Take him down!" Jake's voice exploded with desperation. "Take him down and do it to me again! Don't hurt him! Please!"
"Shut up," one of the kidnappers said.
"I'm begging you," Jake said, his voice breaking into a sob. "Please. Do whatever you want to me. Just let him go. He's my little brother—please—take him down!"
"I said shut up." A slap. Jake grunted.
"Leave him alone!" Billy yelled, then immediately regretted it. The effort made him drop slightly, and the rope around his neck pulled tight for a split second. Billy gasped, forced himself back up on his toes.
"See how it works?" the rough voice said, amused. "You drop, you choke. So I'd stay real still if I were you."
Billy's legs were already shaking. How long had Jake been like this? Hours?
"Jake," Billy said, his voice tight. "Jake, I'm okay. I'm okay."
"You're not okay," Jake said, his voice raw. "Billy, I'm so sorry—"
"Not your fault. None of this is your fault."
"Listen up, boys," the rough voice said. "We're gonna give Daddy one more chance. We're sending him a nice picture of both of you strung up together. Then we're gonna wait exactly ten minutes. If we don't get confirmation that the money's coming, we start on Billy. And trust me—he's gonna scream even louder than you did, Jake."
"Please," Jake begged. "Please just take the money and let us go. We won't say anything. We won't—"
"Ten minutes," the voice repeated. "Better hope Daddy loves you."
Billy heard the click of a camera phone. Multiple clicks. They were taking pictures from different angles.
Then footsteps. The door slammed.
Silence.
Billy hung there, arms screaming, shoulders burning, legs trembling as he tried to stay up on his toes. The rope around his neck was a constant presence, a reminder of what would happen if he fell.
"Billy," Jake whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I can't—I don't think I can hold on much longer."
"Yes you can. You're the toughest guy I know."
"My arms—I can't feel them anymore. My legs are—they're giving out."
Billy could hear it in Jake's voice. His brother was at the breaking point.
"Listen to me," Billy said, forcing his voice steady even as his own body shook. "You focus on breathing. Small breaths. Don't think about anything else. Just breathe."
"They're gonna hurt you," Jake said. "They're gonna do to you what they did to me and I can't—I can't protect you—"
"You don't have to protect me. We just have to survive. That's all. Just survive until they find us."
"How do you know they're coming?"
Billy felt the phone in his back pocket—still there, still vibrating periodically with those emergency signals. "I know. Trust me. They're coming."
Time crawled. Billy's legs shook harder, his calf muscles cramping. He tried shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but every movement pulled at his shoulders, sent fresh waves of pain down his arms.
Beside him, he could hear Jake struggling. His brother's breathing had gone ragged, uneven. Jake was losing the fight to stay upright.
"Jake, stay with me," Billy said.
"Trying," Jake gasped. "Billy—if they—if I don't make it—"
"Don't talk like that."
"Tell Mom and Dad I love them. Tell Jr. I'm sorry I won't—"
"Jake, shut up. You're not dying. Neither of us are dying. We're getting out of this."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I have to be."
Billy's phone vibrated in his pocket. Three short bursts. The emergency signal.
They were close. They had to be close.
"Feel that?" Billy said. "That's the signal. They're coming, Jake. Just hold on a little longer."
Jake didn't answer. His breathing had gotten worse—shallow, wheezing.
"Jake?"
"Still here," Jake managed. "Barely."
Billy's own legs were giving out. He could feel it—the trembling getting worse, his muscles failing. How much longer could he hold this position?
How much longer before the kidnappers came back?
The door opened.
Billy's heart stopped.
"Ten minutes is up," the rough voice said. "And guess what? No word from Daddy. So let's get started."
"No—wait—" Billy said.
"We're gonna start nice and slow," the voice continued. "Let you feel every second of it. And we're gonna record the whole thing so Daddy can watch his boy scream."
Billy heard movement. Someone approaching with something—he could hear a mechanical sound. The electric prods.
