Chapter 1: The Ambush
The north fence line was always the worst job on the Benson ranch—forty miles from the main house, nothing but scrub brush and heat shimmer in every direction. Billy Benson worked the barbed wire in the late afternoon sun, his shirt already soaked through and discarded on a fence post twenty yards back. At twenty years old, he had the build of someone who'd been doing ranch work since he could walk—broad shoulders, muscular arms bronzed from the Texas sky.
Buttercup, his chestnut mare, stood patient nearby, tail flicking at flies.
Billy's radio crackled on his belt. Jake's voice: "Billy, you still out at the north corner?"
"Yeah, almost done with this section. Another hour maybe."
"Don't stay out too late. Mom's making pot roast."
Billy grinned. "Tell her to save me some. I'm starving. Over and out."
He clipped the radio back and returned to the fence, not noticing the dust cloud rising in the distance.
What Billy didn't know—what none of them knew yet—was that the Cramers had been monitoring their radio frequency for weeks. Every transmission, every location update, every piece of information about who was where and when they'd be alone.
Justin Cramer sat in his truck a half-mile out, binoculars trained on the distant figure working the fence line. He lowered them and smiled. "He's alone. Just like we thought."
Three Cramer boys sat on horseback nearby, waiting.
"Let's go get him," Justin said.
They came fast—four riders appearing from different directions, cutting off any escape route. Billy saw them too late. He ran for Buttercup, but they were already on him.
"Easy now, Billy boy," one of the Cramers called out, pulling his horse between Billy and his mare.
Billy's hand went to his radio, but Justin was off his horse in seconds, ripping it from Billy's belt and throwing it into the dirt. "Won't be needing that."
"What the hell do you want, Cramer?" Billy's voice was steady, but his heart hammered in his chest.
Justin circled him slowly. "What do I want? I want your family and that whole damn consortium to understand something. You don't own Kings County. Not yet, anyway."
"We're not doing anything to you—"
"Shut up." Justin gestured to Buttercup. "Get on your horse. You're coming with us."
Billy looked at the four men surrounding him, all mounted, all watching. No way out. He walked to Buttercup and swung into the saddle.
"Hands where I can see them," Justin said, taking Buttercup's reins. "You try anything stupid, and we'll drag you the rest of the way."
They pushed southeast, away from Benson land. Billy rode with his hands visible on the saddle horn, Cramer boys flanking him on both sides, Justin leading with Buttercup's reins. He tried to keep track of landmarks—a dry creek bed, a stand of mesquite, a rusted windmill—anything that might help him figure out where they were taking him.
They rode for over an hour in tense silence. The sun dropped lower, painting the scrub brush in shades of orange and red. Billy's mind raced. What did they want? Money? Land? Was this about the consortium?
Finally, the Cramer ranch house came into view—a weathered structure surrounded by failing fences and overgrown brush. They stopped in front of a barn.
"Get him down," Justin said.
Two of the boys dismounted. Billy swung off Buttercup, and immediately they grabbed him. He tried to pull away, but there were too many of them.
"Hold him."
They wrenched his arms behind his back. Rope bit into his wrists, wrapping tight. Then his elbows—yanked together until his shoulders screamed in protest. More rope circled his biceps, pulling them close. Then around his torso, again and again, a dozen times, forcing his bound arms hard against his back. Each wrap cinched tighter, cutting into his bare skin.
Billy gritted his teeth, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.
"That'll hold him," one of them said.
They dragged him into the barn and hauled him upright beneath a beam. Someone grabbed his boots while others hoisted the rope. Billy felt himself rising, inverting, until he hung upside down, his head three feet off the ground. Blood rushed to his skull. The world flipped.
Justin Cramer crouched down to look Billy in the eyes. "You're gonna help us have a conversation with your family. A real productive one."
Billy said nothing.
Justin stood and walked toward the barn door. "Get comfortable, Billy boy. You're gonna be here a while."
The door slammed shut. Darkness swallowed the barn. And Billy hung there, alone, bound and inverted, listening to his own heartbeat thunder in his ears.
Chapter 2: Strung Up
Time lost meaning in the darkness of the barn.
Billy hung inverted, the rope around his boots creaking with every small movement. Blood pooled in his head, a steady throb building behind his eyes. His shoulders burned where the ropes cut in, arms locked uselessly behind his back. He tried to shift his weight, searching for any position that might ease the pressure, but there was none.
He could hear movement outside—boots on gravel, voices too low to make out words, the occasional whinny of a horse. Buttercup. Was she still out there?
The barn door scraped open, flooding the space with harsh light. Billy squinted against it, his vision swimming.
Justin Cramer walked in, followed by two of his boys. He pulled up an overturned bucket and sat down, bringing his face level with Billy's.
"How you doing, Billy boy?"
Billy said nothing.
"Not much of a talker, huh?" Justin smiled. "That's alright. You don't need to talk. You just need to exist." He leaned closer. "See, your family's gonna get a message real soon. We're gonna invite your brother Jake to come see you. Just him. Unarmed."
"He won't come," Billy said, his voice rough.
"Oh, I think he will. You two are close, right? Practically twins, from what I hear." Justin stood and walked around Billy's suspended form. "And if he doesn't? Well, then we'll have to encourage him."
He nodded to one of his boys, who stepped forward with a length of rope.
"Wait—" Billy started.
