The old barn reeked of rotting wood and diesel fuel. Dust motes danced in the slivers of late afternoon sunlight that cut through gaps in the weathered planks. In the far corner, bound to a thick wooden support post, Celab struggled against his restraints.
His arms were stretched high above his head, wrists lashed tight to an iron ring bolted into the post. His biceps were tied separately to either side of the rough timber, forcing his shoulders back and leaving him completely exposed. The white wifebeater he'd been wearing when they'd jumped him was now soaked through with sweat, clinging to his chest and revealing the crisscross pattern of ropes that bound his torso to the post.
A frayed red bandanna had been stuffed into his mouth, and several strips of duct tape sealed it in place. Above the gag, his eyes were alert, darting toward every sound. Another rope encircled his neck—not tight enough to strangle, but tight enough to remind him not to thrash too hard.
His legs were bound at both the thighs and ankles, then lashed to the base of the post. He couldn't move more than an inch in any direction. Sweat dripped from his bare armpits, trailing down his sides in the stifling heat of the enclosed barn.
The door creaked open. A figure stepped inside, backlit by the fading sun.
"Your friends better come through with that money," the voice drawled. "Or you're gonna be here a long, long time."
Celab's jaw tightened beneath the gag. He pulled hard against the ropes—once, twice—but they didn't give.
The figure chuckled and disappeared back into the dusk, leaving Celab alone again in the suffocating silence.
Billy checked his phone again. Three missed calls to Celab. Nothing.
"This ain't like him," Jake muttered, pacing the barn. "He was supposed to meet us an hour ago."
Billy Jr. appeared in the doorway, face pale. "I can't raise him on the radio either."
Jake's jaw tightened. "Try his location."
Jr.'s fingers flew across his phone screen. "It's… it's off. Or dead."
Without hesitation, Jr. pulled out the emergency transmitter from his belt and hit the button three times in rapid succession.
The mechanical voice crackled through every radio in the consortium network: "911. Billy Jr. 911. Billy Jr. 911. Billy Jr."
Jr.'s voice cut through immediately. "Celab is missing. Not answering calls, radio, nothing. Last seen two hours ago heading to the south pasture."
Within fifteen minutes, trucks were roaring up the long drive to the Benson Ranch. The house filled fast—Tom and Sarah, Pops with a cigar clenched between his teeth, Sheriff Wade Nelson still in uniform, Robert and Caroline Beaumont white-faced and gripping each other's hands.
Robert's phone buzzed.
He pulled it out, glanced at the screen—and froze.
"Oh God. Oh my God."
Caroline grabbed his arm. "What? What is it?"
Robert turned the phone around.
The image showed Celab—bound to a wooden post in some dark barn, arms stretched high and lashed tight, ropes crisscrossing his torso, a red bandanna stuffed in his mouth and sealed with duct tape. His eyes were wide, alert, terrified. Sweat soaked through his white wifebeater.
Beneath the photo, a message:
$5,000,000. Consortium pays. No cops. Instructions coming. You have 48 hours.
Caroline's knees buckled. Sarah caught her.
"Jesus Christ," Wade muttered.
Jake exploded. His fist slammed into the wall, cracking the drywall. "I'm gonna kill 'em. I swear to God I'm gonna—"
"Jake!" Tom barked.
Billy wasn't any calmer. He kicked over a kitchen chair, sent it skidding across the floor. "We should've been with him. We should've—"
"Shut up and think," Pops growled, cigar smoke curling. "All of you. Panicking don't help the boy."
Wade looked at the photo again, his sheriff's instincts kicking in despite the knot in his gut. "They said no cops. That means no FBI either—not yet."
"Damn right no FBI," Pops said. "We're forming a militia. Round up every able-bodied man in this consortium. We find that boy ourselves."
Billy Jr. was already moving. He, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez had set up shop in the dining room, spreading out laptops, tablets, and drone controllers across the table like a makeshift command center.
"We're pulling all surveillance footage from every camera on every ranch," Jr. said, fingers flying. "If they took him, they had to cross consortium land."
"Good," Wade said. "Start with the south pasture. Work outward."
Ryan was already launching a drone from the front porch. Daniel synced the encrypted radio frequencies. Billy Renzo plugged in external hard drives.
"Got something," Billy Renzo said five minutes later.
Everyone crowded around the screen.
The grainy black-and-white footage showed Celab walking along a fence line near the southern boundary. Then—movement. Three figures in dark clothing rushed him from behind. A struggle. Celab went down hard.
Jake's fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white.