"Please," Jake begged, his voice breaking. "Please don't hurt him. Take him down! Do it to me instead! I'll do anything. Anything. Just don't—"
"You already had your turn," the voice said. "Now it's his."
Billy felt the metal touch his ribs. Cold. Clinical.
"Wait—" Billy gasped.
The click of a camera phone.
"Smile for Daddy, kid."
Billy's whole body tensed, waiting for the pain he knew was coming.
In the darkness behind the blindfold, he heard Jake sobbing. Heard his brother begging them to stop, begging them to take him down and hurt Jake instead.
And Billy prayed—prayed that help would arrive before they turned on the electricity.
Prayed they'd get there in time.
Chapter 6: The Breach
Billy's whole body tensed, waiting for the shock.
The metal prods were cold against his ribs. He could hear the kidnapper's finger on the trigger, could hear Jake sobbing beside him, begging them to stop.
Then—
Gunfire.
Massive, deafening. The barn doors exploded inward from multiple sides at once.
"Contact!" A voice Billy didn't recognize.
More gunfire. The sound was overwhelming—rifles, shotguns, the crack of pistols. Billy couldn't see anything through the blindfold, could only hear the chaos erupting around him.
The metal prods fell away from his ribs.
"Drop your weapons!" Pops's voice, commanding. "Drop them now!"
A burst of automatic fire. Return fire from multiple directions.
Billy hung there, helpless, his body swinging slightly from the ropes. He couldn't tell who was shooting who, couldn't tell if the bullets were coming toward him or away.
"Billy! Jake!" That was Tom's voice. His dad. "Where are you?"
"Here!" Billy tried to shout, but his voice came out as a croak. "We're here!"
More gunfire. Closer now. Something whizzed past Billy's head—a round, so close he felt the air displacement.
Jake made a sound beside him—a grunt of pain.
"Jake?" Billy's heart stopped. "Jake!"
"I'm—" Jake's voice was strained. "Something hit me—my arm—"
"Cease fire!" Sheriff Wade's voice. "Cease fire! The hostages are in the line!"
The gunfire stopped for a heartbeat, then three more shots rang out.
Then silence.
Billy's ears were ringing. His whole body shook, adrenaline and terror coursing through him.
"Clear!" Pops's voice. "Building clear! Get them down! Now!"
Footsteps running. Multiple sets.
"I got Billy!" Jr.'s voice, right beside him. "Uncle Billy, I'm here. We're cutting you down."
Billy felt hands on him—small hands, Jr.'s hands. A knife sawing at the rope around his neck first.
"Easy, easy," another voice said. Ryan Nelson. "We got you."
The rope around his neck fell away. Then hands supporting his weight as someone cut the bindings on his wrists. Billy's arms dropped, and pain exploded through his shoulders as blood rushed back into them. He would've collapsed, but hands caught him.
"I got you," Jr. said. "I got you, Uncle Billy."
Billy's legs wobbled but held. Jr. and Ryan steadied him on both sides.
"Jake—" Billy gasped. "Is Jake—"
"We're on him!" Wilson's voice, the deputy EMT. "Jake, can you hear me?"
Billy heard the sound of rope being cut, Jake's body being supported as they lowered him.
"He's hit," Wilson said. "GSW to the left bicep. Looks like friendly fire. Not deep—grazed him. I need pressure on this."
"I got it," Robert Beaumont's voice.
"Celeb's hit too!" Someone else shouted. "Upper right arm, through and through."
"Goddammit," Wade muttered. "Wilson, how bad?"
"Jake's gonna be fine—it's a graze, mostly burned. Celeb's is worse but manageable. Get me the trauma kits."
Billy tried to move toward Jake. "I need to see him—"
"Easy," Jr. said, holding him steady. "Let me get your blindfold off first."
Hands fumbled with the cloth around Billy's eyes. Then light—dim light, but after hours of darkness it was blinding. Billy blinked, his vision blurry.
