Chapter 1: The Frat House
10:47 PM — The Benson Ranch
The room smelled like leather, sweat, and the faint trace of beer that no amount of Sarah's yelling could scrub out. Two bunk beds crammed into a space that had only ever been meant for one dominated the "frat house," as they'd come to call it. Dirty laundry covered every surface—jeans draped over chairs, work shirts in piles, boots kicked into corners.
Billy and Jake had shared this room since they were toddlers. The original bunk bed had been theirs for as long as either could remember. When Caleb moved in eight months ago with the Beaumont's arrival, Billy Jr. got muscled out of his own room and into theirs. They'd added a second bunk bed, and just like that, four ranch hands lived in organized chaos.
"Mom came through again today," Billy Jr. said, on his knees by the loose floorboard near Jake's bunk. He pried it up with practiced ease. "Said if she has to pick up one more pair of our boxers off the floor, she's burning the whole room down."
"She's been threatening that since I was twelve," Jake said from the top bunk, scrolling through tomorrow's work assignments on his iPad. "Never follows through."
"That's 'cause Pops would miss his delivery system," Caleb said, grinning as Jr. pulled out two six-packs of Lone Star, still cold.
Billy leaned over from the bottom bunk. "Pops has been stocking us since we turned eighteen. Man's a saint."
"Saint with a mouth that'd make a sailor blush," Jr. added, passing out the beers. He twisted the cap off his own and took a long pull. The empties from last night were already stashed back under the boards—a system they'd perfected.
Jake caught his beer one-handed without looking up from his screen. "Josh has me on the north fence line tomorrow. Again."
"That's 'cause you're slow," Billy shot back.
"Bullshit. I'm thorough."
"You're slow and you bitch about it."
Caleb laughed, cracking open his beer. "I got equipment maintenance with Ray. At least I'll be in the shop and not sweating my ass off."
"Lucky bastard," Jr. muttered. He was flat on his back on the bottom bunk across from Billy, staring at his own iPad. "I'm helping Billy with the cattle rotation. Gonna be a long day."
"Then quit complaining and drink up," Billy said, raising his beer. "Tomorrow's just another day on the ranch."
The four of them clinked bottles—an unspoken ritual.
Jake took a swig and tossed a wadded-up shirt at Billy's head. "You still owe me twenty bucks from last week's escape challenge."
"You didn't beat my time."
"I got out in four minutes flat."
"Four-fifteen. I had witnesses."
Jr. grinned. "I'm getting faster than both of you old men. Next time, I'm taking the pot."
"Next time, you're getting hogtied to the porch rail," Jake said.
They laughed. Drank. Talked shit about tomorrow's work. Eventually, the lights went out.
Tomorrow would be just another day on the ranch.
Or so they thought.
Chapter 2: Morning Coffee
5:43 AM — The Benson Ranch
Billy's boots hit the kitchen floor before the sun cleared the horizon. First one up, always. Coffee first, then check the cattle rotation assignments Josh had sent last night.
He crossed to the coffee maker Sarah kept prepped the night before, hit the button, and listened to it gurgle to life. The kitchen was quiet except for that and the hum of the refrigerator.
Then he heard the scrape of a chair.
Billy turned.
Jake sat at the kitchen table, arms wrenched behind his back, wrists bound. His face was angled down.
"Jesus, Jr.," Billy muttered, shaking his head. "Five in the morning? Kid's getting creative."
He grabbed two mugs from the cabinet. The escape challenges had been going on for months—Jr. loved timing his uncles, making bets with Pops about who could break free fastest. Last week Jake had gotten out in four minutes. Billy still swore it was four-fifteen.
"Where's the little shit hiding?" Billy said, moving toward Jake. "Under the table? Gonna time me too?"
Jake's head lifted.
Blood ran from his nose, dark and fresh. His eyes weren't playful—they were wide, panicked.
"Jake—"
Hands grabbed Billy from behind. One clamped over his mouth, the other locked around his chest. He tried to twist, but a second man was already there, wrenching his arms back.