The video continued. Celab's hands were yanked behind his back and tied. The red bandanna was shoved into his mouth. Then they dragged him—half-conscious—toward an old, beat-up truck parked just off the dirt road.
"Freeze it," Wade said.
Jr. paused the frame.
The truck was a rusted-out Chevy, maybe '90s, primer gray with a busted taillight.
"Can you get a plate?" Wade asked.
"Working on it," Jr. muttered, enhancing the image.
Pops stood at the window, staring out into the fading light. "Forty-eight hours," he said quietly. Then louder, angrier: "We don't wait that long. We get that boy back tonight if we can. And when we find the sons of bitches who took him…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
Celab waited until the footsteps faded completely. Then he started working the ropes.
His wrists burned as he twisted them against the iron ring, testing for any give. Nothing. The rope bit deeper into his skin. He tried pulling his arms down—maybe he could slip the ring loose from the post. His biceps strained against the ropes lashed to either side of the timber.
Still nothing.
He shifted his weight, trying to get leverage with his legs, but they were bound too tight—thighs and ankles lashed to the base of the post. The rope around his neck tightened as he moved, choking him. He stopped, gasping through his nose, the bandanna and tape muffling every sound.
Think. Think.
He twisted his torso, felt the ropes crisscrossing his chest shift slightly. Maybe if he could loosen one—
The barn door slammed open.
Celab froze.
The figure stepped inside, silhouetted against the dying light. Slowly, deliberately, he walked toward Celab.
"Thought you could wiggle your way out, huh?"
Celab's eyes went wide. He shook his head frantically.
The man laughed—a low, cruel sound. "Don't lie to me, boy."
He grabbed the front of Celab's sweat-soaked wifebeater and ripped. The fabric tore clean down the middle, exposing Celab's bare chest and stomach. Celab's breath came in panicked gasps through his nose.
"You try that again," the man said, his voice cold, "and it's gonna get a whole lot worse."
He pulled out his phone and propped it up on a wooden crate across from Celab, angling it to capture his full body. The red recording light blinked on.
"Let's give your friends a little show."
Celab's eyes locked on the phone. He tried to pull back, but there was nowhere to go. The ropes held him fast.
The first punch drove into Celab's exposed stomach. His body jerked against the restraints, a muffled groan ripping through the gag. The man stepped back, then drove his fist in again. Harder.
Celab's abs clenched, trying to brace, but tied the way he was—arms stretched high, completely exposed—there was no defense.
Another punch. Then another.
Each impact forced the air from Celab's lungs. He gasped desperately through his nose, tears streaming down his face. His belly turned bright red.
The man didn't stop. Fist after fist slammed into Celab's stomach and sides. Celab thrashed weakly, but the ropes around his neck tightened every time he moved. His muffled screams grew weaker.
His vision blurred. His body sagged against the post.
One more punch.
Celab's head lolled forward. His eyes rolled back. His body went completely limp, arms hanging slack from the iron ring. Unconscious.
The man stepped back, breathing hard. He walked over and stopped the recording, then snapped a still photo—Celab hanging motionless, arms stretched high, torso bare and crisscrossed with ropes, his belly bright red and swollen. The torn remains of his wifebeater hung in tatters. His head was bowed, eyes closed.
The man attached the video and photo to a message:
Stop looking. Pay up. Or next time it's worse.
He hit send.
"Can you get a plate?" Wade asked.
Jr. zoomed in, enhanced the image, shook his head. "No plate. But look at that truck—rusted-out Chevy, '90s maybe, primer gray with a busted right taillight. That's distinctive as hell."
"Good," Wade said. "That's what we're looking for."
Billy Renzo was already pulling drone cases from the back of his truck. "We've got six drones ready to go. It's about three in the afternoon—we've got maybe three hours of good light left before we have to recall them, swap batteries, and go thermal."
"Do it," Pops growled.
Within minutes, all six drones were airborne, spreading out in a search grid pattern across the consortium's southern boundary and beyond. Ryan Mattern piloted two, Daniel Rodriguez handled two more, and Billy Renzo controlled the remaining two. Jr. stayed at the command center, coordinating.
"I'm trying to trace the phone they used for that photo," Jr. muttered, fingers flying across his laptop.
"Can you track it?" Wade asked.
Jr.'s face went pale. "Yeah. I can track it. It's... it's Celab's phone. They're using his phone."
Billy slammed his fist on the table. "Son of a bitch."
