Chapter 1
They pulled back the tarp covering the truck bed. Jake Benson lay there, hands tied behind him, duct tape across his mouth, ankles bound tight. The late afternoon sun hit his face and he squinted, trying to get a look at them—three men, faces covered with bandanas like some bad Western movie.
"Cut his feet," one of them said.
The rope around his ankles went slack. Two of them hauled him up by his arms and marched him toward the abandoned house, his boots scraping against the dirt. The place looked like it had been empty for years—windows broken out, paint peeling off in long strips, porch sagging on one side.
Inside smelled like dust and rot. There was a solid wooden chair in what used to be the living room, positioned right in the center like they'd been planning this. They shoved him down onto it, arms still pinned behind his back.
"Shirt," the tall one said.
They yanked his work shirt up and over his head, leaving it bunched around his neck and baring his chest. Jake's skin was slick with sweat from the heat and the fear he was trying not to show. He was a hothead, not a coward, and these bastards were going to find that out.
They worked fast, like they'd practiced. Rope around each upper arm, lashing him to the sides of the chair back, then wrapping it between his bicep and the wood, frapping it tight. His shoulders started to ache immediately. They retied his ankles, then ran a long rope under the seat and pulled it up to his wrists behind him—a hogtie that arched his back and made every muscle strain.
More rope around his chest and gut, cinching his torso to the chair back. One of them stepped back and took pictures with Jake's own phone.
"That'll do," the tall one said.
Then they left.
Jake immediately started working the ropes, twisting his wrists, testing for any give. There wasn't much, but he'd find it. He was Jake Benson, and he'd be damned if he'd just sit here waiting.
Sarah Benson set the last platter on the table—pot roast with carrots and potatoes, the way Tom liked it. The whole family ate together most nights, all four sons when they were home, plus Pops at the head of the table with his brandy glass already poured.
"Where's Jake?" Tom asked, pulling out his chair.
"Thought he was with you," Billy said, glancing at the empty seat next to him.
Ray checked his watch. "He was working the north fence line. Should've been back an hour ago."
"Tried his radio," Josh added. "No answer."
Pops took a sip of his brandy and frowned. "That boy knows better than to miss dinner without calling in."
Tom pulled out his own radio. "Jake, you copy? Jake?"
Static.
Billy stood up. "I'll go find him. Jr., grab your gear."
Billy Jr. was already on his feet, fifteen years old and tall for his age, built like his father. "On it."
"Take the mule quad," Tom said. "North fence. And keep your radio on."
The sun was dropping toward the horizon when Billy and Jr. found Jake's quad parked near the fence line, work tools scattered on the ground. Billy killed the engine and they both climbed off.
"Jake!" Billy called out. Nothing.
Jr. walked the perimeter, eyes on the ground like his grandfather had taught him. "Uncle Billy, look at this."
Pieces of cut rope in the dirt. Tire tracks that weren't from Jake's quad. And something else—scuff marks in the dust, like someone had been dragged.
"Shit," Billy breathed.
Jr. didn't hesitate. He pulled the emergency transmitter from his belt and hit the button three times.
The mechanical voice echoed across every radio in the consortium: "911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr."
Then his own voice, clear and hard: "Everyone get to the Benson ranch house now. Jake's missing. Evidence of abduction at the north fence line. I repeat, Jake has been taken."
By the time Billy and Jr. got back to the house, trucks were already pulling up the drive. The Nelsons—Sheriff Wade first, lights flashing, with Wilson and Ryan right behind him. The Beaumonts. The Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes, the boys piling out with their parents.
Tom was standing on the porch when his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, looked at the screen, and went pale.
"Jesus Christ."
Everyone stopped.
"What is it?" Sarah asked, her voice tight.
Tom turned the phone around. The photo showed Jake tied to a chair, shirt pulled over his head, ropes everywhere, face twisted with anger even through the duct tape.
Below it, the text: $500K or he dies. No cops. Wait for instructions.
"Sons of bitches," Pops said, and for once nobody told him to watch his language.
Sheriff Wade was already moving. "Let me see that phone. Don't touch anything else."
"No cops?" Wilson said, reading over his father's shoulder. "Do these dumbasses know who we are?"
"Apparently not," Wade muttered, already pulling out his own phone.
Celeb pushed through the crowd, his face dark with rage. "Where is he? Do we know where they took him?"
"Not yet," Tom said.
"Then we fucking find him," Billy said. His voice was shaking—not with fear, but with the kind of fury that came from having your brother taken.
"We will," Wade said, his sheriff's voice cutting through the chaos. "But we do this smart. Everyone inside. We need a command center, and we need it now."
Billy Jr. was already texting, fingers flying across his phone screen. Around him, his buddies—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez—were doing the same.
"What are you boys doing?" Tom asked.