A wet cloth pressed against his face. Chemical sharp. Chloroform.
Billy bucked, tried to throw them off, but his vision blurred. His knees buckled.
The last thing he saw was Jake thrashing in the chair, three masked men hauling him toward the door.
Then black.
Chapter 3: 6:30 AM
Pops met Jr. on the stairs, both heading down like clockwork. Six-thirty. Same as every morning.
Jr. was scrolling through something on his phone. Pops was thinking about coffee and whether Sarah had remembered to—
Jr. stopped mid-step.
Pops looked up. The kitchen door stood wide open. Cold air rolling in.
"The hell?" Pops muttered.
They came down together, faster now. Jr.'s boots hit the kitchen floor first.
Blood. Small drops, dark red against the tile. Cut pieces of rope scattered near the table. One chair overturned.
"Pops—"
"I see it." Pops' voice went flat. Hard. The tone Jr. had only heard a handful of times in his life.
Jr. was already pulling up his iPad, fingers moving fast. "Surveillance. Gimme a second—"
"Check outside," Pops said, moving toward the open door. His hand went to his hip—muscle memory from fifty years ago. No sidearm there. Not yet.
Tire tracks in the dirt. Fresh. Deep grooves heading toward the main road.
"Pops." Jr.'s voice cracked. "Pops, you need to see this."
Pops turned. Jr. held the iPad out, hands shaking. The screen showed grainy night-vision footage from the kitchen camera. Timestamp: 5:44 AM.
Billy walking in. Turning toward the coffee maker.
Then stopping. Looking at the table.
Jake. Tied to the chair.
Billy moving toward him—then hands grabbing him from behind. The wet cloth over his face. Three men in black masks dragging both of them toward the door, arms wrenched behind their backs.
The footage ended. Kitchen empty except for the overturned chair.
Jr. stared at the screen. His throat felt tight.
Pops didn't say anything for three seconds. Then: "Hit the button."
Jr. fumbled with his iPad, pulling up the emergency network interface Billy had programmed months ago. His hands were shaking worse now.
He pressed the red icon.
A mechanical voice cut through every radio, every handheld, every speaker in the consortium network. Loud. Clear. Three times.
"911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr."
Jr. grabbed the handheld radio from the counter, his thumb on the transmit button. His voice came out steadier than he felt.
"This is Billy Jr. at the Benson ranch. Billy and Jake have been taken. Kidnapped at approximately oh-five-forty-four this morning. Three masked men. We have surveillance footage and tire tracks heading toward the main road."
He took a breath. Pops was watching him, nodding.
"I need the wiz kids here now with all tracking equipment for a command center. Billy Renzo, Ryan, Daniel—bring everything. Drones, cameras, servers. We're setting up operations at the main house. All consortium members, we need you here. Armed and ready."
Static crackled. Then voices started coming back.
"Copy that, on our way." Sheriff Wade's voice, already moving.
"Ten minutes out." That was Robert Beaumont.
"We're rolling." Billy Renzo.
Jr. set the radio down. His hands were still shaking.
It was 6:33 AM.
The entire county was about to wake up.
Chapter 5: The Deer Barn
Billy woke to pain.
Not the dull ache of a long day's work. Sharp. Immediate. His shoulders screaming, arms wrenched behind him, wrists bound so tight his hands had gone numb.
He couldn't see. Tape across his eyes. Thick. Black.
He tried to move and realized he was suspended. Hanging. Something metal hooked between his elbows, pulling his arms back and up. His boots—still on—were tied to his wrists behind him, creating tension that kept his body arched.
The hogtie position. Like the games with Jr.
Except this wasn't a game.
His breathing was loud in his ears. Panicked. He forced it slower.
Think. Where are you?
Cold air. The smell of old blood and decay. A barn? Warehouse?
Then he heard it. Breathing. Close by.
"Jake?" His voice came out hoarse.
No answer. But the breathing hitched. Jake was here. Conscious.
Footsteps. Heavy boots on concrete.
