Chapter 1: Morning Coffee
Billy Benson's alarm went off at 6:15 a.m., but Jake's boot hit his bunk before he could reach for it.
"Turn that thing off," Jake groaned from the top bunk.
"I'm trying, asshole." Billy fumbled for his phone and killed the alarm. Across the room, Caleb was already sitting up in the other top bunk, stretching.
"Morning, sunshine," Caleb said, grinning.
Junior was still buried under his blanket in the lower bunk beneath Caleb, completely motionless.
"Jr., you coming with me to the north pasture?" Billy asked, pulling on his jeans.
A muffled grunt came from under the blanket.
"I'll take that as a no."
"Kid's learning," Jake muttered, rolling over. "Smart enough to sleep in when he can."
"Pops is gonna give him hell for it," Billy said, lacing his boots.
"Pops gives everybody hell for everything," Caleb said. "It's like his love language."
Jake snorted. "Yesterday he told me I tie knots like a 'goddamn arthritic nun.' I still don't know what the hell that means."
"Means you suck at knots," Billy said, grinning.
"Screw you. I beat your escape time last week."
"By two seconds. And you cheated."
"How do you cheat at escaping?"
"You loosened the wrist ropes before you started the timer."
"Prove it."
"I don't have to prove it. Caleb saw you."
Caleb held up his hands. "Leave me out of this."
Junior finally surfaced from his blanket, his hair sticking up in every direction. "You guys are loud as hell."
"Good morning to you too, Junior," Billy said. "You sure you don't want to come? Pops made coffee."
"Pops' coffee tastes like diesel fuel."
"True," Caleb said. "But it'll wake you up or kill you. Either way, you won't be tired anymore."
Junior considered this for about half a second, then burrowed back under his blanket. "I'm good."
"Lazy little shit," Jake said, echoing what Pops would inevitably say later.
Billy grabbed his hat and satellite radio from the makeshift shelf they'd built between the bunks. "Alright, I'm heading down. Try not to burn the place down while I'm gone."
"No promises," Jake said.
"And Jr., if you change your mind, radio me. I'll swing back and pick you up."
Another muffled grunt.
Billy shook his head and headed out of the frat house, pulling the door shut behind him. He could hear Jake already giving Caleb shit about something as he made his way down the stairs.
The kitchen was empty except for Pops, who was sitting at the big wooden table with a cigar already lit and a coffee mug that looked like it had been there since dawn. The smell of burnt coffee and bacon grease filled the air—Pops' usual breakfast massacre.
"You're late, boy," Pops said, not looking up from his newspaper.
Billy glanced at the clock on the wall. 6:28. "It's 6:28, Pops. You said 6:30."
"Coffee's been ready for three minutes. That's three minutes of my life I ain't getting back, waiting on your lazy ass." Pops took a drag on his cigar and looked up, squinting through the smoke. "What were you doing up there, braiding each other's hair?"
"Jake was giving his acceptance speech for 'Worst Knot Tier of the Year.'"
Pops barked out a laugh. "That boy couldn't tie a proper knot if his life depended on it. Last week I watched him hog-tie a fence post and the damn thing escaped."
Billy grinned and poured himself a mug from the ancient percolator on the counter. The coffee was thick enough to stand a spoon in—the way Pops liked it. "Mom know you're smoking in here again?"
"Your mother's still asleep, which means I got about fifteen more minutes of peace before she comes down here and starts her daily mission to make me live forever." He tapped ash into a coffee saucer. "Woman acts like I'm made of glass. Hell, I'm eighty-three. At this point I'm held together by spite and bad habits."
"And that coffee," Billy said, taking a sip and immediately regretting it.
"What's wrong with my coffee?"
"Nothing, if you're trying to strip paint off a barn."
"Builds character. You young bucks with your fancy lattes and your oat milk horseshit—coffee's supposed to wake you up, not tuck you in for a nap." Pops pushed a plate of bacon across the table. It looked like charcoal. "Eat something. You're getting skinny."
Billy was six-foot-two and a hundred ninety pounds of ranch-work muscle, but Pops had been saying he was too skinny since he was twelve. He took a piece of bacon anyway, mostly to keep the old man happy.
"So what's the plan today?" Pops asked.
"North pasture check. Eight cows up there need feeding and a look-over. Probably take the mule quad, be back by nine."
"Junior going with you?"
"Nah, he wanted to sleep in."
Pops snorted. "Course he did. Kid's fifteen and already sleeping like royalty. When I was his age, I was up at four-thirty every morning, hauling feed in the freezing cold—"
"—uphill both ways through six feet of snow," Billy finished, grinning. "In Texas."