But they were already on him. One grabbed his suspended legs to hold him still while the other worked more rope around his ankles, then up to his knees, binding them together. The rope dug in, adding new points of pain to the mounting collection.
"That's just a taste," Justin said. "You tell Jake that when you see him. Tell him what happens when people don't cooperate."
They left him there. The door slammed shut again.
Billy hung in the darkness, every breath shallow, every muscle screaming. He tried to focus on something, anything—the radio call he'd missed at the fence line, Mom's pot roast waiting at home, Buttercup's steady presence.
Jake wouldn't come. The family would know better. They'd mount a search, bring the consortium, bring Sheriff Wade Nelson and his deputies. They wouldn't negotiate with kidnappers.
But hours passed. Or maybe it was minutes—Billy couldn't tell anymore. The pressure in his head built to unbearable levels. His vision darkened at the edges, consciousness threatening to slip away.
The door opened again. Justin walked in alone this time, holding a radio.
"Just got word from the Benson ranch," he said conversationally. "Your brother says he's not coming. Says the family won't negotiate with us." Justin shook his head. "Disappointing."
He set the radio down on the bucket and walked over to Billy.
"You know what that means, don't you?"
Billy's stomach dropped.
Justin grabbed one of the ropes binding Billy's arms and yanked it tighter. Billy gasped, unable to stop the sound that escaped. The rope bit deeper into his biceps, his circulation cutting off.
"You're gonna hang here a while longer, Billy. And every hour Jake doesn't show up, we're gonna make sure you remember why family's supposed to stick together."
Justin worked methodically, tightening each rope, adding pressure to Billy's shoulders, his chest, his arms. By the time he finished, Billy's vision was white at the edges, his breathing ragged.
"See you in an hour," Justin said cheerfully, and walked out.
The darkness closed in again. Billy's mind drifted, pain becoming the only reality. Jake had done the right thing. The smart thing. Don't give them what they want.
But God, it hurt.
Time crawled. Billy faded in and out, consciousness slipping. At some point, he heard shouting outside—raised voices, an engine starting. Movement. Something was happening.
The barn stayed dark and silent.
Billy hung there, alone, and waited for whatever came next.
Chapter 3: The Escalation
Trucks and cars lined the driveway of the Benson ranch house, headlights cutting through the dusk. The consortium was gathering.
Jake Benson stood in the main room, staring at the radio in his hand like it might explode. Celeb paced near the window—he'd been in the "frat house" room he shared with Billy, Jake, and Jr. when the call came in. Tom and Sarah Benson stood near the fireplace, Pops in his usual chair with his brandy. Ray leaned against the wall while Josh and Rebecca waited by the door to greet the arriving families.
Sheriff Wade Nelson and his wife Mary came through first with their sons Wilson and Ryan. Then Robert and Caroline Beaumont. Miguel and Rosa Rodriguez with their son Daniel. The Matterns—Frank and Linda with Ryan. The Renzos—Tony and Maria with Billy.
The boys immediately gravitated to the dining table where Billy Jr. had already set up his laptop and screens.
"Is everyone here?" Tom asked, his voice tight.
Wade did a quick headcount. "All six families accounted for."
"Good." Tom looked at Jake. "Tell them."
Jake's jaw clenched. "The Cramers have Billy. They contacted me on the radio. They want me to come see him. Alone. Unarmed."
The room erupted in voices.
"Absolutely not," Wade said, his sheriff's authority cutting through.
"That's a trap," Ray added. "They'll take you too."
"So what do we do?" Jake's voice rose. "Leave Billy strung up in that barn?"
"We go get him," Pops said, setting down his brandy glass with a heavy thunk.
Tom held up his hand for quiet. "They're trying to squeeze us. Make the consortium buckle. They want something."
"What do they want?" Caroline Beaumont asked.
"Us gone," Wade said quietly. "The six families control half of Kings County now. The Cramers have been squeezed out of business for months. This is their move."
At the dining table, Billy Jr. had his laptop open with three other screens arranged around him. Daniel Rodriguez, Ryan Mattern, and Billy Renzo crowded in, all of them plugged into tablets and devices, fingers flying.
"Jr.," Pops called out. "You boys got those drones ready?"
"Yes sir," Jr. said, not looking up. "But we've got a problem first."
The room went quiet.
Jr. looked up at Jake, then at the gathered families. "They've been listening to our radio communications. That's how they knew Billy was alone at the north fence. They've probably been monitoring the consortium for weeks."
Curses erupted around the room.
"Can you stop them?" Wade asked.
Jr. nodded. "Already on it. We're scrambling the frequency now. Anything we say from here on out, the Cramers won't be able to hear. Every family's radio is getting the new encryption."
"How long?" Tom asked.
"Daniel's pushing the update now," Jr. said. "Five minutes, tops."
Tom moved to the center of the room. "Alright. Here's what we're doing. Wade, you're coordinating as sheriff. The six families—all of us—we arm up and prepare to move on the Cramer ranch."
"You're not sending Jake?" Sarah asked, her voice strained.
"Hell no," Pops said. "They get both my great-grandsons over my dead body."
"But Billy—" Jake started.
"Billy's tough," Pops cut him off. "Tougher than those Cramer boys know. He'll hold. We do this smart."
Celeb stopped pacing. "When do we move?"
"Soon as the boys finish their recon," Tom said.