"Well, well. Sleeping Beauty's awake."
The voice was unfamiliar. Male. Older. A slight drawl, but not local.
More footsteps. At least two others.
"Let's get some pictures," another voice said. Younger. Eager.
Hands grabbed Billy's shirt—his work shirt, the one he'd pulled on at 5:30 this morning—and ripped it open. Buttons scattered. The fabric tore away.
Cold air on his bare chest.
Then pain. Sharp and burning. A blade dragging across his abs. Not deep. Just enough to bleed.
Billy sucked in a breath through his teeth. Didn't give them the satisfaction of a scream.
"Tough guy," the first voice said. "Let's see your brother."
Jake grunted. The sound of fabric tearing. Then a sharper intake of breath.
"There we go. Smile for the camera, boys."
Flashes. Bright enough to see through the tape. One. Two. Three.
"That'll motivate Daddy," the younger voice said, laughing.
Silence for a moment. Then the footsteps came closer to Billy.
Something light brushed against his forearm. Fingers. Tickling the hair on his arm.
Billy flinched, tried to pull away. Couldn't.
"You feel that?" the older voice said, almost gentle. "That's your arm. Still got feeling in it. For now."
The tickling continued. Methodical. Almost clinical.
"See, the way you're strung up? Your shoulders are gonna dislocate in about... oh, six, seven hours. Maybe less if you struggle. And once that happens?" A pause. "Well, the damage is permanent. They'll have to amputate. Both arms. You'll be eating through a straw for the rest of your life."
The tickling stopped.
"So don't struggle. Makes it worse."
Footsteps retreating. A door opening. Closing.
Silence.
Billy's heart was hammering. His shoulders burned. He could feel the strain, the pull. Six hours. Maybe less.
Then he felt it. A vibration against his lower back.
His phone.
Still in his back pocket. On vibrate. Always on vibrate when he worked.
Someone was calling him.
Billy's throat tightened. He wanted to laugh. Or cry. He wasn't sure which.
Find it, he thought. Come on. Find it.
Beside him, Jake's breathing was ragged. Uneven.
"Jake," Billy said quietly. "You hear me?"
A grunt. Affirmative.
"They're coming," Billy said. "They're gonna find us."
Jake didn't answer.
But his breathing steadied. Just a little.
Billy closed his eyes under the tape and waited.
Chapter 6: War Room
Ray came down the stairs first, barefoot, pulling a shirt over his head. "What the hell's going on?"
"Billy and Jake," Pops said. "Taken. About an hour ago."
Ray stopped mid-step. "What?"
Josh appeared behind him, Rebecca right there. Both still in sleep clothes. Josh's face went white when he saw the blood on the floor.
"Jesus Christ," Josh said.
"Get dressed," Pops said. "Armed. Now."
They didn't argue. Both turned and ran back upstairs.
The radio crackled. Wade Nelson's voice. "Benson ranch, this is Nelson. We're five minutes out. Repeat, five minutes."
Tom grabbed the handheld. "Copy that, Wade. Front door's open."
More voices over the radio. Overlapping.
"Beaumont here. Caroline's driving. We're coming."
"Renzo family, ten minutes out. Billy's got the drone gear."
"Mattern residence, we're rolling."
"Rodriguez here. Daniel says he's got the thermal camera. We're on our way."
Jr. sat at the dining table, iPad in front of him, hands shaking again now that the initial adrenaline had worn off. He pulled up the surveillance footage one more time. Watched his uncles get dragged out.
Sarah came up behind him, put a hand on his shoulder. "They're gonna be okay."
Jr. nodded. Didn't trust his voice.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs. Ray and Josh, both in jeans and work shirts, both carrying rifles.
"What do we know?" Josh asked.
Tom showed him the footage. Josh watched in silence, jaw working.
"How long ago?"
"Hour and a half," Pops said. "Maybe less."
"Then they're still close," Ray said. "They can't have gotten far."
The first truck pulled into the driveway at 6:58 AM. Sheriff Wade Nelson's F-250.