The barn came into focus.
Bodies on the ground—three of them. The kidnappers. Blood pooling on the dirt floor. All dead.
And there—Jake.
Wilson and Robert Beaumont were wrapping his left bicep with pressure bandages. Jake was sitting up, conscious, his face pale and twisted with pain. His wrists were raw and bloody. His armpits were burned where the clips had been—the hair singed away, skin red and blistered.
But he was awake. He was alive.
"Jake!" Billy stumbled toward him.
Jake's head turned. His eyes found Billy. "Billy—you okay?"
"Am I okay? You got shot!"
"It's just a graze," Jake said, his voice hoarse. "Hurts like hell but—"
"Don't move," Wilson ordered, finishing the bandage. "That bullet creased your bicep. You're lucky it didn't hit bone."
Ten feet away, Celeb sat against the barn wall, his right arm bleeding. Wade was wrapping it with pressure bandages. Celeb's face was pale, his jaw clenched, but he was conscious.
Tom appeared, pulling Billy into his arms. "You're safe. You're both safe now."
Billy held onto his father, his whole body shaking.
Pops stood over the three dead kidnappers, his rifle still in his hands. "Wade, check them. Make sure they're all down."
Wade moved to the bodies, checked pulses. "All dead. Three confirmed."
"Good," Pops said coldly.
Josh and Ray were sweeping the rest of the barn, weapons ready, making sure there were no more threats.
Sheriff Wade pulled out his radio. "Dispatch, this is Sheriff Nelson. We need two ambulances to the old Garrett property immediately. Two gunshot wounds—non-life-threatening. Two victims of prolonged torture requiring medical evaluation. ETA on those buses?"
The radio crackled. "Ambulances dispatched. ETA twelve minutes."
"Copy. We also need the coroner. Three DOA subjects on scene."
Wilson helped Jake to his feet. Jake swayed, his legs shaking, but he stayed upright.
"Your shoulders are gonna be sore for weeks," Wilson said. "You were hanging in that position for hours. But nothing's dislocated, nothing's broken. You got lucky."
Jake looked over at Billy, who was being checked by Ryan and Billy Renzo. Their eyes met.
"We made it," Jake said, his voice rough.
"Yeah," Billy said. "We did."
Jr. was cutting away the remnants of rope from Billy's wrists. Billy's wrists were raw, bloody, the skin torn.
"Your phones," Jr. said quietly. "You kept your phones. That's how we found you."
Billy almost laughed. "Best decision we ever made."
Sirens in the distance. The ambulances.
Billy looked at his nephew—fifteen years old, covered in dirt and sweat, a sidearm on his hip, a knife in his hand. Jr. had tracked them, guided the convoy, cut him down.
"You saved us," Billy said.
Jr.'s eyes were bright. "That's what family does."
Tom helped Billy stand on his own. Billy's legs were shaky, his whole body ached, but he could walk.
Jake took a few steps, Wilson supporting him on one side. He was moving slowly, carefully, but he was moving.
The ambulances pulled up outside, lights flashing. Paramedics rushed in with stretchers and equipment.
"These two need to go," Wilson said, pointing to Jake and Celeb. "Gunshot wounds need proper treatment at a hospital."
"I can walk," Jake protested.
"Me too," Celeb said.
"You're both getting on stretchers," Wade said firmly. "Those are bullet wounds. You're going to the hospital properly. No arguments."
Jake looked at Celeb, who shrugged with his good arm. "Fine."
They loaded Jake onto the first stretcher. He protested the whole way but didn't fight it.
"This is ridiculous," Jake muttered. "It's just a graze."
"Shut up and lie down," Wilson said, but he was almost smiling.
They loaded Celeb onto the second stretcher. Caroline Beaumont moved to ride with him.
Billy walked toward the barn doors with Tom's hand on his shoulder. As they passed the dead kidnappers, Billy stopped.