Jr.'s fingers flew across the keyboard. "Launching drones now. We'll scout the Cramer ranch first, see what we're dealing with."
The families spread through the house. Men checked weapons from the gun safe. Women coordinated communication and supply chains. The Benson ranch transformed into a command center, the consortium moving with practiced efficiency.
At the table, the four boys worked in concentrated silence, screens glowing. After twenty minutes, Jr. looked up, his face grim.
"The Cramer place is empty."
Tom crossed to the table in three strides. "What?"
"Trucks are gone. Buildings are dark. No heat signatures." Jr. pulled up the drone footage on the main screen. "They moved him."
"Damn it," Wade said.
"They knew," Ray said. "Knew we wouldn't send Jake alone. Knew we'd come for Billy. So they ran."
Jake's hands balled into fists. "Where?"
"Working on it," Billy Renzo said, fingers moving across his tablet. "Expanding search parameters now."
Jr.'s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and his face went pale.
"What?" Jake demanded.
Jr. turned the phone around. The message was short:
Consortium won't negotiate? Fine. $1 million in cash. 24 hours. Instructions to follow. Or Billy dies.
The room went dead silent.
"Now they're done playing," Wade said quietly.
Jr. was already typing, the other three boys moving in synchronized response. "Tracing the text. Expanding drone search to thirty-mile radius. If they're on horseback with Billy, they can't have gotten farther than that."
"You boys can find him?" Miguel Rodriguez asked.
"Yes sir," Daniel said without looking up. "We'll find him."
Tom looked around the room at the gathered families—Bensons, Nelsons, Beaumonts, Rodriguezes, Matterns, Renzos. "The Cramers just declared war on all of us. We bring Billy home. Together."
Pops grabbed his rifle from the rack. "Then let's go hunting."
Chapter 4: The Escape
Billy didn't know where they were taking him.
The Cramers had cut him down from the barn beam at the ranch house, letting him collapse to the dirt floor. Before he could catch his breath, they'd hauled him upright and dragged him outside to a waiting truck.
"Get him in the back," Justin ordered.
They threw Billy into the truck bed like a sack of grain, his bound arms screaming in protest. He landed hard on his shoulder, unable to break his fall. The tailgate slammed shut.
The truck lurched forward, bouncing over rough terrain. Billy rolled with each bump, unable to hold on, unable to see where they were going in the darkness. Other trucks followed—he could hear their engines, see their headlights bouncing behind.
After what felt like hours of jarring, punishing road, they stopped. Billy heard the creak of old wood, smelled dust and decay. Another barn. Different location.
They dragged him inside and strung him up again, rope around his boots, hoisting him until he hung inverted in the blackness. The door slammed shut.
"He's secure?" Justin's voice, outside.
"Ain't going nowhere."
"Good. Park the trucks out of sight. Consortium'll be looking for us by now."
Footsteps faded. Engines started, then moved away into the distance. Then silence.
Billy hung there in the new location, wherever it was. His head pounded. Blood pooled behind his eyes. The ropes cut deeper into his arms, his torso. Every breath was shallow, painful.
But the Cramers had made the same mistake.
They'd tied the rope around his boots again, not his ankles. And after hours of hanging, Billy's feet had shifted in the leather.
He started working his right foot, pushing down while pulling his heel up. The boot held at first, but he kept working it. Twisting. Pushing. His ankle bent at angles that sent pain shooting up his leg, but the boot loosened.
Time lost meaning in the darkness. Could've been an hour, could've been five. But finally, his heel slipped free.
Billy worked faster on the left boot. When both feet were free, he let himself fall.
He couldn't control the landing. With his arms bound, he hit the ground hard on his shoulder, gasping as the impact drove air from his lungs. He lay there, the world still spinning, his body screaming.
But he was down.
Billy rolled to his knees, then struggled to his feet. The boots hung above him in the darkness. He jumped, catching one with his teeth, letting it fall. Then the other.
Getting them on without hands was torture. He sat on the dirt floor, working his feet in by feel, using the wall to push them on. Every movement sent fire through his shoulders.
Finally both boots were on. Billy moved to the barn door and pressed his ear against it. Silence outside. No voices. No engines. The Cramers had left.
He pushed the door open and slipped out into the night.
Billy had no idea where he was. Different terrain than the Cramer ranch—more open, flatter. He picked a direction and ran, stumbling through scrub brush with his arms locked behind him. No balance. No way to catch himself when he tripped.
He ran until his lungs burned, then stopped, gasping. His phone. He still had his phone.
Billy twisted, trying to reach his back pocket with his bound hands. His fingers brushed the edge of it. He contorted until he could grip it, pulling it free.
His last call had been to Jake.
Billy fumbled with the phone behind his back, feeling for the buttons. He pressed what he hoped was redial. The phone rang.
"Billy?" Jake's voice exploded through the speaker. "Billy, is that you?"
"Jake—" Billy's voice cracked. "I'm out. I got out."
"Jesus Christ, where are you?"
"I don't know. They moved me in trucks. Some other barn. I ran—Jake, my arms are still tied. They're gonna come after me."
"We're coming for you. Jr.'s got drones up. Talk to me. What do you see?"
"Nothing. Just scrub brush. It's dark. I don't know where I am."
"Keep the line open," Jake said. "Jr., you getting this?"
"Got it," Jr.'s voice came through, distant. "Triangulating now. Billy, keep talking. We need the signal."