By 7:30, the house was full.
Wade and his sons, Wilson and Ryan Nelson, all armed. Mary with Edna and Anna. The Beaumonts—Robert and Caroline, faces tight. The wiz kids started arriving with their families—Billy Renzo with his father and a duffel bag of drones. Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez, both lugging equipment cases.
The dining room table disappeared under laptops, iPads, radio equipment, and maps.
Sarah and Rebecca had coffee going. Caroline and Mary joined them in the kitchen—breakfast, lots of it. You fed people in a crisis.
Edna stood in the doorway, pale but steady. "Where do you need me?"
Jr. looked up. "Here. I need you here."
Anna sat down beside him, quiet but present.
The four wiz kids—Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez—pulled up chairs and started unpacking gear.
"Show me the footage," Billy Renzo said.
Jr. replayed it. All four watched in silence.
"Shit," Daniel muttered.
Caleb Beaumont was at the weapons cabinet, loading magazines. His hands moved fast, efficient, angry. Robert came up beside him.
"Caleb—"
"I'm going," Caleb said. Not a question.
Robert nodded. "I know."
Pops stood near the fireplace, glass of brandy already in hand. He was on the radio, voice rough and loud.
"I don't give a damn what time it is. Get your ass over here. Bring your gear and your sidearms. Yeah, now, goddammit."
At 7:47 AM, Tom's phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
The room went silent.
Tom answered. Put it on speaker.
A voice. Mechanical. Distorted.
"We have your sons. Five million dollars. Instructions to follow. You have twelve hours."
The line went dead.
Nobody moved for five seconds.
Then Wade spoke. "We need the bank. Someone who can fake a transfer, buy us time."
"James Mitchell," Tom said. "Bank president. I'll call him."
Tom dialed. It rang four times.
"Tom?" Mitchell's voice, groggy. "Do you know what time—"
"I need you at my house. Now. It's an emergency."
The tone must have registered. "I'm on my way."
Tom hung up and looked at Jr. "Can you ping Billy's phone?"
Jr. was already pulling up the interface. "Working on it."
Edna leaned over his shoulder. "He never takes it out of his back pocket. Never."
"Then it's there," Jr. said. His fingers flew across the screen.
Billy Renzo opened three laptops, setting up triangulation software. Daniel and Ryan started assembling drones on the floor.
"Thermal camera's ready," Ryan said. "Good to five hundred feet."
"Grid the county," Wade said, pointing at Anna's map. "Divide it into sectors. We sweep until we find them."
Caleb moved through the room, handing out loaded magazines. His face was stone.
Jr. stared at his screen, jaw tight.
"Come on," he whispered. "Come on, Uncle Billy. Be there."
Chapter 7: Proof of Life
At 8:15 AM, a silver Lexus pulled into the driveway.
James Mitchell stepped out in khakis and a button-down he'd clearly thrown on in a hurry. Wade met him at the door.
"Thanks for coming, James."
"What do you need?"
They brought him to the table. Tom explained. Ransom. Five million. Twelve hours.
Mitchell pulled out his phone. "I can route the transfer through multiple holding accounts. Make it look like it's processing. They try to access it, they'll see a balance, but any withdrawal will trigger delays. System errors. Authentication holds."
"How long can you stall?" Wade asked.
"Hours. Maybe more if they're not sophisticated."
"Do it," Tom said.
Jr. looked up from his screen. "I've got a signal. Phone's pinging."
Everyone stopped.
"Where?" Pops demanded.
Jr. zoomed in on the map. A red dot blinked on the screen. "Southeast. Forty-two miles. Near the old processing district."
Billy Renzo was already mirroring Jr.'s screen to the other iPads around the table. "Everyone should see this."
Daniel pulled up the satellite imagery on his laptop, shared it across the network. "I see them. Two large structures, one smaller building. All set back from the road."
"Deer processing," Ray said, studying Daniel's screen. "Three, four abandoned facilities out that way."
"Get the drones up," Wade said. "I want eyes on all three buildings."