Jr. looked up, his eyes hard like his great-grandfather's. "Getting our shit together, Granddad. We're going to find Uncle Jake."
Pops grinned, despite everything. "That's my boy."
Sarah caught Tom's arm. "They took our son."
"I know," Tom said quietly. "But they just made the worst mistake of their worthless fucking lives."
The consortium was mobilizing.
Chapter 2
The Benson living room looked like a tech startup had exploded inside a cattle ranch. Billy Jr. and his crew had taken over the dining table, pushing aside Sarah's good dishes to make room for laptops, tablets, and equipment Tom couldn't even name.
"We need the Wi-Fi password for the mesh network," Billy Renzo said, fingers already flying across his keyboard.
"The what network?" Tom asked.
"Mesh, Mr. Benson. We're daisy-chaining our systems so we can distribute processing load across multiple nodes."
Tom looked at Wade. Wade shrugged.
"Just give them the goddamn password," Pops said from his chair, brandy glass in hand. "Let the boys work."
Billy Jr. was on his phone, texting rapid-fire. "Daniel's bringing the long-range receiver. Ryan's got the spectrum analyzer in case they're using encrypted comms."
"English, son," Josh said.
Jr. looked up, impatient. "We can listen to their radios if they're using them, Dad. Jesus."
"Watch your mouth," Rebecca said automatically.
"Fuck's sake, the boy's trying to find his uncle," Pops muttered. "Let him talk."
Sarah shot Pops a look but didn't say anything. Not now.
Sheriff Wade stood at the head of the table, his sheriff's hat on the chair beside him, studying Tom's phone. "They used Jake's phone to send this. That was stupid."
"Can you trace it?" Tom asked.
"Not me. But maybe these boys can." Wade nodded toward the table where the teenagers were setting up what looked like a small server farm. "What do you need from me?"
Billy Jr. looked up. "We need you not to respond to that text yet. Every time they use Jake's phone, we get a ping. More pings, better triangulation."
"Triangulation?" Wilson asked.
"We can figure out approximately where the fuck they are based on cell tower data," Ryan Mattern said, not looking up from his screen. "Signal strength, tower handoffs, timing advances—"
"Christ, I have no idea what you just said," Wilson muttered.
Daniel Rodriguez grinned. "That's okay, Horse. You're pretty."
"Fuck you, Rodriguez."
Pops laughed, a bark of approval. "That's my boys."
Billy was pacing near the window, fists clenched, jaw tight. Celeb stood beside him, equally wound up, both of them radiating the kind of fury that came from helplessness.
"How long?" Billy asked, his voice tight.
"How long for what?" Jr. asked.
"How long until we know where he is?"
"Depends on how many times they use the phone. Could be an hour. Could be six."
"Fuck that," Celeb said. "We should be out there looking."
"Looking where?" Wade asked, his voice calm but firm. "Kings County is five hundred square miles. You want to drive around in the dark hoping to stumble on them?"
Billy's hands were shaking. "They took my brother."
"I know," Wade said. "And we're going to get him back. But we do this smart."
Pops set down his brandy glass and stood up, slower than he used to but still steady. He walked over to Billy and Celeb, put a gnarled hand on each of their shoulders.
"Listen to me, you hotheaded little shits," he said, not unkindly. "I've been in combat. Real combat. And the number one way to get your people killed is to run in without a plan. Wade knows what he's doing. These boys know what they're doing." He jerked his head toward the table. "So we let them work, and when we know where those cocksuckers are, we go get Jake. Understood?"
Billy swallowed hard. Nodded.
"Good." Pops squeezed their shoulders once, then let go. "Now somebody get me another brandy and find me a goddamn map. We're going to need it."
The Renzos arrived next, then the Matterns, then the Rodriguezes—parents and sons, filling the house with bodies and voices. Sarah had given up on hosting and just put out coffee and leftover pot roast. People ate standing up, talking in low urgent voices.
Tom's phone buzzed again. Everyone froze.
"Another picture," Tom said, his voice hollow.
Wade was already moving. "Don't touch it. Billy Jr., get over here."
Jr. crossed the room in three strides, took the phone from his grandfather's hand, and swiped it open. His face went hard.
"What is it?" Tom asked.
Jr. turned the phone around. The new photo showed Jake from a different angle—you could see more of the room now, the broken windows, the peeling wallpaper. The text below read: You have 24 hours. No cops or he's dead.
"Dumb fucks," Jr. muttered. "They just gave us more data."
"Can you find him?" Billy asked, hope and desperation in his voice.
Jr. was already back at the table, connecting Tom's phone to his laptop with a cable. "Ryan, pull up the tower map. Billy, start the EXIF scraper. Daniel, I need you on image analysis—look at the background, see if you can ID any landmarks."