He looked down at the three bodies—the men who had tortured him, tortured Jake, put them through hell.
Billy spat on the nearest body.
Behind him, Jake—being wheeled past on his stretcher—did the same. He turned his head and spat on another kidnapper's corpse.
"They deserved worse," Jake said, his voice cold.
Pops, standing nearby, nodded once. "They got what they deserved."
Outside, the night air hit them—cool and clean. The convoy trucks were parked in a semicircle around the barn, headlights still on. Consortium members were everywhere—armed, watching, securing the perimeter.
"We're taking them to Mitchell County Medical," one of the paramedics said. "Closest facility with a trauma center. It's in the county next to Kings."
"How far?" Pops asked.
"Twenty-five minutes."
"Then let's move." Pops looked at Jake on the stretcher. "You did good, son. Real good."
Jake's throat worked. "Thanks, Pops."
The first ambulance loaded Jake. Tom climbed in to ride with him.
The second ambulance loaded Celeb with Caroline.
Billy stood in the dirt, watching them load. Jr. stayed beside him.
"You need to get checked out too," Jr. said.
"I will. But I'm walking to the truck." Billy looked at his nephew. "I'm not getting on a stretcher."
"Figured you'd say that."
Pops approached Billy, looked him over—the raw wrists, the burns on his ribs where the prods had touched him, the exhaustion in his eyes.
"You kept your brother alive," Pops said quietly. "You kept yourself alive. That took guts, kid."
Billy's voice came out rough. "I didn't think we'd make it."
"But you did. Because you're a Benson." Pops squeezed his shoulder. "Now let's get you to the hospital."
Sheriff Wade was coordinating with his deputies. "Coroner's twenty minutes out. I need two of you to stay and secure the scene. Everyone else, convoy to Mitchell County Medical."
The ambulances pulled away, sirens wailing.
Billy climbed into Pops's truck with Jr.'s help. Pops drove, Jr. beside Billy in the back seat, Josh and Ray in the truck bed. The rest of the consortium followed—five trucks in convoy formation.
Jr. grabbed the radio as they pulled out. "Uncle Billy, Mom and Aunt Sarah—they've been waiting. They need to hear from you."
Billy took the radio with shaking hands. Jr. keyed it to the open channel.
"Mom?" Billy's voice came out rough. "Mom, it's Billy."
Static, then Sarah's voice, breaking: "Billy? Oh God, Billy, are you—"
"I'm okay, Mom. I'm okay. Jake's okay. We're both okay."
"They said Jake was shot—"
"Just a graze on his bicep. He's gonna be fine. Celeb got shot too—friendly fire, went through his arm—but he's okay too. We're all okay. They got us out, Mom. The consortium got us out."
Rebecca's voice came through: "Billy, it's Rebecca. Is Jake really okay?"
"He's talking, he's walking—well, they made him get on a stretcher but he was walking before that. I swear, Rebecca, he's okay. Sore as hell, burned from those bastards, but okay."
"And Celeb?" Caroline's voice, worried even though she was riding in the ambulance with him.
"He's tough. Took a round clean through but Wilson said it missed bone. He'll be fine, Mrs. Beaumont."
"And you?" Sarah asked. "Billy, are you hurt?"
"Nothing that won't heal. I'm fine, Mom. I promise. My wrists are torn up, my shoulders are sore, but I'm fine."
"The kidnappers?" That was Mary Nelson's voice now.
Billy's jaw tightened. "Dead. All three of them. Dead."
Silence on the radio for a moment.
Then Sarah's voice, fierce: "Good."
"We're heading to Mitchell County Medical," Billy said. "They're gonna check us over, patch up Jake and Celeb, but Mom, I swear we're okay. It's over. We're coming home."
"I love you," Sarah said, her voice thick with tears. "Both of you. All of you. I love you so much."
"Love you too, Mom."
Jr. took the radio back, switched channels. "All units, ETA to hospital twenty minutes. Stay in formation."