Daniel and Ryan Mattern grabbed their gear and headed outside. Jr. synced the drone feeds to every screen in the room. Everyone could see the aerial view now as both drones lifted off.
"Thermal's online," Ryan's voice came through the radio from outside. "Sweeping now."
The room held its breath.
Then Tom's phone buzzed.
Unknown number. A text.
Tom opened it.
His face went gray.
"Tom?" Sarah said.
Tom turned the phone so they could see.
Two photos.
Billy and Jake. Shirtless. Suspended. Arms wrenched behind them. Tape over their eyes. Blood streaking down their torsos from shallow cuts across their abs.
Sarah's hand went to her mouth.
Josh turned away, fist clenched.
Pops stared at the screen, jaw working. Then he drained his brandy and slammed the glass down hard enough it cracked.
"Those motherfuckers."
Edna's face had gone white. Anna grabbed her arm, steadying her.
Jr. stared at the photos on the shared screens. His uncles. His friends. The guys who taught him to shoot, to ride, to fix engines. Who hid beers with him in the frat house.
Strung up like animals.
"Jr.—" Sarah started.
"I'm good," Jr. said, voice flat. He turned back to his screen. "I'm finding them."
Rebecca came over with fresh coffee. Her hands were steady, but her eyes were red.
Caleb stood behind the weapons cabinet, knuckles white on the rifle he was holding.
"When we find them," Caleb said quietly, "I want to be first through the door."
Robert didn't argue.
The radio crackled. Ryan Mattern's voice from outside. "We've got thermal signatures. Two buildings. First one's empty. Second building—wait."
Everyone leaned in, watching the thermal feed on the shared screens.
"Two heat signatures. Human-sized. Elevated. Not moving much."
"That's them," Wade said.
"I'm seeing three more signatures. Ground level. Moving. One near the door, two in what looks like an office space."
"Three tangos," Wilson Nelson said. "We can handle three."
Pops was already loading magazines. "How far?"
"Forty-two miles," Jr. said. "Maybe thirty-five minutes."
Wade looked around the room. "We gear up. Full tactical. Two teams—entry and perimeter."
He pointed. "Robert, Tom, Caleb, Pops—you're with me on entry. Ray, Josh, Wilson, Ryan—perimeter. Secure the exits, no one gets out."
The four wiz kids stood. Jr. grabbed his sidearm from the table. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez—all three strapped on their holsters without a word.
Nobody questioned it.
Wade looked at them. "Jr., you're lead comms. I want you in my truck, running the network. Billy Renzo, you're with the Beaumonts—keep the drone feeds live. Ryan, Daniel—split between the perimeter vehicles. Everyone stays connected."
"Yes sir," Jr. said.
Sarah stood. "I want them back."
"You'll have them," Wade said.
Mary put an arm around Sarah. "We'll be here when you get back."
Edna and Anna stood with Rebecca and Caroline. None of them spoke.
The men moved. Rifles. Shotguns. Tactical vests pulled from the backs of trucks. The wiz kids checked their gear—iPads synced, radios charged, sidearms loaded.
Jr. climbed into Wade's F-250. Pops got in the back, M14 across his lap.
At 8:52 AM, six trucks rolled out of the Benson ranch.
The ladies watched from the porch until the dust settled.
Then they went inside to wait.
Chapter 8: Breach
The convoy moved fast. Eighty miles an hour on county roads, Wade's F-250 in the lead.
Jr. sat in the passenger seat, iPad on his lap, watching three feeds at once—GPS tracking, thermal imaging, drone footage. The radio network crackled with check-ins.
"Perimeter One, in position behind lead vehicle." Ray's voice.
"Perimeter Two, right flank." Wilson Nelson.
"Entry team, ready." Robert Beaumont from the third truck.
Pops sat in the back, methodically checking his rifle. Jr. could see him in the side mirror—face hard, movements efficient. Vietnam muscle memory.
Wade drove with one hand, the other resting on his tactical vest. "How's the thermal?"