The four boys moved like a unit, hands flying, screens filling with data Tom couldn't begin to understand.
"We've got a cell tower cluster southeast of here," Ryan said. "Three towers, signal strength suggests he's within a five-mile radius."
"That's still a lot of ground," Wilson said.
"It's better than five hundred square miles," Wade said. "Keep going, boys."
Billy Renzo looked up from his screen. "I'm seeing metadata artifacts. They didn't strip the location data from the image."
"Are you shitting me?" Jr. said, leaning over to look. "Holy fuck, they didn't."
"Language," Rebecca said weakly.
"Mom, they left the GPS coordinates embedded in the fucking photo."
The room went silent.
"You're telling me," Wade said slowly, "that these idiots sent us Jake's exact location?"
"Not exact," Daniel said, squinting at his screen. "GPS on a phone is accurate to about fifteen feet. But yeah, we've got coordinates."
Jr. was already pulling up a satellite map. "Here. Thirty-two miles southeast. Looks like... an old property. House, couple of outbuildings. Middle of nowhere."
Tom leaned over Jr.'s shoulder, staring at the screen. "Can you get a drone out there?"
"Already on it, Granddad." Jr. was texting with one hand, typing with the other. "We've got six drones with thermal imaging. Battery life is about forty minutes each, so we'll run them in waves."
"I'll go with you," Billy said immediately.
"No," Wade said. "You won't."
"The hell I—"
"Listen to me." Wade's voice was sharp now, the voice that made grown men shut up and listen. "If this goes wrong, if they see the drones and panic, they might hurt Jake. Or kill him. We need to know what we're dealing with before we go charging in. That means eyes in the sky first, then we plan the extraction."
"Extraction," Pops said with a grim smile. "Now you're talking my language."
Billy looked like he wanted to argue, but Celeb put a hand on his arm. "He's right, man. We go in blind, we could get Jake killed."
Billy's jaw worked, but he nodded.
Jr. looked up from his laptop. "First drone launches in ten minutes. We'll have eyes on target in twenty."
Wade pulled out his own phone. "I'm calling in Ryan and Wilson officially. And I want the Texas Rangers on standby in case these assholes run."
"You think they'll run?" Tom asked.
"I think," Wade said slowly, "that when they hear our drones overhead, they're going to realize they fucked with the wrong family."
Pops raised his brandy glass. "Goddamn right they did."
The first drone lifted off from the Benson's front yard twenty minutes later, a sleek black quadcopter with a thermal camera mounted underneath. Jr. controlled it from his laptop, the feed displaying on three different screens so everyone could watch.
The house had gone quiet. Even Pops had stopped cursing.
"ETA twelve minutes," Jr. said, his voice steady despite the tension radiating off him.
Billy and Celeb stood behind him, watching the screen. Tom and Josh flanked them. Wade was on the phone with his deputies, coordinating. Sarah stood in the doorway, her hand pressed to her mouth.
The drone flew fast and low, its camera showing darkened ranchland sliding past below.
"How high are you flying?" Wade asked.
"Three hundred feet," Jr. said. "High enough they won't hear us coming, low enough to get good thermal resolution."
"The fuck is thermal resolution?" Pops asked.
"How clearly we can see heat signatures, Pops. People show up bright white on thermal."
"Ah. Good."
The landscape on the screen began to change—fewer fences, more scrub brush, signs of abandonment.
"Two minutes," Jr. said.
Everyone leaned closer.
The old house appeared on screen, a dark shape against darker ground. Jr. slowed the drone, circling wide.
"Switching to thermal," he said.
The image changed, blacks and grays shifting to blues and reds. And there, in the center of the house—a bright white human-shaped blob.
"That's him," Billy breathed. "That's Jake."
"One heat signature," Daniel said, leaning in. "Just one."
"Where are the kidnappers?" Tom asked.
Jr. circled the drone lower, slower, scanning the entire property. "I don't see anyone else. No vehicles either."
Wade frowned. "That doesn't make sense. Why would they leave him alone?"
"Maybe they heard the drone," Wilson suggested.
"At three hundred feet? No way," Jr. said.
Ryan Mattern looked up from his laptop. "I'm picking up radio chatter. Civilian band, about five miles east of the target. Three male voices, sounds like they're moving fast."
"They ran," Pops said. "The little shits abandoned him."
Wade was already moving. "Then we go now. Tom, Billy, Celeb, Josh—you're with me. Wilson, Ryan, you too. Pops, you have command here."
"About fucking time," Pops said.
Jr. stood up. "I'm coming."
"Like hell—" Tom started.
"I'm the only one who can keep the drone on station," Jr. said, already grabbing his gear. "You need eyes overhead, you need me."
Tom looked at Wade. Wade looked at Rebecca. Rebecca closed her eyes, then nodded once.