"They strung me up again," Billy said, forcing himself to focus. "Different barn. I slipped my boots, hit the ground. The Cramers left in their trucks."
The phone beeped a low battery warning.
"Battery's dying," Billy said.
"How much you got?" Jake asked, his voice tight.
Billy couldn't see the screen with his hands behind his back. "I don't know. It just beeped."
"Jr.?" Jake's voice rose.
"Almost there," Jr. said. "Billy, keep talking. Describe anything you can."
"There's a windmill," Billy said, turning slowly. "Old one. Maybe quarter mile out. Scrub brush everywhere. Flat ground."
"Good. That's good. Jr.?"
"Almost—got it! Partial location. Thirty miles southeast. Redirecting drones now."
The phone beeped again.
"Billy, we know where you are," Jake said. "Find cover and hide. We're coming."
"Jake—"
The phone beeped a third time, then died. The line went silent.
Billy stood alone in the darkness, the dead phone still clutched in his bound hands behind his back. Somewhere out there, the Cramers would discover he was gone. Somewhere closer—he hoped—the consortium was coming.
He just had to survive long enough to be found.
Billy started moving through the scrub brush, trying to be quiet, knowing he was leaving tracks. But he had no choice.
He had to keep moving.
Chapter 5: The Hunt
At the Benson ranch, Billy Jr. stared at his screens, fingers flying across the keyboard. Daniel Rodriguez, Ryan Mattern, and Billy Renzo crowded around him, all of them locked into their tablets.
"Signal's dead," Daniel said.
"I know," Jr. snapped. "But we got enough. Triangulation puts him in a three-mile radius, thirty miles southeast."
"Drones are in the air," Ryan Mattern said, eyes on his screen. "Six of them covering the search grid."
"Thermal imaging?" Jr. asked.
"Active. If Billy's out there, we'll find him."
Behind them, the consortium was mobilizing. Tom Benson coordinated with Wade Nelson, dividing the six families into search teams. Weapons were checked, trucks and horses readied. Pops stood by the door with his rifle, Jake and Celeb beside him.
"How long until the drones have eyes on him?" Tom asked.
"Ten minutes to the search area," Jr. said without looking up. "Then it depends on how much ground he's covered."
Jake paced, fists clenched. "He said his arms were tied. He can't be moving fast."
"Which means the Cramers might find him first," Celeb said quietly.
"Not if we get there first," Pops said. "Jr., you give us coordinates the second you spot him."
"Yes sir."
On Jr.'s main screen, six drone feeds displayed in a grid. The landscape below was dark, lit only by infrared. Scrub brush stretched in every direction.
"Drone Three has something," Billy Renzo said suddenly.
Jr. switched the feed to full screen. A heat signature, human-sized, moving through the brush.
"Is that him?" Jake moved closer.
"Could be," Jr. said. "But—wait. There's more. Drone Five, northeast quadrant."
More heat signatures. Multiple vehicles.
"The Cramers," Daniel said.
"They're searching for him," Jr. said. "Grid pattern. They know he's out here."
Tom crossed to the table. "Can you tell if they've spotted Billy?"
"Not yet. But they're close. Maybe half a mile between them."
"We need to move now," Wade said. "Boys, grab your gear. You're riding with us."
Jr. looked up. "Sir?"
"One of you in each lead vehicle," Tom said. "You coordinate the drones and GPS on the scrambled network. Guide us in real-time."
The four boys scrambled, grabbing tablets and backup batteries, shoving equipment into backpacks.
"Jr., you're with me, Jake, and Pops," Tom said.
"Daniel, you're with us," Miguel Rodriguez called out.
"Ryan, Mattern truck," Frank Mattern said.
"Billy, with me," Tony Renzo said.
"Mount up," Tom ordered. "All families, trucks and horses. We ride now."
The ranch exploded into motion. Engines roared to life. Men swung into saddles. The six families—Bensons, Nelsons, Beaumonts, Rodriguezes, Matterns, Renzos—formed up in a convoy that stretched down the driveway.
Jake climbed into the lead truck with Celeb, Pops, Tom, and Jr. in the back seat with his laptop balanced on his knees. The screen glowed with drone feeds and GPS coordinates.
"How long to get there?" Jake asked as they pulled out.
"Forty minutes if we push it," Tom said, accelerating.
"Billy doesn't have forty minutes," Jake said.
Jr.'s fingers flew across his keyboard. "Drone feed is live. I'm patching everyone into the network now. All vehicles will have GPS coordinates updating in real-time."
The scrambled radio crackled. "All units, this is Drone Command," Jr. said into his headset. "Target is mobile, bearing 142 degrees, thirty miles southeast. Cramer vehicles are in pursuit pattern. Stay on network for updates."
Confirmations came back from each vehicle in the convoy.
"Good," Jr. said. "Drones have visual. Guiding you in."
The convoy rolled out, headlights cutting through the darkness, four tech-savvy teenagers coordinating the hunt from moving vehicles, their screens glowing with the positions of friend and foe.
Billy moved through the scrub brush as quietly as he could, but every step crashed through branches, every movement sent twigs snapping underfoot. With his arms bound behind him, he couldn't push the brush aside, couldn't move it silently out of his way.
His bare torso was slick with sweat, dripping off him as he stumbled forward. His mouth was dry as dust. When had he last had water? Before they took him at the fence line? That felt like days ago.