Outside, gravel crunched as two sheriff's cruisers pulled up. Wilson and Ryan Nelson—Wade's sons and deputies—climbed out, followed by half a dozen more deputies. They hauled duffel bags from the trunks: tactical rifles, sidearms, night vision goggles, thermal scopes.
Pops met them on the porch, cigar smoke trailing. "About damn time."
Wade nodded to his sons. "Gear up. We're going in hot when we find them."
Back inside, Jr. flipped a switch on the radio console. "Scramble all. Network is now encrypted. Everybody can talk to everybody—nobody outside the consortium can hear us."
He started distributing iPads to everyone in the room—each one showing a split screen with all six drone feeds streaming live. Tom took one. Jake grabbed another. Billy held his like it was a lifeline.
"Spread out," Jr. said. "Watch every screen. If you see that truck, call it out immediately."
The room fell into tense silence, everyone's eyes glued to the screens. The drones swept over pastures, dirt roads, abandoned barns, fence lines.
"Anything?" Jake asked, voice tight.
"Not yet," Ryan Mattern said from the dining room. "Still searching grid two."
Robert's phone buzzed.
The sound cut through the room like a gunshot.
Robert looked down. His face drained of color.
"No. No, no, no—"
"What?" Caroline grabbed his arm.
Robert's hands shook as he opened the message. A video file. He hit play.
The room crowded around him.
The video showed Celab—bound to the post, arms stretched high, shirt ripped open. A man's fist drove into his exposed stomach. Again. And again. Celab's body jerked with each impact, muffled screams tearing through the gag. His belly turned bright red.
The punches kept coming.
Celab's head lolled forward. His body went limp.
The video stopped.
Beneath it: Stop looking. Pay up. Or next time it's worse.
Caroline's sob broke the silence.
Pops's cigar hit the floor. "FIND THAT FUCKEN TRUCK!" he roared. "NOW!"
Jake was already halfway out the door, iPad in hand, eyes burning. Billy was right behind him.
The hunt was on.
Celab's eyes fluttered open. His entire body ached—his stomach felt like it was on fire, his wrists raw and bleeding from the ropes. But he was still alive.
He straightened up slowly, testing the restraints. The ropes around his biceps had loosened slightly during the beating. Maybe—just maybe—if he could work them a little more...
He twisted his arms, pulling against the iron ring. A muffled groan escaped through the gag as pain shot through his shoulders. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.
The barn door slammed open.
"You stupid son of a—"
Two men rushed toward him. One grabbed Celab's belt, yanking it free from his jeans. The leather snapped as he pulled it tight between his hands.
"Guess you didn't learn your lesson."
The belt cracked across Celab's bare chest. Celab's body convulsed, a strangled scream muffled by the gag. Another strike. Then another. Red welts bloomed across his skin.
The man with the phone stepped forward, snapping photos with each strike. Celab's head thrashed from side to side, tears streaming down his face.
One final crack of the belt.
Celab's body sagged, chest heaving, fresh welts crisscrossing the old bruises.
The man attached the photos to a message and hit send.
Robert's phone buzzed again.
His hands shook as he opened it. Photos—Celab's chest covered in angry red welts, his face twisted in pain, body hanging limp from the post.
Caroline saw the screen. Her eyes rolled back. She collapsed.
"Caroline!" Sarah caught her before she hit the floor.
"That's it," Wade said, his voice steel. "We're out of time."
"WAIT!" Billy Renzo shouted from the command center. "Camera 6! I got something!"
Everyone rushed to the screen.
There—barely visible in the fading light—the rusted Chevy, parked behind an old barn about eight miles south of the consortium boundary.
Jr.'s fingers flew across the keyboard. "Switching to thermal."
The screen shifted to heat signatures. Four shapes—three moving around outside the barn, one motionless inside.
"That's him," Jake said, voice breaking. "That's Celab."
"Scramble all," Jr. said into the radio. "We have a location. Eight miles south, grid reference Charlie-Seven. Old barn, gray Chevy out front. Three hostiles, one hostage."
Wade was already moving. "Gear up. Now."
Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez grabbed their sidearms and night vision goggles. The deputies distributed sniper scopes, tactical rifles, more night vision equipment to Tom, Pops, Jake, Billy, and the other consortium men who'd arrived.
The sun was dropping below the horizon, painting the sky blood-red.
Pops chambered a round in his rifle. "Let's go get our boy."
Trucks roared to life. Headlights cut through the gathering darkness.
The rescue was on.
__________________________________
The drones hummed overhead, circling closer.
Inside the barn, one of the men looked up sharply. "You hear that?"