"Fine," Tom said. "But you stay in the truck. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
Billy was already halfway to the door. "Let's go get my brother."
Chapter 3
Jake had been working the ropes for what felt like hours. His wrists were raw, slick with blood and sweat, and the rope around his upper arms cut deeper every time he twisted. But he was Jake fucking Benson, and he wasn't going to just sit here waiting to die.
The house was quiet except for the sound of his own breathing and the occasional creak of old wood settling. The kidnappers had left him alone an hour ago—maybe longer, hard to tell—after taking more pictures with his phone. Three of them, faces still covered, not saying much except to argue about the ransom amount.
Amateurs, Jake thought. Stupid fucking amateurs.
He tested the rope around his chest again, trying to create slack by exhaling hard and then inhaling. It gave maybe a quarter inch. Not enough. The rope under the chair connecting his wrists to his ankles was the real problem—every time he tried to straighten up, it pulled tighter, arching his back until his shoulders screamed.
But if he could just get one hand free...
He twisted his right wrist, ignoring the burn, feeling for the knot. His fingers were going numb from the restricted blood flow, but he could still feel the rope's texture, could trace the pattern of the binding.
There. A loop that felt slightly looser than the others.
He worked it, pulling and twisting, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. The rope dug deeper, and he felt something warm running down his palm—more blood—but the loop was definitely loosening.
Come on, come on...
A sound outside made him freeze. Voices. The kidnappers were back.
Jake went still, forcing his breathing to slow, his face back to the blank mask he'd been wearing when they were around. The door banged open and all three of them came in, one of them on a phone.
"—don't fucking know, man. Maybe we should just—"
"Shut up," the tall one said, the one who seemed to be in charge. "We stick to the plan."
"What if they called the cops?"
"We said no cops. They're not going to risk it."
The tall one walked over to Jake, yanked his head back by the hair. Jake's scalp burned but he didn't make a sound, just stared at the man's covered face with all the hate he could muster.
"Your daddy better pay up," the man said. "Or you're going to have a real bad day."
Jake said nothing. Couldn't, with the duct tape still across his mouth. But his eyes promised murder.
The man laughed and shoved Jake's head forward. "Tough guy. We'll see how tough you are in a few hours."
They moved to the other room, their voices dropping to urgent whispers. Jake couldn't make out the words, but he could hear the tension. They were getting nervous.
Good. Nervous people made mistakes.
He went back to work on the rope, moving slowly, quietly, his fingers finding that loose loop again. Pull, twist, work it. The rope was getting wetter with his blood, which actually helped—made it more slippery.
The loop gave another quarter inch.
Jake's heart was pounding now, adrenaline cutting through the pain. If he could get one hand free, he could reach the knot at his ankles. Get his feet free and he could tip the chair, break it, get loose—
A new sound cut through the night. Distant but distinct. A whirring, mechanical hum.
Drone.
The kidnappers heard it too. Their voices rose sharply.
"What the fuck is that?"
"Shit, is that a drone?"
"How did they—"
"I told you we should've taken the fucking battery out of his phone!"
"Move! We need to move NOW!"
They came back into the room, panicked now, all pretense of control gone. The tall one grabbed Jake by the shirt front.
"Who did you call? Who the fuck did you call?"
Jake couldn't answer, could only glare. The man's fist caught him across the face, snapping his head to the side. Stars exploded in his vision.
"We need to go," one of the others said. "If they've got drones, they've got our location."
Another punch, this one to Jake's gut. He couldn't double over, couldn't protect himself, just had to take it. The air drove out of his lungs and he couldn't get it back, couldn't breathe—
"Leave him," the third one said. "He's tied up, he's not going anywhere. We need to get the fuck out of here."
"What about the money?"
"Fuck the money! They've got drones, man! That means cops, helicopters, the whole fucking—"
A final punch, this one across Jake's jaw, and then they were running. He heard the back door slam, heard an engine start and tires spinning in dirt.
Then silence.
Jake sucked air through his nose, his whole body shaking with pain and rage and something that might have been relief. They were gone. He was alive.
And he was getting the fuck out of this chair.
The drone sound had faded, but Jake knew what it meant. Billy Jr. and his tech-wizard buddies had found him. Which meant the cavalry was coming. But Jake Benson didn't wait for rescue.
He attacked the ropes with renewed fury, twisting his wrists, pulling, his blood making everything slippery now. The loop he'd been working gave more, then more—
His right hand slipped through.
"Yes," he tried to say through the tape, but it came out as a muffled grunt. He reached back with his free hand, fingers searching for the knot at his wrists. Found it. Started working it loose.
Five minutes of desperate fumbling and his other hand came free.