Billy leaned back against the seat, exhausted. Through the window, he could see the barn disappearing behind them—the place where he and Jake had nearly died.
But they hadn't.
The consortium had come for them.
Jr. sat beside him, monitoring the radio, keeping watch.
Pops drove in silence, his face set.
And Billy closed his eyes, finally allowing himself to believe it was really over.
They were going home.
Chapter 7: The Aftermath
The ER at Mitchell County Medical was controlled chaos.
Three beds, three patients, separated by curtains. And three voices complaining loudly.
"I'm fine!" Jake's voice from behind the first curtain. "I don't need an X-ray!"
"Stop moving," a nurse said firmly. "We need to check your shoulders."
"My shoulders are fine!"
Behind the second curtain, Billy was equally vocal. "That blood pressure cuff is too tight!"
"It's supposed to be tight, Mr. Benson. Hold still."
"I've been holding still for hours. I'm done holding still."
From the third curtain, Celeb: "I already told you, the bullet went straight through. Why do I need an X-ray?"
"To make sure there's no bone fragments," another nurse said patiently.
"There's no bone fragments!"
Out in the waiting room, the consortium had taken over. The men filled the space—Pops, Tom, Josh, Ray, Robert Beaumont, the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. Sheriff Wade and Wilson. And the four teenagers.
Jr. sat in a plastic chair, his head in his hands. Ryan, Billy, and Daniel sat beside him, all four of them pale and quiet.
Josh had his iPad out, video call connected to the ranch house where Sarah, Rebecca, Caroline, Mary Nelson, and the other wives waited.
"What if Jake's heart gives out?" Jr. said, his voice shaking into the iPad camera. "He was hanging like that for hours. What if—"
Sarah's face on the screen, tear-streaked: "He's not gonna die, Billy. You saved him. You got there in time."
"But the gunshot—"
"Was a graze," Ray added, leaning into frame. "Barely broke the skin."
"And Celeb?" Caroline's voice from the iPad.
"Through and through," Robert said, speaking to his wife's image. "Clean wound. He'll be fine."
But the four boys didn't look convinced. They'd seen the videos. They'd heard the screams. They'd watched Jake being tortured, watched Billy strung up beside him.
Jr. couldn't get the images out of his head.
Pops stood near the window, arms crossed, face unreadable. Tom paced. Josh and Ray leaned against the wall.
The consortium waited.
Twenty minutes later, the ER doors opened.
Three figures walked out.
Walking.
Jake first, his left arm wrapped in clean bandages, wearing a hospital gown that was too small. His wrists were wrapped too, white gauze stark against his skin.
Billy second, shirtless still but with bandages on his wrists. EKG patches still stuck to his skin.
Celeb third, his right arm in a sling, a fresh bandage visible under his torn shirt.
All three walking on their own.
Jr. stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly across the floor. "Uncle Jake!"
Jake's face broke into a tired smile. "Hey, kid."
Jr. ran to him, stopped short of hugging him—afraid to hurt him. Jake pulled him in with his good arm anyway.
"We're okay," Jake said quietly. "We're okay, Jr."
Josh turned the iPad so the women at the ranch could see. Sarah's sob of relief echoed through the speaker. Rebecca's too.
"They're walking," Josh said into the camera. "All three of them. Walking."
Behind them, an older doctor in blue scrubs emerged from the ER, clipboard in hand. He looked tired but amused.
"Family of Benson and Beaumont?" the doctor called.
Everyone turned. Josh kept the iPad pointed at the doctor so the women could hear.
The doctor shook his head, almost smiling. "I've been working ERs for thirty years. I've never seen three more ornery boys in my life."
A few people laughed, tension breaking.
"That's why they're from Kings County," Sheriff Wade said.