"Shit. Drones."
"They found us. We gotta move. NOW!"
Footsteps scrambled. Doors slammed. The rusted Chevy's engine coughed to life.
Celab hung limply against the post, barely conscious, as the truck peeled out into the darkness.
The Chevy barreled down the dirt road, headlights off, trying to stay invisible. They didn't see the sheriff's cruisers until it was too late.
Wilson and Ryan Nelson had taken the southern route, blocking the only exit. The Chevy skidded to a stop, trapped.
"OUT OF THE VEHICLE! HANDS UP!"
The three men stumbled out, hands raised.
Wilson had his rifle trained on them. "Where's the boy?"
One of them—face pale, scared—cracked immediately. "The barn. Old Miller barn. Eight miles back. He's still tied up. We didn't hurt him no more, I swear—"
"Shut up," Wilson snapped. He keyed his radio. "We got 'em. Three suspects in custody. Celab's at the Miller barn, still secured. Move in."
The convoy of trucks roared up to the barn. Billy and Jake didn't wait—they were out before the engines stopped, sprinting toward the door.
"CELAB!"
Jake kicked the door open. It crashed against the wall.
The barn was dark except for a sliver of moonlight cutting through the gaps in the walls. And there—in the far corner—Celab.
Arms stretched high, bound to the post. Torso bare, covered in welts and bruises. Head slumped forward.
"Oh God. Celab!"
Billy was already at his side, pocket knife out, sawing through the ropes around his wrists. Jake supported Celab's weight as the bindings fell away.
"We got you, buddy. We got you."
Celab's eyes fluttered open. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "Billy? Jake?"
"Yeah, man. It's us. You're safe."
Robert burst through the door, stumbling, sobbing. "Celab. Oh my God, Celab."
He fell to his knees beside his son, pulling him into his arms. Celab sagged against his father's chest, shaking.
Jr. appeared at the doorway, iPad in hand, FaceTime already connected. "Mrs. Beaumont? We got him. He's okay."
Caroline's tear-streaked face filled the screen. "Celab? Baby, can you hear me?"
Celab lifted his head slightly, managed a weak nod toward the camera. Caroline broke down, Sarah's arms around her.
Wade was already on his phone. "I'm calling an ambulance."
"No," Celab rasped. "I'm fine. I don't need—"
"Son, you're going to the hospital," Robert said firmly, voice thick with emotion. "No arguments."
Wade nodded. "Ambulance is en route. ETA ten minutes."
The paramedics arrived, loaded Celab onto a stretcher despite his weak protests. Robert climbed into the ambulance with him.
"We'll meet you there," Tom called.
"No," Robert said through the closing doors. "Go home. Be with your families. I'll call when we know more."
The ambulance pulled away, lights flashing.
The consortium men stood in the moonlight, watching the taillights disappear down the road. Pops lit a fresh cigar, hands steady now.
"Let's go home," he said quietly.
The trucks turned back toward the ranch, headlights cutting through the darkness. The long wait was just beginning.
_______________________________
The house felt too quiet.
Sarah had put out sandwiches and coffee on the kitchen table, but most of it sat untouched. Caroline sat in the living room, wrapped in a blanket, staring at nothing. Mary Nelson kept her company, refilling her tea.
In the kitchen, Tom and Wade spoke in low voices. Jake paced by the window. Billy sat at the table, leg bouncing, checking his phone every thirty seconds.
Jr. and his friends had packed up the command center but lingered in the dining room, unable to leave until they knew.
Pops settled into his chair with a tumbler of whisky. He took a long drink, then cracked open a beer. "Boy's tough," he muttered to no one in particular. "He'll be fine."
"Damn right he will," Jake said, but his voice was tight.
The minutes crawled by. An hour. Then another.
Sarah tried to get people to eat. A few took sandwiches just to have something to do with their hands.
"How long does it take to check someone out?" Billy finally burst out.
"As long as it takes," Tom said quietly. "They're being thorough. That's good."
Caroline's phone buzzed. She fumbled for it, nearly dropped it.
"It's Robert," she breathed.
Everyone crowded around.
She put it on speaker. "Robert?"
"We're twelve miles from the house." Robert's voice was tired but warm. "Celab's okay. Doctor checked him over—bruised ribs, some welts, dehydration. Nothing broken. He gave us instructions, and Rebecca's going to keep an eye on him."
A collective exhale swept through the room.
"Oh thank God," Caroline sobbed. "Thank God."
Jake let out a whoop. Billy punched the air. Jr. and his friends erupted in cheers.