Jake's shoulders screamed as he brought his arms forward for the first time in hours. His hands were purple, swollen, barely functional. But they worked well enough to reach down and start on the rope connecting the chair to his ankles.
The knot was tight, pulled taut by all his struggling. His numb fingers couldn't get purchase.
Come on, you son of a bitch...
He yanked at it, trying to force it, and the rope cut deeper into his ankles. Not working. He needed leverage.
Jake rocked forward, trying to shift his weight, trying to see if he could slide the rope off the chair somehow. The chair creaked but didn't budge. The rope around his chest and gut was still holding him to the back of the chair.
Wait. If he could break the chair...
Jake rocked harder, forward and back, trying to build momentum. The old wooden chair groaned. Its joints were weak, he could feel them shifting.
Forward. Back. Forward. Back.
The chair was starting to move with him now, front legs lifting off the ground slightly on the back rocks.
More. Just a little more—
He threw his weight back hard.
Too hard.
The chair went over backward, and Jake had a split second to realize his mistake before the back of his head hit the floor with a crack that echoed through the empty house.
Pain exploded through his skull, white-hot and all-consuming. His arms, still tied above the elbows to the chair back, took the full impact of the fall and his body weight. He heard two distinct snaps, felt something fundamental break in both upper arms, and the pain that followed was unlike anything he'd ever experienced.
Jake tried to scream but the tape was still over his mouth, so it came out as a muffled, agonized howl. His vision went dark at the edges, grey creeping in.
Don't pass out. Don't you fucking pass out.
But the darkness swallowed him anyway.
Pain brought him back. Incredible, nauseating pain that radiated from both arms and the back of his head. Jake's eyes opened slowly, his vision blurry and doubled.
He was still on his back, still tied to the chair, staring up at water-stained ceiling tiles. When he tried to move, fresh agony lanced through both arms and he realized with cold, terrible certainty what he'd done.
Broken. Both of them. He could feel the wrongness in his upper arms, the way the bones had separated, the way the muscles had torn.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
And his head—he could feel wetness in his hair, warm and sticky. Blood. The room kept tilting, sliding sideways, and his stomach lurched.
Concussion. Definitely a concussion.
Don't move. If you move you could make it worse. You could sever an artery, could shift the bone and tear through muscle and nerve—
The drone sound came back, louder this time. Multiple drones now, the sound overlapping.
They were coming. They'd found him.
Jake forced himself to breathe slowly through his nose, forced himself to stay absolutely still despite every instinct screaming at him to get up, to move, to do something. The pain was incredible, waves of it washing over him with every heartbeat. His arms felt like they were on fire.
But he was alive. And help was coming.
The drones circled overhead, their sound rising and falling. Jake kept his eyes open, focused on the ceiling, counting his breaths. Trying not to think about the pain. Trying not to think about how badly he'd fucked up.
Billy was going to give him so much shit for this.
The thought almost made him smile, or would have if his face wasn't swollen and if he could move his mouth.
Stay still. Stay awake. They're coming.
Minutes passed. Could have been five, could have been fifty. Jake drifted in and out, the pain pulling him back every time he started to fade.
Then he heard it—vehicles. Multiple engines, moving fast.
Voices outside. His father's voice. Wade's. Billy's.
Jake wanted to call out but couldn't, could only lie there and wait and hurt.
The front door crashed open. Footlights. Boots on old floorboards.
"Clear left."
"Clear right."
And then Billy's voice, breaking: "I've got him. Front room. Jesus Christ, I've got him."
Jake tried to turn his head toward the sound but the movement sent fresh pain lancing through his skull and arms. He stopped, gasping.
Billy's face appeared above him, then his father's, then Celeb's. All of them looking down at him with expressions Jake couldn't quite read through his doubled vision.
"Easy, brother. It's us. We got you."
Jake tried to shake his head, tried to warn them, but someone was reaching for the ropes and he had to stop them before they moved him, before they lifted the chair and destroyed what was left of his arms.
His father was reaching for the chest rope. No. NO.
Jake made a sound, urgent and desperate, shaking his head as much as he could without passing out.
His father stopped. "What is it?"
Billy peeled back the edge of the tape, and Jake could finally speak.
"Don't... lift... the chair," he gasped, each word an effort. "Arms... broken. Both... upper arms."
The words seemed to hang in the air.
Then Celeb's voice, quiet and horrified: "Fuck."
"Head," Jake added, because they needed to know. "Hit... floor. Chair... tipped."
And then there were more people, more voices, Wade checking his pupils with a light that stabbed into Jake's brain, his father on the radio calling for medical, Billy's hand on his shoulder, steady and sure.
"I've got you, brother. We're going home."
Jake let his eyes close. The pain was still there, would be there for a long time. But he wasn't alone anymore.
The Bensons didn't leave their own behind.