He kept moving, trying to put distance between himself and that barn. The Cramers would check on him eventually. Maybe they already had.
Billy's boot caught on something and he pitched forward, unable to catch himself. He hit the ground face-first, dirt filling his mouth. He rolled to his side, gasping, then struggled back to his feet. His shoulders screamed. The ropes had cut so deep that he couldn't feel his hands anymore.
He needed water. His body was shutting down, sweat pouring out faster than he could replace it. Dehydration was setting in—he could feel it in the way his thoughts were starting to drift, the way his legs felt heavy.
In the distance, he heard engines.
Billy froze, listening. Multiple vehicles, coming from the direction of the barn. They'd found him gone.
He started moving faster, stumbling through the brush. He needed to hide, needed cover, needed—
Water.
He smelled it before he saw it—the mineral scent of a stock pond. Billy pushed through a stand of mesquite and there it was, maybe thirty feet across, surrounded by trampled earth where cattle had come to drink.
The engine sounds were getting closer.
Billy waded into the pond, the water warm and murky. With his arms bound, he couldn't swim. He walked out until the water was chest-deep, then bent his knees, lowering himself until only his nose and eyes were above the surface.
His boots touched bottom. The water was just deep enough. Billy bent his knees more, getting lower, tilting his head back to keep his nose above water. The position was agony on his bound arms, his shoulders threatening to dislocate.
He could hear them now. Trucks, close. Voices.
"He can't have gone far!"
"Check the brush line!"
"Look for tracks!"
Billy held perfectly still, knees bent, legs burning from the crouch, water lapping at his nostrils. He didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe too loud.
A truck rolled past the pond, headlights cutting through the darkness. Billy could see two figures in the cab. Justin Cramer driving, another one riding shotgun.
"Damn it, where'd he go?" Justin's voice carried across the water.
"Maybe he headed south."
"He's tied up like a Christmas turkey. Can't have gotten far."
The truck slowed. Billy's heart stopped. Were they going to check the pond?
"Any tracks here?" Justin called out.
Someone walked to the edge of the pond. Billy could see boots, just twenty feet away. He held his breath, praying the murky water hid him.
"Just cattle prints. Nothing fresh."
"Keep looking. He's out here somewhere."
The boots walked away. The truck rolled on.
Billy stayed frozen in his crouch, legs shaking, lungs burning. He counted to one hundred before he dared move. Then another hundred.
Finally, when the engine sounds had faded into the distance, Billy straightened his legs. The relief was immediate and agonizing—his muscles cramped, his knees nearly buckled.
He waded to the edge of the pond and collapsed on the bank, gasping. At least he'd gotten water, even if it was warm stock pond water.
But the Cramers were hunting him. They were close, and they were searching.
Billy forced himself to his feet. The wet ropes around his torso were already starting to dry in the night air, tightening as they did. Water still dripped from his jeans.
He had to keep moving. Had to put more distance between himself and them.
Billy picked a direction and started walking, each step heavier than the last, his body demanding rest that wasn't coming.
The night stretched on, and Billy kept moving, not knowing that thirty miles away, a convoy was racing toward him, or that high above in the darkness, drones were tracking his every step while four teenagers coordinated his rescue from the backs of speeding trucks.
Chapter 6: Collapse
Billy didn't know how much farther he could go.
Each step was harder than the last. His legs felt like lead, his bare torso still dripping with sweat and pond water. The wet ropes around his chest and arms had started to dry in the night air, and as they dried, they shrank.
Tightening.
Billy gasped as the rope around his biceps constricted another fraction of an inch. It felt like a vise, squeezing, cutting off what little circulation he had left to his hands. The rope around his torso pulled tighter too, making it harder to breathe, forcing his bound arms deeper into his back.
He stumbled, caught himself, kept moving.
Then he felt it. Warm wetness running down his arms.
Blood.
The ropes had cut through skin. Billy could feel it trickling down his biceps, his forearms, dripping from his wrists. The rope around his chest was doing the same—blood soaking into his jeans where the lowest coils wrapped around his waist.
He tried to ignore it. Just keep moving. One foot in front of the other.
But the blood kept coming. Not a trickle anymore. Squirting with each heartbeat from where the rope had sawed through to the arteries close to the surface.
Billy's vision started to darken at the edges. Blood loss. Dehydration. Exhaustion. His body was shutting down, systems failing one by one.
He took another step and his knee buckled. He caught himself, barely, but the effort cost him. His breathing came in ragged gasps now, shallow and quick.
The darkness was complete. The moon had set hours ago, and the stars provided no real light. Billy couldn't see where he was going. Could barely see his own feet.
Another step. Another. His boot caught on brush and he went down.
This time he couldn't get up.
Billy lay in the dirt, his face pressed against the ground, blood pooling beneath him. He tried to move, tried to push himself up with legs that wouldn't respond. His body had nothing left.
This is it, he thought. This is where it ends.
He thought about Jake. About the frat house and the hidden beers under the floorboards. About Jr. and Celeb and all the stupid jokes they'd shared. About Mom's pot roast he'd never gotten to eat. About Buttercup waiting for him somewhere.
About Pops and his brandy and his war stories.
Billy's eyes closed. He couldn't keep them open anymore.
I'm sorry, Jake, he thought. I tried.
The darkness pressed in from all sides, not just the night but something deeper. His heartbeat slowed in his ears. The pain began to fade, replaced by a cold numbness that spread from his arms through his chest.