Jr. checked the feed. "Still three tangos on the ground floor. Two signatures elevated—no movement for the last ten minutes."
"They drugged?" Wade asked.
"Or in pain," Pops said from the back. "Suspended like that, they're fighting just to breathe."
Jr.'s jaw tightened. He switched to the drone feed. The deer processing barn filled the screen—long, low building with a peaked roof, rusted metal siding. One main entrance, two side doors, loading dock in the back.
"Billy, you got the aerial?" Jr. said into the radio.
"Copy." Billy Renzo's voice from the Beaumont truck. "I'm tracking all exits. No movement outside."
"Daniel, Ryan—perimeter feeds?"
"Clear on the north side," Daniel said.
"South side clear," Ryan Mattern confirmed.
Wade checked his watch. 9:23 AM. "Five minutes out."
The trucks slowed as they approached. Wade pulled off the main road onto a dirt access trail half a mile from the target. The other vehicles followed, parking in a line.
Doors opened. Men poured out.
Wade gathered them—Tom, Pops, Robert, Caleb at the center. Ray, Josh, Wilson, Ryan Nelson spreading to the sides.
"Quick and clean," Wade said. "Entry team goes through the main door. Perimeter secures the exits—anyone runs, you drop them. No hesitation."
Heads nodded.
Wade looked at Caleb. "You stay behind me. You follow my lead. Understood?"
"Yes sir."
Wade turned to Jr. "Keep the feeds live. Anyone moves outside that building, you call it."
"Got it."
The wiz kids stayed with the trucks, iPads and radios out, creating a mobile command center.
Pops chambered a round. "Let's get my boys."
They moved.
Silent. Spread out. Wade, Pops, Tom, Robert, and Caleb approached the main entrance. The perimeter team circled—Ray and Josh to the loading dock, Wilson and Ryan Nelson to the side doors.
Jr. watched on the thermal feed. Three heat signatures. Two still by the office. One near the main floor.
"Tango One is ten feet inside the door," Jr. said quietly into the radio. "Tangos Two and Three are forty feet back, northeast corner."
"Copy," Wade whispered.
They stacked at the door—Wade first, then Pops, Robert, Tom, Caleb at the rear.
Wade tested the handle. Unlocked.
He held up three fingers. Two. One.
The door exploded inward.
Wade went in first, rifle up. Tango One spun around, reaching for a weapon on the table.
Wade fired twice. Center mass. The man dropped.
Pops was already moving, sweeping right. Two more men scrambled from chairs in the corner office—one grabbed a shotgun.
Pops fired. The M14 barked once. The man went down.
Robert took the third—two shots, clean.
Three seconds. Three dead.
"Clear!" Wade called.
Tom was already running toward the center of the barn. There—suspended from ceiling hooks—Billy and Jake. Shirtless, taped, arms behind them, boots tied to wrists.
"Get them down!" Tom shouted.
Jr. heard it over the radio. He was out of the truck before he realized he was moving.
"Building's clear!" he yelled to Billy Renzo, Daniel, and Ryan. "Come on!"
All four wiz kids sprinted toward the barn, sidearms still holstered, iPads clutched in their hands.
Inside, Caleb was climbing up on a chair, reaching the hooks. Robert pulled a knife, cutting the rope at Billy's ankles.
Billy dropped into Tom's arms. Tom lowered him to the ground, hands shaking as he peeled the tape from Billy's eyes.
Billy blinked, squinting. "Dad?"
"I got you," Tom said. "I got you."
Pops and Wade cut Jake down. Jake groaned as his arms came forward—shoulders screaming from hours of suspension.
"Easy," Wade said. "Easy, son."
Jr. burst through the door, the other three right behind him. He skidded to a stop, staring at his uncles on the ground.
"Uncle Billy—"
"Hey, kid," Billy said, voice hoarse. "You find us?"
"Yeah," Jr. said. His voice cracked. "Yeah, we found you."
Billy Renzo knelt beside Billy, hands already checking his wrists for circulation. Daniel and Ryan stood nearby, eyes wide, taking in the scene—the blood, the hooks, the three dead men.