Chapter 4
The ER doors burst open as Tom's truck pulled up to the ambulance bay, lights still flashing, sirens winding down. Two nurses and an orderly were already waiting outside, along with Dr. Peterson, the Benson family doctor for the last twenty years.
"What the hell do we have?" Dr. Peterson called out, moving toward the truck.
"Jake Benson, twenty-one," Wade said, jumping out of the passenger side. "Bilateral upper arm fractures, possible head trauma, been tied to that chair for hours. We haven't moved him from it—the chair's keeping his arms immobilized."
Dr. Peterson looked into the truck bed and saw Billy, Jr., and Celeb bracing Jake in the wooden chair, Jake's face grey with pain, his eyes half-closed.
"Jesus Christ," Peterson muttered. "All right, let's get a gurney under him. Chair and all. Carefully."
The orderly and nurses moved fast, sliding a backboard under the chair, then transferring the whole thing onto the gurney. Jake's breath hissed through his teeth but he didn't cry out.
"Good man," Dr. Peterson said. "You're doing great, Jake. We're going to take care of you."
They wheeled him through the ER doors, Billy and Celeb jogging alongside. Tom followed, his face grim. Wade stayed behind to move the trucks.
Inside, the ER was already prepped—Trauma Room 2, the big one, with portable X-ray equipment rolled in and waiting.
"Let's get him on the table," Dr. Peterson said. "But we need to cut away these ropes first. Carefully. I want to see what we're dealing with before we move anything."
A nurse handed him trauma shears. He started with the chest ropes, cutting slowly, talking Jake through each step. "Just stay still for me. I know it hurts. Almost there."
The rope around Jake's chest fell away. Then the gut rope. Jake's breathing came easier.
"Upper arms next," Peterson said. "This is going to hurt when the pressure releases. Ready?"
Jake nodded once, his jaw clenched.
Peterson cut the rope binding Jake's right upper arm to the chair. As the pressure released, Jake's arm shifted slightly and his face went white. A strangled sound escaped his throat.
"I know, I know," Peterson said. "One more. Hang on."
The left arm. Same reaction, same strangled gasp.
"Good. You're doing good. Now the wrists and ankles."
Those came off easier. Finally, Jake was free of the chair, lying flat on the table, his arms at his sides, swollen and misshapen in a way that made even the nurses wince.
"Let's get X-rays," Peterson said. "Portable, right here. I'm not moving him until I see what we're dealing with."
The X-ray tech moved in with the machine. Everyone else stepped back, Tom's hand on Billy's shoulder, keeping him from hovering.
Three sets of images—both upper arms and skull.
Dr. Peterson studied them on the screen, his face unreadable. Then he looked up.
"Okay. The good news first. No concussion."
Tom's shoulders sagged with relief.
"The fuck?" Pops' voice came from the doorway. Everyone turned. Pops stood there with his cane, Rebecca beside him, both of them looking worried.
"How'd you get here so fast?" Tom asked.
"Jr.'s been streaming everything on those goddamn iPads," Pops said, limping into the room. "We saw you pull in. Now what's this about no concussion?"
"His skull is intact," Dr. Peterson said. "Nasty laceration, I'll need to staple it, but no fracture, no bleeding. He got lucky."
"Lucky," Billy muttered. "He's got two broken arms."
"Clean breaks," Peterson said, looking back at the X-rays. "Both humeri, mid-shaft fractures. But here's the thing—they're remarkably clean. No displacement, no comminuted fragments. It's like he fell and broke them but then didn't move at all afterward."
Jake's eyes opened. "Didn't," he said hoarsely. "Knew... if I moved... could make it worse."
Peterson looked at him with something like respect. "Smart kid. That probably saved you months of recovery and possible surgery. As it is, we can cast them, immobilize them, and let them heal. Six to eight weeks, you'll be good as new."
"Fuckin' hothead finally used his brain for once," Pops said, but there was pride in his voice.
Rebecca had moved to Jake's side, her hand on his uninjured shoulder. She was Jr.'s mother, but she'd known Jake since he was born. "You scared us, Jake."
"Sorry, Aunt Becca," Jake said.
Jr. appeared in the doorway, iPad in hand. "The family's all watching," he said. "Sarah's crying. Edna's crying. Anna's crying. Even the guys are getting misty."
"Tell them he's fine," Tom said. "Broken but fine."
"On it." Jr. typed rapidly.
Dr. Peterson was already prepping supplies. "All right, let's get to work. I need to irrigate and staple that head wound, cast both arms, and bandage those wrists. Jake, I'm going to give you something for the pain—"
"No," Jake said immediately.
"Jake—"
"No drugs. I'm fine."
"You are not fine. You have two broken arms and a head laceration."
"I said no."