"Damn right. In August." Pops leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under him. "You know what kept me alive in 'Nam? Routine. Every morning, same thing. Check your gear, check your guys, keep your eyes open. You get sloppy, you get dead." He pointed his cigar at Billy. "Same thing on a ranch. You stick to your routine, keep your head on straight, everything works."
"Yes sir."
"And don't 'yes sir' me like I'm giving orders. I'm just saying—you go up to that north pasture, you keep your radio on, you check in. Something feels wrong, you call it in. No hero bullshit."
Billy raised an eyebrow. "You expecting trouble with eight cows?"
"I'm expecting you to not be a dumbass. There's a difference." Pops crushed out his cigar in the saucer. "Now get out of here before your mother wakes up and smells the smoke. If she asks, you were the one smoking."
Billy drained his coffee, wincing at the taste. "You're throwing me under the bus?"
"I'm eighty-three years old. I earned the right to be a coward." Pops waved him off. "Go feed those damn cows."
Billy grabbed his work gloves from the counter and headed out through the mudroom into the cool morning air. The sky was just starting to lighten along the eastern horizon. The mule quad was parked by the barn, already fueled up and ready. He checked his pockets—phone, wallet, satellite radio clipped to his belt. Everything in its place.
He fired up the quad, the engine rumbling to life, and headed north toward the pasture. Behind him, the ranch house sat quiet. Up on the second floor, Jake and Caleb were probably already back to sleep, and Junior wouldn't surface for another hour at least. Through the kitchen window, he could see Pops pouring himself another cup of that terrible coffee, probably about to sneak back into his room off the kitchen where he kept his stash of beer and whiskey hidden from Mom.
It was going to be a routine morning.
At least, that's what he thought.
Chapter 2: Empty Pockets
The mule quad rattled over the rutted dirt path, kicking up dust in the early morning light. Billy could see the north pasture fence line ahead, the eight cows already moving toward the gate like they knew breakfast was coming.
He killed the engine and hopped off, grabbing the two feed bags from the back. The cows were lowing softly, pressing against the fence. Big dumb faces, all of them. He grinned and hauled the first bag over to the trough.
"Morning, ladies. Miss me?"
The lead cow—a massive Hereford they'd nicknamed Bertha—shouldered her way to the front. Billy dumped the feed and was reaching for the second bag when he heard the truck.
He straightened, squinting toward the tree line. An old pickup was coming up the access road, moving slow. Probably just someone who got turned around. Happened sometimes out here, especially with the consortium sprawling over so much land.
Billy raised a hand in greeting as the truck rolled to a stop about twenty feet away. Two men got out. Both looked like they'd been rode hard and put away wet—dirty jeans, stained shirts, ball caps pulled low.
"Morning," Billy called. "You guys lost?"
The driver, a heavyset man with a patchy beard, smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Nah, we ain't lost."
The passenger—taller, wiry, with a snake tattoo crawling up his neck—circled around the side. Billy's gut tightened. Something was wrong.
"Can I help you with something?" Billy's hand dropped to his belt, fingers brushing the satellite radio.
"Yeah," the driver said, still smiling. "You can help us with a whole lot, actually."
Billy's thumb found the emergency button, but the tall one moved fast—faster than Billy expected. A fist caught him in the kidney, and he went down hard, gasping. The radio clattered to the dirt.
"Grab his shit," the driver barked.
Hands yanked Billy's phone from his pocket, then his wallet. The tall one grabbed the radio and crushed it under his boot with a grin.
"Get him up."
Billy tried to swing, but his arm was wrenched behind his back. Something hard—the butt of a pistol—cracked against the side of his head, and the world tilted. He tasted copper.
"Don't be stupid, kid. We don't want to hurt you more than we have to."
Billy's vision cleared enough to see the driver holding a coil of hemp rope. Old, rough stuff. Ranch rope.
"On your knees."
A boot kicked the back of Billy's leg, and he dropped. His arms were yanked behind him, wrists crossed. The rope bit into his skin as they cinched it tight—figure-eight loops, the kind you'd use on livestock. Not great knots, Billy's brain registered dimly. Jake would laugh.
More rope around his biceps, lashing them to his sides. Then his ankles, pulled together and wrapped. He tried to struggle, but another crack to the head made his ears ring.
"Easy, easy," the driver said, almost soothingly. "You cooperate, your family gets you back in one piece. You cause problems..." He let the sentence hang.