Somewhere far away, he thought he heard engines. Or maybe he was imagining it. Wishful thinking in his final moments.
Billy Benson lay alone in the scrub brush of Kings County, blood soaking into the Texas dirt, and waited for the end to come.
Above him, unseen and unheard, a drone hovered in the darkness, its thermal camera locked on the heat signature of a young man dying in the dirt thirty miles from home.
Chapter 7: Found
"Got him!" Billy Renzo's voice cracked through the scrambled radio. "Drone Two has eyes on target. He's down. Not moving."
In the lead truck, Jr. pulled up the feed on his laptop. His face went pale. "Oh God."
"What?" Jake lunged forward from the passenger seat.
Jr. turned the screen. The thermal image showed a human form on the ground, motionless. And around it, darker spots where the ground was cooler. Blood. A lot of it.
"How far?" Tom demanded, flooring the accelerator.
"Two miles northwest of our position," Jr. said, fingers flying. "Sending coordinates now."
The radio crackled with responses from the other vehicles. The convoy adjusted course, engines roaring.
"Is he alive?" Jake's voice was barely a whisper.
Jr. watched the thermal signature. "Heat signature is there. But it's fading. We need to get to him now."
"Can you see the Cramers?" Pops asked from the back seat.
Jr. switched feeds. "Drone Five has them. Three trucks, approximately one mile east of Billy's position, moving in a search pattern."
"They haven't found him yet," Wade Nelson's voice came through the radio.
"Not yet," Jr. confirmed. "But they're getting closer."
Tom's jaw clenched. "Wade, you and Wilson take two vehicles and intercept the Cramers. Rest of us go straight for Billy."
"Copy that," Wade said. "All units, Nelson and Beaumont families break off and head east. We'll cut them off."
Jr. watched his screen as the convoy split. Three vehicles peeled away, heading toward the Cramer trucks. The rest pushed forward toward Billy.
"One mile out," Jr. said.
Jake had his door open before Tom even stopped the truck. He hit the ground running, flashlight cutting through the darkness. Celeb and Pops were right behind him.
"Billy!" Jake shouted. "Billy, where are you?"
"Bearing 340 degrees," Jr. called out, following with his tablet. "Fifty yards."
Jake crashed through the scrub brush, flashlight sweeping. Then he saw him.
Billy lay face-down in the dirt, arms still bound behind his back, blood pooling around him. He wasn't moving.
"No, no, no—" Jake dropped to his knees beside his brother. "Billy! Billy, can you hear me?"
Pops was there a second later, fingers on Billy's neck. "He's got a pulse. Weak, but it's there."
"Get these ropes off him!" Jake pulled out his knife, sawing at the bindings.
The rope was soaked with blood, cutting deep into Billy's arms and torso. Jake worked carefully, his hands shaking. As each rope fell away, Billy's arms remained locked in position, muscles frozen from hours of being bound.
Tom arrived with the medical kit. "How bad?"
"Bad," Pops said. "He's lost a lot of blood. We need to get him to a hospital."
Miguel Rodriguez ran up with blankets. "Convoy's ready to move."
Jake finally cut through the last rope. Billy's arms stayed bent behind him, muscles unable to move. Jake carefully, gently, brought them forward. Billy moaned, the first sound he'd made.
"He's alive," Jake breathed. "Billy, stay with us. We're taking you home."
Tom wrapped blankets around Billy's bare torso, trying to stem the bleeding and keep him warm. "Get him in the truck. Now."
They lifted Billy as carefully as they could and carried him to the vehicle. Jake climbed in the back, cradling his brother's head in his lap.
"Jr., call the ranch," Tom said as he started the engine. "Let your grandmother know we found him."
Jr. switched frequencies and dialed. "Grandma? It's Jr. We found him."
Sarah Benson's voice came through, tight with emotion. "Thank God. Is he—"
"He's alive. Unconscious. We're taking him straight to Kings County Hospital."
Jr. could hear voices in the background—Sarah relaying the news to Rebecca, Mary Nelson, Rosa Rodriguez, Linda Mattern, Maria Renzo, Caroline Beaumont. All the women who'd stayed at the ranch, waiting.
"How bad?" Sarah asked quietly.
Jr. looked at Billy's pale face, the blood-soaked blankets. "Bad, Grandma. Real bad. But he's breathing."
"We'll be praying," Sarah said. "Call us when you know more."
"Yes ma'am."
Jr. switched back to the convoy frequency just as Wade's voice crackled through. "Wade to Command. We've intercepted the Cramers. All three vehicles stopped. Six suspects in custody."
"Copy that," Tom said. "We're en route to Kings County Hospital with Billy. Wilson, you and Ryan coordinate with the sheriff's department. Get them processed."
"Yes sir," Wilson Nelson's voice came back.
Tom pushed the accelerator to the floor. "Jr., call ahead to the hospital. Tell them we're coming in hot with a trauma patient."
Jr. was already dialing. "On it."
The truck tore through the darkness, heading back toward civilization. In the back seat, Jake held Billy, feeling his brother's shallow breathing, watching his pale face in the dim light.
"You're gonna be okay," Jake whispered. "You hear me? You're gonna be okay."
Billy's eyes fluttered but didn't open.