Dr. Peterson looked at Tom. Tom shrugged. "He's stubborn. Gets it from his grandfather."
"Damn right," Pops said.
"Fine," Peterson said with a sigh. "But I'm writing you a prescription, and when you can't sleep tonight because your arms are screaming, you're going to take it. Understood?"
Jake didn't answer.
Peterson shook his head and got to work. The head wound first—shaving away some of Jake's hair, cleaning the laceration, then stapling it closed. Twelve staples. Jake's hands clenched but he didn't make a sound.
Then the arms. Padding first, then fiberglass casts from shoulder to elbow on both sides, leaving his forearms free. The wrists got bandaged separately—the rope burns were deep, would need daily dressing changes.
By the time Peterson finished, Jake looked like a mummy from the shoulders up and down to his elbows.
"All right," Peterson said, stripping off his gloves. "You're done. Rebecca, take him home. Keep him still, keep the casts dry, watch for signs of compartment syndrome—increased pain, numbness, discoloration. If anything feels wrong, you call me immediately. I'll stop by tomorrow to check on him."
"Thank you, Doctor," Rebecca said.
"Jake, you come to my office in two days for follow-up X-rays. I want to make sure everything's healing properly." Peterson looked at Tom. "Now get this cranky Benson out of my hospital. And I don't mean Pops for a change."
Pops barked a laugh. "I like you, Peterson."
"The feeling is not mutual," Peterson said, but he was smiling.
They helped Jake sit up slowly, then stand. He swayed slightly, Billy and Celeb catching his elbows.
"Easy, brother," Billy said. "We got you."
Jake looked down at his casted arms, at the bandages on his wrists, at the blood still on his shirt. "I look like shit."
"You look like you got your ass kicked and then broke yourself trying to escape," Jr. said from the doorway. "Which is exactly what happened."
"Shut up, Jr."
"Make me, Broken Arms McGee."
Despite everything, Jake almost smiled.
Tom put his hand on Jake's good shoulder—the only part of his upper body that wasn't casted or bandaged. "Let's go home, son."
They walked out of the ER together, Jake between Billy and Celeb, Tom and Rebecca behind them, Pops bringing up the rear with his cane, Jr. still streaming everything on his iPad.
Outside, the rest of the consortium was waiting in the parking lot—trucks and families, the Renzos and Matterns and Rodriguezes, all of them wanting to see with their own eyes that Jake was alive.
When Jake emerged, there was a cheer, then Sarah was running toward him, tears streaming down her face.
"Easy, Mom," Jake said. "Can't hug right now."
Sarah kissed his forehead instead, careful of the bandages in his hair. "My boy. My stupid, brave boy."
"Stupid is right," Pops muttered. "But he's a Benson. We're all fucking stupid when it counts."
And standing there in the parking lot of Kings County Hospital, surrounded by family and friends and the consortium that had moved heaven and earth to find him, Jake Benson finally let himself believe it was over.
He was home.
Chapter 5
The Benson ranch house was packed. Every room had people in it—the consortium families who'd stayed to see Jake come home, plus half the neighbors who'd heard what happened. Sarah had reheated the pot roast from dinner, put out more food, and given up trying to keep track of who was eating what.
Jake sat at the kitchen table, his casted arms resting awkwardly on the surface, trying to figure out how to eat with his forearms. Billy cut his meat for him without being asked, and Jake didn't argue. Pride only went so far when you were hungry and had two broken arms.
"Here's to Jake," someone called out, raising a beer. "Toughest dumbass in Kings County."
Laughter rippled through the room. Jake raised his own beer—Billy had opened it and set it in front of him—and took a careful sip.
Wade's phone rang. He stepped outside to take it, came back a few minutes later with a grim smile.
"Texas Rangers got them," he announced. The room went quiet. "Pulled them over twenty miles from the state line. All three in the truck, still had Jake's phone on them like the idiots they are."
"What are they looking at?" Tom asked.
"Kidnapping, assault, unlawful restraint, extortion." Wade ticked them off on his fingers. "Federal charges too since they crossed county lines. They're looking at twenty-five to life, minimum. And that's if they're lucky."
"Good," Billy said flatly. "Fuck 'em."
"Damn right," Pops said from his chair. He had his brandy glass in hand and the bottle on the side table. "Those sons of bitches picked the wrong fucking family."
"Pops, language," Sarah said, but there was no heat in it.
"Sarah, my great-grandson just got kidnapped, beaten, and broke both his goddamn arms. I'll use whatever language I want."
Sarah looked like she might argue, then just shook her head and went back to the kitchen.
Pops started pouring drinks for anyone who wanted them—brandy, whiskey, beer from the cooler. When Billy Jr. and his buddies drifted over, Pops poured them each a finger of whiskey without hesitation.
"Pops!" Rebecca protested.