A burlap sack dropped over Billy's head, scratchy and smelling like feed. The world went dark. Hands grabbed him under the arms and dragged him—boots scraping dirt, then the metallic clang of a truck bed.
He was lifted and dumped like a sack of grain. His shoulder hit metal, and he grunted.
"Tie him down good," the driver said. "Don't want him rolling around back there."
More rope. Around his chest, his legs. Billy felt the truck bed shift as one of them climbed in, felt hands checking the knots. Too tight on the wrists. His fingers were already tingling.
The engine roared to life.
"What about his quad?" the tall one asked.
"Leave it. We got what we need."
The truck lurched forward, and Billy's head bounced against the bed. He tried to breathe slowly through the burlap, tried to think. The knots were tight, but not professional. His wrists were crossed behind him—good for control, bad for circulation. They'd used too much rope on his chest, layered it thick. Amateurs.
He twisted his wrists experimentally. The hemp had some give to it, not like the nylon stuff he and Jake used. If he could get some slack...
The truck hit a pothole, and Billy's head cracked against the wheel well. Pain exploded behind his eyes.
"Careful, goddammit!" the driver yelled from the cab.
Billy lay still, breathing hard through the sack. His head was pounding. Blood was running down the side of his face, warm and sticky.
Keep your head on straight, Pops had said that morning. Something feels wrong, you call it in.
Billy's radio was in pieces back at the pasture. His phone was gone. His wallet was gone.
But Junior would wake up eventually. Junior would try to radio him. And when he didn't answer...
The truck bounced over another rut, and Billy bit back a groan. His wrists burned where the rope dug in. He focused on that pain, used it to stay sharp.
He just had to stay alive long enough for them to find him.
And in the meantime, he'd work on these goddamn knots.
Chapter 3: 911
Junior surfaced from sleep around 7:45, squinting at the sunlight streaming through the frat house window. Jake was snoring in the top bunk, and Caleb had his pillow over his head.
Junior grabbed his satellite radio from the shelf and keyed it. "Billy, you there?"
Static.
He tried again. "Billy? You want me to come out?"
Nothing.
Junior frowned. Billy always answered. Even if he was in the middle of something, he'd at least key the mic and say "busy" or "later."
He pulled out his phone and called. It rang four times, then went to voicemail.
"Hey, it's me. You good? Call me back."
Junior sat up, uneasy now. He glanced at the clock. Billy had left at 6:30. He should've been back by now, or at least close.
He pulled on his jeans and boots and headed downstairs.
Pops was at the kitchen table, working on his third cup of coffee and reading yesterday's paper. He looked up when Junior came in.
"Well, well. Sleeping Beauty finally graces us with his presence."
"Have you heard from Billy?" Junior asked.
"Not since he left. Why?"
"He's not answering his radio. Or his phone."
Pops frowned. "Probably left it in the quad."
"Billy doesn't leave his radio."
"Maybe the battery died."
"He charged it last night. I watched him."
Pops set down his coffee mug, the humor gone from his face. "How long's he been gone?"
"Hour and fifteen minutes. He should've been back by now."
Pops stood up, joints creaking. "Get your radio. We're going out there."
They took Pops' truck, Junior riding shotgun with his radio in his lap. He kept trying to raise Billy, kept getting nothing but static.
"Could be interference," Pops said, but his jaw was tight.
"Out here? From what?"
Pops didn't answer.
The north pasture came into view, and Junior saw the mule quad immediately. It was parked by the fence, exactly where Billy would've left it. The cows were milling around, already fed.
But there was no sign of Billy.
Pops killed the engine and they both got out. Junior's boots hit the dirt and he was already moving toward the quad, his gut churning.
"Billy!" he yelled. "BILLY!"
Nothing.
Pops was at the quad, looking down. "Junior."
Something in his voice made Junior's blood run cold. He jogged over.
Billy's satellite radio was on the ground, smashed to pieces. His phone was gone. His hat was lying in the dirt a few feet away.
"Oh shit," Junior breathed.
Pops bent down, his old knees protesting, and picked up something else. Billy's wallet. He opened it—license, credit cards, forty bucks in cash. All still there.
"They didn't rob him," Pops said quietly.
Junior's heart was hammering now. "Then what—"
"Look." Pops pointed to the dirt. Tire tracks. Fresh ones. Leading away from the access road.
Junior felt like he'd been punched in the chest. "Pops..."
"Get your radio," Pops said, his voice hard as iron now. "Hit the emergency button."