The doctor consulted his clipboard. "Alright. Jake Benson: I thought we'd see cardiac issues given the stress position he was in for—what, four hours? Five? But his heart is strong as a horse. EKG is normal. Blood pressure normal. Vitals all normal. He's got rope burns on his wrists and elbows, minor burns on his chest and armpits from the electrical torture, and a grazing gunshot wound to the left bicep. All superficial. Nothing that won't heal."
Through the iPad speaker, Rebecca's voice: "Thank God."
"Billy Benson: same story. Normal vitals across the board. Rope burns on his wrists and elbows, severely strained shoulders but no dislocation. He was strung up in that stress position for less time than his brother, got there before they could do more damage. He's young, he's healthy, he'll be sore for a week but he's fine."
Sarah's voice cracked through the speaker. "Thank you. Thank you, doctor."
"Celeb Beaumont: gunshot wound to the right arm, clean through-and-through, no bone damage, no vascular damage. Just muscle. He'll need the dressing changed daily."
Rebecca's face moved closer to the camera on her end. "I'm a nurse practitioner. I can handle the dressings."
The doctor nodded toward the iPad. "Good. Watch for signs of infection—redness, swelling, heat, discharge. If you see any of that, start him on amoxicillin, 500mg three times daily. But only if you see infection. Otherwise, let it heal on its own."
"Understood," Rebecca's voice came through.
"The burn marks on Jake are just flesh wounds. I'm sending you home with prescription cream—apply twice daily, keep them clean and dry. The rope burns on both boys will take longer to heal, but again, just keep them clean, watch for infection."
He looked up from his clipboard, his expression turning serious.
"You boys are damn lucky. Another hour in those positions and we'd be talking about permanent nerve damage, circulation damage. Billy, you got there just in time before they could start on you. Jake—" he looked at the young man—"another thirty minutes and we might be having a very different conversation."
Pops's jaw tightened. "We know."
The doctor looked at the three young men standing in front of him—bruised, bandaged, exhausted but alive.
"Now get the hell out of my hospital and back to Kings County where you boys can continue your ruckus," the doctor said, but there was warmth in his voice.
Jake grinned despite everything. "Yes sir."
They walked out of the hospital into the early morning light. The sun was just starting to rise, painting the sky orange and pink.
The convoy trucks were waiting in the parking lot.
Pops keyed his radio as they approached. "Ladies, we're loading up. And I gotta tell you—the boys and us are starving. Y'all think you can break out the leftovers?"
Mary Nelson's voice came through immediately. "Already on it, Pops. I'm leaving now—my place is closest. I'll get started."
Sarah's voice: "The rest of us are raiding the refrigerators and freezers. We'll have food ready when you get here."
"Good," Pops said. Then he grinned. "And by the way, this is Dr. Pops speaking, and I prescribe beer and Jack Daniels for everyone."
Laughter came through the radio from multiple sources.
"Copy that, Dr. Pops," Wade said, shaking his head.
They loaded up. Jake and Billy climbed into Tom's truck—Tom driving, the two brothers in the back. Celeb with Robert and Caroline. Jr. and his friends back in Pops's truck with Josh and Ray. The rest of the consortium in their vehicles.
Six trucks in convoy formation, heading home to Kings County.
As they drove, the sun rose higher, burning off the darkness.
Jr. looked back once at the hospital disappearing behind them, then forward at the road ahead.
His uncles were safe. The nightmare was over.
The consortium had won.
And they were going home.
Chapter 8: Home
The Benson Ranch kitchen was packed.
Long tables pushed together, covered with mismatched dishes—casseroles pulled from freezers, leftover brisket reheated, cornbread, beans, potato salad. Mary Nelson had arrived first and started cooking. The other women had followed, raiding refrigerators and pantries across all six ranches.
Now the entire consortium sat together, eating like they hadn't seen food in days.
Jake and Billy sat at the center table, still shirtless and bandaged, plates piled high. Celeb sat across from them, his right arm in its sling, eating one-handed but keeping pace.
Pops stood at the head of the table, a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, a case of beer at his feet.