"HELL YES!" Pops roared, raising his whisky. "That's what I'm talkin' about!"
Hoots and howls filled the house. Tom grabbed Sarah and spun her around. Wade grinned, the tension finally breaking from his shoulders.
Pops was already on his feet, grabbing bottles. "Everybody's drinking to this!" He started pouring—whisky for the men, beers all around. He didn't skip Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, or Daniel Rodriguez. "You boys earned it today. Hell, you found him."
Sarah opened her mouth to protest, but Tom put a hand on her arm and shook his head. Not tonight.
The boys grinned, taking the bottles like they'd won the lottery.
"We'll be there soon," Robert said over the speaker, and they could hear the smile in his voice now. "Celab wants to sleep in his own bed."
"We'll be waiting," Caroline said, wiping her eyes.
The line went dead.
Pops raised his glass high. "To Celab. And to getting our boy back."
"TO CELAB!" the room thundered.
Everyone drank—whisky burning, beer flowing, relief flooding through every corner of the house.
Outside, headlights appeared in the distance, cutting through the night.
They were almost home.
-The clock on the wall read 8:00 PM when the truck pulled up.
Celab climbed out slowly, Robert hovering beside him. The front door burst open and everyone spilled onto the porch.
Caroline rushed down the steps, pulling Celab into her arms. He winced slightly but hugged her back.
"I'm okay, Mom. Really."
She pulled back, studying his face, then hugged him again.
Celab looked around at the assembled crowd—the Bensons, the Nelsons, friends from across the consortium. He managed a grin.
"We're damn cattle ranchers," he said. "Too late to grill some steaks?"
Laughter erupted. The tension finally broke.
"Hell no it's not too late!" Pops bellowed. "Sarah, fire up that grill!"
Within minutes, steaks were sizzling, the kitchen was bustling, and the house felt alive again. Celab sat at the head of the table, picking at his food—his stomach still too sore for much—but smiling as conversation swirled around him.
Wade leaned back in his chair, beer in hand. "Those three boys who grabbed you? Rednecks with records as wide as Texas. Assault, theft, extortion. They'll be going away for a long time."
"Good," Jake said darkly.
"Kidnapping, assault with intent, extortion of five million dollars," Wade continued. "Federal charges too, since they crossed county lines. They're done."
Pops had claimed the kitchen counter as his bar, pouring whisky and cracking beers for anyone who came near. The wiz kids—Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—hovered near the frat house door.
"Can we stay over?" Jr. asked.
Tom looked at Sarah, who nodded. "Of course. There's sleeping bags in the hall closet."
"Hell, make yourselves at home," Pops said, sliding beers across the counter to them with a wink.
By eleven, the house had cleared out. Robert and Caroline headed to the guest room. The adults retreated to their own spaces. The ranch settled into quiet.
In the frat house, the seven boys—Billy, Jake, Celab, Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—spread out sleeping bags on the floor between the two bunk beds.
"Tight fit," Ryan muttered.
"Better than being tied to a post," Celab said dryly.
Everyone laughed.
Jake knelt by the loose floorboard near his bunk. He pried it up, reaching into the hidden space.
His hand hit something unexpected.
"What the hell?"
He pulled out a six-pack. Then another. Then a third.
A note was taped to one:
You boys earned it. —Pops
"NO WAY!" Jr. shouted, then clapped his hand over his mouth.
Billy Renzo grabbed one, grinning ear to ear. "I love that old man."
They cracked the beers open, keeping their voices low.
"To Celab," Jr. said, raising his bottle.
"To Celab," they echoed.
The conversation rolled on—recounting the day, the drones, the rescue, Celab's escape attempts. Jake did an impression of Pops screaming "FIND THAT FUCKEN TRUCK!" that had everyone choking on their beer trying not to laugh too loud.
"You really tried to get loose?" Daniel asked.
Celab nodded, rubbing his wrists. "Twice. Should've quit after the first time."
"Nah," Billy said. "You're a Benson now. We don't quit."
"Damn right," Jake agreed.
The banter continued—stories, jokes, plans for tomorrow. The beer slowly disappeared.
By three in the morning, the bottles were empty and the boys were sprawled across the floor and bunks, still talking in the dark.
"Hey Celab?" Jr. said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Glad you're okay, man."
"Me too," Celab said. "Me too."
One by one, they drifted off.
The frat house fell silent, seven boys safe under one roof.
Outside, the Texas night stretched wide and still. Tomorrow would bring questions, consequences, recovery.
But tonight, they were home.
— END —