Behind them, the rest of the consortium followed in convoy. And a mile east, Sheriff Wade Nelson and his deputies stood with the Cramer boys in handcuffs, their trucks surrounded, their plans in ruins.
The hunt was over.Chapter 8: Vigil
The ICU room at Kings County Hospital was crowded, but no one was leaving.
Billy lay in the hospital bed, unconscious, hooked up to IVs and monitors. His arms were heavily bandaged where the ropes had cut through. More bandages wrapped his torso. The doctors had said he'd lost a dangerous amount of blood. Severe dehydration. Muscle damage. But he'd live.
If he woke up.
Jake sat in the chair closest to Billy's bed, elbows on his knees, staring at his brother's face. He hadn't left that spot in eighteen hours. Jr. sat at a small table by the window with his laptop, monitoring the scrambled network. Celeb was sprawled in another chair, dozing. Tom stood near the door, keeping watch.
Rebecca, Jr.'s mother and Josh's wife, moved quietly around the room, checking Billy's IV lines, adjusting blankets. She'd been a practical nurse before marrying into the Benson family, and she'd taken charge the moment they'd arrived at the hospital, coordinating with the medical staff, making sure Billy got the best care.
The other wiz kids—Daniel Rodriguez, Ryan Mattern, and Billy Renzo—cycled through periodically, bringing updates from their families, supplies, food that mostly went uneaten.
"Vitals are holding steady," Rebecca said quietly, checking the monitors. "Heart rate's good. Blood pressure's stabilizing."
"When will he wake up?" Jake asked, his voice rough from not sleeping.
"When he's ready," Rebecca said gently. "His body's been through hell. It needs time to heal."
Jake nodded but didn't take his eyes off Billy.
Jr.'s laptop chimed. He typed quickly, then looked up. "Grandma Sarah's asking for an update."
"Tell her no change," Tom said. "But he's stable."
Jr. typed the message and sent it through the scrambled network. "She says the ladies are keeping vigil at the ranch. Cooking, praying. They've got enough food to feed an army when Billy comes home."
"He will come home," Pops' voice came from the doorway. The old man walked in, looking every one of his years. He moved to the foot of Billy's bed and stood there, staring at his great-grandson.
Nobody spoke. The monitors beeped steadily.
Hours crawled by. Rebecca checked Billy's vitals regularly, making notes, communicating with the doctors. Jr. kept the families updated through the network. Celeb woke up, stretched, refused to leave when Tom suggested he get some real rest.
"We're staying," Celeb said simply, and that was that.
Dawn light started filtering through the window. Eighteen hours since they'd brought Billy in.
"Come on, little brother," Jake whispered. "Time to wake up."
And then Billy's fingers twitched.
Jake sat up straight. "Rebecca—"
She was already moving, checking the monitors. "His brain activity's changing. He might be coming around."
Billy's eyes moved beneath his closed lids. His breathing changed, became less regular.
"Get the doctor," Rebecca said to Jr.
Jr. was out the door in seconds.
Billy's eyes fluttered open, unfocused, confused. He tried to move and gasped, pain hitting him all at once.
"Easy, easy," Jake said, his hand on Billy's shoulder. "You're in the hospital. You're safe."
Billy's eyes found Jake's face. His mouth moved but no sound came out.
"Don't try to talk yet," Rebecca said, moving to his other side. "You've been unconscious for eighteen hours. The doctors have you on some strong medication."
The door opened and the doctor rushed in with Jr. behind him. Tom moved aside to let him through.
The doctor checked Billy's vitals, shining a light in his eyes, asking questions Billy could barely answer with nods or shakes of his head.
"Good," the doctor said finally. "Pupils are reactive. Vitals are improving. You're doing well, Mr. Benson."
Billy's eyes moved around the room—Jake, Jr., Celeb, Tom, Pops, Rebecca, the doctor. Then back to Jake.
"Cramers?" Billy's voice was barely a whisper.
"In custody," Jake said. "Wade got them. All of them."
Billy closed his eyes, relief washing over his face.
"How—" he started, then stopped, too exhausted to continue.
"Jr. found you," Jake said. "Drones tracked you after your phone died. We formed up a convoy—all six families—and came for you. Found you collapsed about two miles from where you escaped."
Billy's eyes opened again, finding Jr. across the room.
Jr. stood, coming closer to the bed. "You did good, Uncle Billy. You stayed alive long enough for us to find you."
"Buttercup?" Billy whispered.
Jake smiled, the first real smile in two days. "She's fine. Waiting for you at home."
Billy's eyes started to close again, exhaustion pulling him back under.
"Sleep," Tom said from his spot by the door. "We'll be here when you wake up."
Rebecca adjusted his IV and checked his monitors one more time. "I'll call the ranch with the update. Sarah and the others will want to know he's awake."
And as Billy slipped back into unconscious—this time healing sleep instead of trauma—Jake finally leaned back in his chair, the tension draining from his body.
His brother was going to be okay.
Chapter 8: Homecoming
Billy's recovery was amazing.
Three days in the hospital. Jake and Jr. never left his side, sleeping in chairs, communicating with the family back home through the scrambled network.
On the third day, Dr. Peterson came in for the morning rounds. He checked Billy's bandages, tested his range of motion, asked about pain levels.
"You're healing faster than I expected," Dr. Peterson said. "The tissue damage was severe, but you're young and strong. Your body's doing the work."
"Can I go home?" Billy asked.