"Alright, listen up," Pops announced. "As the attending physician tonight—Dr. Pops, if you please—I'm prescribing the following treatment: beer for everyone, including the teenagers. No objections."
Sarah opened her mouth, then closed it. After what they'd all been through, she wasn't going to argue.
"Shots of Jack for the adults," Pops continued, pouring generously into plastic cups. "And cigars for anyone who wants one."
He pulled out a box of cigars from somewhere, passed them around. The men took them eagerly—Robert Beaumont, Sheriff Wade, the Renzo and Mattern fathers, all lighting up.
Billy grabbed one, examined it, then looked at Jr. and his three friends sitting at the end of the table. "You boys ever smoked a cigar?"
Jr. shook his head. Ryan, Billy Renzo, and Daniel did the same.
"Well, you earned one tonight," Billy said. He handed cigars to all four teenagers.
The boys took them like they were handling precious artifacts.
"Hold on," Jake said, leaning forward despite his bandaged arm. "You can't just light it and puff. There's technique."
"Technique?" Jr. said skeptically.
"Oh yeah," Billy said, grinning. "First, you gotta cut it. See this end? You clip it." He demonstrated with a cigar cutter, snipping the cap. "Not too much, just enough."
The four boys tried to imitate him. Daniel cut too much off his. "Is that bad?"
"Nah, you're fine. Just gonna burn faster."
"Now," Jake said, "when you light it, don't put it in your mouth yet. Hold it out, rotate it, get an even burn on the end."
Ryan held his cigar out, flicked the lighter. The flame caught unevenly. "Like this?"
"Keep rotating it. There you go."
All four boys got their cigars lit, thick smoke rising.
"Okay, now here's the important part," Billy said seriously. "Don't inhale. This isn't a cigarette. You puff, you taste it, you blow it out. You inhale this, you're gonna die."
"Got it," Jr. said. "Don't inhale."
"Just draw the smoke into your mouth, hold it a second, then let it out," Jake added.
Jr. went first. He put the cigar to his lips, drew in smoke, held it—
And immediately started coughing, his face turning red.
The adults burst out laughing.
"You inhaled!" Billy said, laughing so hard he had to grab his sore ribs. "I said don't inhale!"
"I didn't mean to!" Jr. gasped between coughs.
Ryan tried next. Same result—massive coughing fit.
"Oh God," Ryan wheezed. "Why do people do this?"
"Because you're doing it wrong," Jake said, still grinning. "Watch me."
He took a slow puff, held the smoke in his mouth, then blew it out in a smooth stream. "See? Easy."
Billy Renzo tried again, more carefully this time. He managed not to cough, but his eyes watered. "This tastes terrible."
"You get used to it," Celeb said from across the table, smoking one-handed. "Give it a minute."
Daniel took a puff, managed to keep it together, then exhaled. "Okay, that wasn't so bad."
"There you go!" Billy said. "You're learning."
The four teenagers sat there trying to look sophisticated, puffing on their cigars, coughing occasionally, their faces ranging from green to determined.
"How do you know if you're doing it right?" Jr. asked.
"If you're not throwing up, you're doing it right," Jake said.
"That's a low bar," Ryan muttered.
Pops watched from the head of the table, cigar in his own mouth, eyes twinkling. "Look at them. Bunch of kids playing grown-up."
"They earned it," Tom said quietly. "They really did."
Sarah watched her son and nephews struggling with their cigars and shook her head. "They look ridiculous."
"They look happy," Rebecca said. "That's what matters."
After ten minutes, Billy Renzo put his cigar down. "I'm done. I feel sick."
"Lightweight," Ryan said, still gamely puffing away despite looking slightly green himself.
"You're all lightweights," Billy said. "But that's okay. First time's always rough."
Jr. took another careful puff, managed not to cough. "I think I'm getting it."
"Atta boy," Jake said.