Jr. pulled out his iPad with shaking hands. Hit FaceTime.
Sarah's face filled the screen instantly. "Jr.? Baby, what—"
Jr. turned the iPad so she could see.
Billy. On the ground. Alive. Tom holding him.
Sarah's hand went to her mouth. "Oh thank God. Thank God."
"We got them, Mom," Jr. said. "We got them both."
Behind Sarah, Mary and Caroline and Edna and Anna all crowded into frame, crying, talking over each other.
Rebecca's voice came from somewhere off-screen. "I'm calling Dr. Peterson. Tell them I'm calling him now."
"Mom's calling Dr. Peterson," Jr. relayed.
Tom nodded. "Tell her we're not going to the hospital. We're bringing them home."
Jr. repeated it. Sarah nodded, wiping her eyes.
Ray and Josh came through the loading dock. Wilson and Ryan Nelson through the side. They found Jake sitting up now, arms being massaged back to life by Pops.
"Not the hospital," Jake said immediately.
"We heard you," Josh said. "Home. Rebecca and Doc Peterson will meet us there."
They wrapped Billy and Jake in blankets from the trucks. Tom and Ray carried Billy to Tom's F-250. Josh and Pops got Jake into Wade's truck.
Jr. stayed on FaceTime with Sarah the whole time, narrating, letting the women see their men alive.
"We're coming home," Jr. said into the iPad. "Thirty-five minutes."
"We'll be ready," Sarah said.
Outside, the perimeter held. No runners. No surprises.
Wade keyed his radio. "All units, we're rolling out. Jr., kill the drones and pack up."
"Copy," Jr. said.
Billy Renzo and Daniel were already retrieving the quadcopters. Ryan Mattern gathered the gear.
Caleb stood near the barn entrance, staring at the three bodies inside. Robert came up beside him.
"You good?"
Caleb nodded slowly. "Yeah. I'm good."
"Let's go home."
At 9:38 AM, six trucks rolled out of the processing district.
Behind them, three bodies lay cooling in an abandoned deer barn.
The consortium took care of its own.
Chapter 9: Coming Home
The trucks pulled into the Benson ranch at 10:14 AM.
Sarah was off the porch before Tom's F-250 came to a full stop. She had the passenger door open, hands reaching for Billy.
"Mom, I'm fine—"
"You're not fine," Sarah said, voice shaking. She touched his face, his shoulders, checking him like he was five years old again.
Tom came around, helping Billy out. His legs were unsteady. Hours suspended had done damage.
Mary was there for Jake, tears streaming. Wade and Josh got him out of the truck carefully. Jake winced as his feet hit the ground.
"Inside," Rebecca said, already moving. "Both of you. Kitchen table. Now."
Dr. Peterson's sedan was already in the driveway. He came out with his medical bag, glasses sliding down his nose. "Let me see them."
Billy and Jake were herded into the kitchen. Rebecca had towels laid out on the table, her nursing kit open. Dr. Peterson washed his hands at the sink.
"Shirts are already off," Billy muttered. "Saved you some time, Doc."
"Smart-ass," Peterson said. But his face was serious as he examined the cuts on Billy's abs. Shallow. Clean. Meant to bleed, not to kill.
"These need cleaning and bandaging. The shoulders are what I'm worried about." He tested Billy's range of motion. Billy hissed through his teeth.
"Rotator cuff damage," Peterson said. "Could be torn. You need an MRI."
"No hospital," Billy said.
"Billy—"
"No. Hospital."
Tom stood in the doorway. "Doc, can you treat them here?"
Peterson sighed. "I can manage the cuts and monitor for infection. The shoulders... they need rest. Physical therapy. If there's a complete tear, they'll need surgery eventually."
"Eventually," Billy said. "Not today."
"You're an idiot," Rebecca said, wrapping his ribs.
"Runs in the family," Jake said from the other chair. Peterson was checking his shoulders, face grim.