"What? The boys just pulled off a military operation with drones and computers and shit I don't even understand. They earned a drink."
"They're fifteen!"
"And they saved Jake's life. I think we can bend the rules tonight."
Sarah opened her mouth to object, but Tom put a hand on her arm. "Let it go. Just this once."
The boys took their glasses, trying not to grin too obviously. Anna Nelson was there too, standing close to Jr., and Edna had her arm around Billy's waist.
"To the wiz kids," Pops said, raising his glass. "The tech-savvy little shits who found him."
"To the wiz kids," everyone echoed.
Jr. looked embarrassed but pleased. "We just used basic triangulation and—"
"We don't understand a word you're saying, kid," Wilson Nelson said with a grin. "But we love you anyway."
The party went on for another hour—food and drinks, people telling stories, Jake fielding questions about what happened until he got tired of talking about it. Finally, families started to leave, hugging Jake carefully, telling him to heal up, promising to check in tomorrow.
The Renzos left, then the Matterns, then the Rodriguezes. The Nelsons were last to go, Wade reminding Tom to call if they needed anything, Rebecca kissing Jake's forehead one more time.
Finally, it was just the Bensons. And Celeb, who lived there now anyway.
"Bed," Sarah said, looking at Jake. "You need rest."
"Yeah," Jake said. He was exhausted, his whole body aching, the adrenaline finally wearing off.
Billy and Celeb flanked him, helping him stand. Jr. grabbed Jake's boots—he was still wearing his work clothes from the morning, minus the blood-soaked shirt they'd cut off at the hospital.
They headed upstairs to the "frat house"—the room Jake and Billy had shared since they were kids, now with two sets of bunk beds to accommodate Celeb and Jr.
"You want the bottom bunk tonight?" Billy asked. "Easier to get into."
"Yeah," Jake said.
They helped him sit down on the edge of the bed. Jr. knelt down and pulled off Jake's boots while Celeb found him a clean t-shirt.
"Arms up," Celeb said.
Jake tried to lift his arms and winced. The casts made everything awkward and heavy.
"Never mind," Billy said. "Sleep in your undershirt. Nobody gives a shit."
"Hold up," Jr. said, grinning. He walked over to the corner, pried up a loose floorboard, and pulled out four cold beers. "Emergency stash. Figured tonight qualifies."
"Hell yeah it does," Celeb said, taking one.
Billy popped the caps off all four, handed one carefully to Jake, who could at least grip it between his palms even if his fingers didn't work great.
"To Jake," Billy said, raising his bottle. "For being too stubborn to die."
"And too dumb to stay in the chair," Jr. added.
"Fuck you, Jr.," Jake said, but he was smiling.
"To the rescue team," Celeb said. "Best drone pilots in Texas."
"Damn right," Jr. said.
They clinked bottles—carefully, because Jake's coordination was shit—and drank.
"So," Jr. said after a moment, "when you were tied up, did you actually think you were gonna die?"
"Jr.," Billy said, warning in his voice.
"What? I'm just asking."
Jake took another sip of beer, thinking. "Nah. I knew you little shits would find me. I just didn't want to wait around for it."
"Hence the broken arms," Celeb said.
"Hence the broken arms."
"You're an idiot," Billy said.
"Says the guy who drove his quad into a fence post last month."
"That was different. I was dodging a snake."
"A garter snake."
"It could've been venomous."
Jr. laughed. "You two are ridiculous."
"Welcome to the frat house, kid," Celeb said. "This is every night."
They finished their beers, ribbing each other about old screw-ups and close calls, the conversation getting quieter as exhaustion caught up with all of them.
Finally, Billy took Jake's empty bottle. "All right, Broken Arms McGee. Time to sleep."
Jake lay back carefully, his casted arms at his sides. The bed felt like heaven.
"You want your pain meds?" Jr. asked.
"Nah. I'm good."
"You're gonna hurt like hell tomorrow."
"Tomorrow's problem. Tonight I'm just glad to be home."
Billy climbed into the bunk above him. Celeb and Jr. got into theirs across the room.
"Jake?" Billy's voice came from above.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're alive, brother."
"Me too."
"Even if you are a dumbass for tipping that chair."
"Fuck you, Billy."
"Love you too."
Celeb laughed quietly from across the room. "You Bensons are fucking crazy."
"Damn right," Jr. said. "Welcome to the family."
Jake closed his eyes, his arms throbbing, his head aching, his whole body exhausted. But he was home. In his own bed, with his brother above him and his friends around him, in the house he'd grown up in, surrounded by the family that had moved heaven and earth to bring him back.
The Bensons didn't leave their own behind.
And as Jake drifted off to sleep, he thought that maybe—just maybe—being a Benson wasn't such a bad thing after all.
THE END