They ate. They drank their beers. They smoked—the adults comfortably, the teenagers with varying degrees of success. The stories started flowing—about the breach, about the gunfight, about cutting the boys down.
After an hour, families started heading home. The Beaumonts first—Robert with his arm around Caroline.
"Call if you need anything," Caroline said to Rebecca. "I mean it."
"We will," Rebecca said. "And don't worry about Celeb. We'll take care of him."
Caroline looked at her son, still sitting at the table with Billy and Jake. "I know you will."
The Renzos left. Then the Matterns. Then the Rodriguezes.
Sheriff Wade and Wilson were the last to leave. Wade clapped Pops on the shoulder. "Hell of a night."
"Hell of a night," Pops agreed.
As the adults cleaned up, Ryan, Billy, and Daniel approached Jr.
"Can we stay?" Ryan asked. "I don't want to go home yet."
Jr. looked at his dad. Tom looked at Pops.
"Frat house is yours," Pops said. "You boys earned it."
The seven of them headed upstairs—Jr., Ryan, Billy, Daniel, and the "big guys": Billy, Jake, and Celeb.
The frat house had four bunks. Billy's on the bottom left, Jake's on top. Celeb's on the bottom right, Jr.'s on top. Three sleeping bags came out of the closet for Ryan, Billy, and Daniel.
They settled in, the younger boys claiming spots on the floor.
"This is so cool," Daniel said, looking around. "You guys actually live here together?"
"Since we were kids," Jake said, sitting on his bunk, wincing as he adjusted his bandaged arm. "Well, Jr. moved in when he was thirteen. Celeb came later."
"Best setup ever," Billy added.
Someone knocked on the door. Sarah poked her head in. "You boys need anything?"
"We're good, Mom," Billy said.
She looked at all seven of them—her sons, her nephew, Celeb, and the teenagers who'd helped save them. Her eyes welled up again.
"I love you," she said. "All of you."
"Love you too, Mom."
She closed the door.
Jr. waited five minutes, listening. Then he crept to the door, opened it a crack, looked down the hall.
"All clear," he whispered.
The three younger boys looked confused. "All clear for what?"
Billy and Jake exchanged grins. Billy rolled off his bunk, knelt down, and pried up two floorboards near his bed.
From the hidden compartment, he pulled out three six-packs of beer.
Ryan's eyes went wide. "No way."
"Way," Jake said. "We replace these nightly. Just glad Pops never got a count of his stash!"
All seven of them burst into loud laughter.
"Wait," Jr. said, "Pops doesn't know?"
"Oh, he knows," Billy said, still laughing. "He's just playing dumb. Has been for years."
More laughter.
He passed out beers. Everyone took one, even Celeb who had to manage it one-handed.
They sat there—on bunks, on sleeping bags, on the floor—and opened their beers.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Jake raised his can. "To the consortium."
"To the consortium," they echoed.
They drank.
Billy looked at Jr. "You saved our lives tonight, you know that?"
"We all did," Jr. said.
"No. You tracked us. You kept the audio live. You guided them in." Billy's voice was rough. "We wouldn't have made it without you."
Jr.'s throat tightened. "That's what family does."
Jake nodded, took another sip. His hand was shaking slightly—adrenaline finally wearing off, the reality of what they'd survived hitting him.
Ryan noticed. "You okay, Jake?"
Jake looked at the younger boy. "Yeah. Just... it's hitting me now. How close we came."
"But you didn't," Ryan said. "You made it. You're here."
"We're here," Jake agreed.
They sat together in the frat house, drinking their contraband beer, the older boys teaching the younger ones how to properly drink, how to pace yourself, how to hide the empties.
The wounds would heal. The rope burns, the gunshots, the burns from the electrical torture. The nightmares would be harder—those might never fully go away. But they'd face them together.
That's what the consortium meant.
That's what family meant.
Outside, the sun had fully risen. A new day in Kings County.
And the healing had begun.
THE END