Dr. Peterson looked at Rebecca, who'd been monitoring Billy's vitals all morning. She nodded.
"I think we can release you," Dr. Peterson said. "But you'll need continued care. Rebecca, you comfortable handling that at the ranch?"
"Yes," Rebecca said. "I'll monitor him daily. Check the wounds, watch for infection."
"Light activity only," Dr. Peterson said to Billy. "You need to get those muscles working again, but don't push it. No heavy lifting for a bit."
"How long?" Billy asked.
"Listen to your body. Rebecca will keep an eye on you."
"No more pain medication unless you really need it," Dr. Peterson continued. "Your body needs to tell you when you're overdoing it. Listen to it."
An hour later, Jake was helping Billy into a clean shirt—carefully, slowly, Billy's shoulders still stiff and sore. Jr. had already packed up his laptop and equipment.
"Almost forgot," Jr. said, pulling something from his bag. Billy's cowboy hat. "Saved it for you."
Billy took it, turning it over in his hands. The last time he'd worn it was at the north fence line, before everything went to hell.
"Thanks, Jr.," Billy said quietly.
Tom drove them back toward the ranch. Billy sat in the passenger seat, hat on his lap, watching the familiar landscape of Kings County roll by.
About a hundred yards from the house, Tom slowed the truck to a stop.
"Why are we stopping?" Billy asked.
Jake was grinning in the back seat. "Look."
Billy looked ahead and saw Celeb standing in the road, holding Buttercup's reins. The chestnut mare stood calm and patient, exactly as Billy remembered her.
"You've got to be kidding," Billy said, but he was already opening the door.
He walked toward Buttercup, and the horse nickered, tossing her head. Billy ran his hand along her neck.
"Hey girl," he whispered. "Missed you too."
"Think you can ride?" Celeb asked, holding out the reins.
Billy took them, put his cowboy hat on his head, and swung carefully into the saddle. His shoulders protested, but he was up.
"Let's go home," Billy said.
He nudged Buttercup forward at an easy walk, Jake and Jr. whooping from the truck behind him. As they got closer to the ranch house, Billy saw what was waiting.
Trucks and cars everywhere. The entire consortium had gathered—all six families. Bensons, Nelsons, Beaumonts, Rodriguezes, Matterns, Renzos. Tables set up in the yard loaded with food. A banner stretched across the porch: WELCOME HOME BILLY.
And Pops stood on the porch with his off-note banjo, already plucking out something that might've been a song if you were generous.
Billy rode Buttercup right up to the porch and dismounted. The crowd erupted—cheering, clapping, whistling.
"About damn time you got back," Pops said, setting down the banjo. "We've been waiting to have a proper party."
Sarah came down the steps and wrapped Billy in a careful hug. "Welcome home, sweetheart."
"Good to be home, Mom."
The celebration kicked off immediately. Grills fired up with steaks and ribs. Kids ran around the yard. The women had cooked enough food to feed half of Kings County. Someone handed Billy a beer—his first in days—and he took a long pull.
"Better?" Jake asked, appearing at his elbow with his own beer.
"Much better," Billy said.
Pops was making the rounds, pouring whiskey for anyone old enough and some who probably weren't. He stopped at Billy, flask in hand.
"Whiskey?" Pops offered.
"Beer's good for now, Pops," Billy said. "Don't want to push it."
"Smart kid." Pops took a swig himself. "Knew you'd make it back. Tough as nails, just like your great-great-grandfather."
The party rolled on into the evening. The wiz kids—Jr., Daniel Rodriguez, Ryan Mattern, and Billy Renzo—clustered around the equipment tables, showing off the drone footage from the rescue to anyone who'd watch. Wade Nelson and his deputies told the story of arresting the Cramers. Robert Beaumont was already talking about what this meant for the consortium's security going forward.
As the sun started to set, Billy found himself getting tired. Jake noticed.
"Want to head in?" Jake asked quietly.
"Yeah," Billy admitted.
They slipped away from the party—Billy, Jake, Jr., and Celeb—and headed into the house, up to the frat house room. Their room. Two bunk beds, exactly as they'd left it.
Jr. went straight for the floorboards, prying up the loose section. The hidden beer stash was still there.
"Thought we might need these," Jr. said, pulling out four bottles.
They settled in—Billy on his bunk, Jake across from him, Jr. and Celeb on the floor. They popped the beers and sat in comfortable silence for a moment.
"So," Celeb said finally. "You gonna tell us what it was really like out there?"
Billy took a sip of his beer. "You saw the drone footage."
"Not the same," Jr. said.
Billy was quiet for a moment. "I thought I was dead. Collapsed in the dirt, couldn't move anymore. Figured that was it."
"But you kept going long enough for us to find you," Jake said.
"Because I knew you'd come," Billy said simply. "All of you. The whole consortium. Knew you wouldn't leave me out there."
"Damn right we wouldn't," Celeb said.
Jr. raised his beer. "To family. And to never letting the Cramers monitor our radios again."
They clinked bottles.
"And to Buttercup," Billy added. "For waiting for me."
"To Buttercup," they echoed.
Outside, the party continued—music and laughter drifting through the window. But in the frat house, the four of them sat drinking contraband beer, safe and together, exactly where they belonged.
"Good to have you back, little brother," Jake said.
"Good to be back," Billy said.
And for the first time since the north fence line, Billy Benson felt like he was home.