"Same diagnosis," Peterson said. "You're both lucky you didn't dislocate completely."
"We had motivation not to," Jake said. He glanced at Jr., standing in the doorway with Anna and Edna. "Kid found us fast."
Jr. shrugged, but his face flushed.
Outside, Wade gathered Wilson and Ryan Nelson near the trucks.
"We need to document the scene," Wade said. "Self-defense during a rescue. Three armed kidnappers, killed in the act. I'll file the report. Wilson, you photograph everything. Ryan, you bag the weapons."
"What about the bodies?" Wilson asked.
"Coroner picks them up. County handles it. We were rescuing kidnapped citizens." Wade's voice was flat. Final. "Anyone asks, that's what happened."
"Copy that," Wilson said.
Pops came out onto the porch, cigar already lit. He surveyed the crowd—families milling around, kids reunited with their fathers, relief settling over everyone like a blanket.
He turned to Robert Beaumont, then to Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez.
"We're doing a BBQ," Pops announced. "One o'clock. Celebrate bringing the boys home. You're all staying."
"Pops, we don't need—" Tom started.
"We're doing a BBQ," Pops repeated. Louder. "Get the grills going. Someone get the meat. We eat together."
Robert grinned. "I'll handle the grills."
"I'll get brisket from the freezer," Renzo said.
"We've got ribs," Rodriguez added.
Tom looked at Sarah through the kitchen window. She was crying, hands on Billy's face. Then she nodded.
"Okay," Tom said. "One o'clock."
By 12:45, the smell of charcoal and mesquite filled the air.
Three grills going. Brisket, ribs, chicken, sausages. The women had the kitchen covered—potato salad, coleslaw, beans, cornbread. Coolers full of beer and sweet tea.
Billy and Jake sat at the patio table, shoulders wrapped, cuts bandaged, shirts finally back on. They looked like hell, but they were home.
Jr. came over with a plate piled high. "Uncle Billy, Uncle Jake—made you both plates."
"Thanks, kid," Billy said.
Jr. sat down next to them, Anna on one side, Edna on the other. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez pulled up chairs, plates in hand.
"You guys did good today," Billy said to the wiz kids. "Real good."
"Phone ping worked," Jr. said. "You keeping it in your back pocket saved you."
"Told you," Billy said. "Never take it out when I'm working."
Jake grinned, then winced. "Hurt like hell, but we knew you'd find it."
Caleb came over with his plate, sat down hard. "Next time someone tries to take you, I'm sleeping lighter."
"Next time?" Jake said. "There better not be a next time."
"Damn right," Pops said, appearing with a plate and a fresh cigar. He sat at the head of the table. "Anyone tries that shit again, they won't make it out of the driveway."
Laughter rippled through the group.
Ray came over, beer in hand. "Billy, Jake—you two are off rotation for the next week. Light duty only."
"Can't argue with that," Billy said.
Jr. looked up at Ray with a grin. "Uncle Ray, we get time and a half for today's work, right?"
The table erupted in laughter.
Ray shook his head. "You little shit."
"That's a yes, right?" Jr. pressed.
"We'll see," Ray said, grinning despite himself.
Tom stood at the grill with Robert and Wade, flipping ribs. "Hell of a morning."
"Hell of a family," Wade said.
"Amen," Robert added.
By 1:30, everyone was eating. Plates piled high. Kids running around. The women sitting together, finally able to breathe. The men standing in groups, retelling the breach, the extraction, the boys' stubbornness with Dr. Peterson.
Pops raised his beer. "To family."
"To family," everyone echoed.
Billy looked around—at his brothers, his parents, his nephew, his friends. At the consortium that had mobilized in minutes, tracked him down in hours, and brought him home.
"Thanks," he said quietly to Jr.
Jr. bumped his shoulder gently. Careful of the injuries. "Anytime, Uncle Billy."
Jake leaned back in his chair, eyes closed against the sun. "Best BBQ we've ever had."
"Damn right," Pops said.
And for the first time since 5:44 that morning, the Benson ranch felt whole again.