Junior pulled the radio from his belt, his hands shaking. There was a red button under a protective cover—the 911 system Billy and Pops had designed for the consortium. He flipped the cover and pressed it three times.
The radio crackled to life with a mechanical voice: "911BillyJr. 911BillyJr. 911BillyJr."
All eighteen satellite radios across the consortium would be receiving it now, automatically switching to the same encrypted frequency.
Junior keyed the mic, trying to keep his voice steady. "This is Billy Junior. We have an emergency at the Benson north pasture. Billy Benson is missing. His quad is here, his radio's destroyed, and there are signs of a struggle. We need everyone at the main house immediately."
He released the mic. For a moment there was only static.
Then Sheriff Wade Nelson's voice came through, sharp and focused. "Junior, this is Wade. We're ten minutes out. Don't touch anything else. You understand?"
"Yes sir."
"Pops, you there?"
Pops took the radio from Junior. "I'm here, Wade."
"What are we looking at?"
"Tracks. Two men, maybe. They took him." Pops' voice was steady, but Junior could see his hand gripping the radio so tight his knuckles were white. "They took my boy."
More voices started coming through—Tom Benson, Robert Beaumont, the Nelson boys, all confirming they were on their way.
Junior stared at the smashed radio on the ground, at the tire tracks leading away into the distance.
Billy was out there somewhere. And whoever took him had no idea what they'd just started.
Pops' truck skidded to a stop in front of the ranch house at 8:05. Before they were even out of the cab, the front door burst open and Jake came flying down the porch steps, still pulling on a shirt.
"What the hell's going on? I heard the 911—where's Billy?"
"He's gone," Pops said, climbing out. "Somebody took him."
Jake stopped dead. "What?"
Caleb appeared in the doorway, barefoot, his radio in his hand. "Pops, what do you mean 'took him'?"
"I mean exactly what I said." Pops strode toward the house. "Get inside. Now."
The house was already erupting into chaos. Sarah Benson came running down the stairs, still in her robe, her face pale. "Tom! TOM!"
Tom Benson emerged from the master bedroom, pulling on his boots. "I heard it. I'm calling Wade—"
"Already talked to him," Pops said. "He's on his way."
"Where's Billy?" Sarah's voice was shaking. "Where is my son?"
"We don't know yet, Sarah, but we're going to find him." Pops laid Billy's wallet, hat, and the pieces of his radio on the kitchen table.
Sarah's hand went to her mouth. "Oh my God."
Josh came thundering down the stairs with Rebecca right behind him. "Dad, what happened?"
"Billy's been taken from the north pasture," Tom said, his voice tight. "Junior found his gear, but Billy's gone."
Ray appeared at the top of the stairs, phone already to his ear. "I'm calling the state police—"
"Wade's handling it," Pops said. "Right now we need to get organized."
Jake was pacing like a caged animal, his fists clenched. "Who the hell would take Billy? Why?"
"We don't know," Junior said. "But they left tire tracks. They drove off with him."
"Jesus Christ." Caleb ran his hands through his hair. "This is really happening."
The sound of engines outside announced the first arrivals. Junior looked out the window—it was his friends, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez, pulling up in Ryan's truck with the back loaded with equipment cases.
They burst through the door, all three of them wearing matching serious expressions and carrying backpacks stuffed with gear.
"We got the alert," Billy Renzo said. "We brought everything."
"Good," Junior said. "Set up in the living room. We need to start tracking—"
The door opened again and Anna Nelson rushed in, her eyes red. "Junior! Is it true?"
"Anna—" Junior started.
"Is Billy really gone?" Her voice cracked.
"Yeah. Yeah, he is."
She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling. Sarah immediately went to her, pulling the girl into a hug even though she was shaking herself.
More trucks were pulling up now—the Nelsons, the Beaumonts, the other consortium families. The kitchen was filling up fast, voices overlapping in controlled panic.
Caroline Beaumont came in with Mary Nelson, both women immediately gravitating toward Sarah. "We're here, honey. We're all here."
Sheriff Wade Nelson strode through the door with his sons Wilson and Ryan right behind him, all three in uniform. "Alright, everybody—"
The front door banged open one more time and Edna Nelson burst in, her face streaked with tears. "Where is he? Where's Billy?"
"Edna—" Wade started.
"Dad, where is he?" She looked around wildly until her eyes landed on the broken radio on the table. Her knees buckled and Mary caught her.
"We're going to find him, baby," Mary said. "We're going to bring him home."
Jake slammed his fist on the counter. "We need to stop talking and start moving!"
"Jake, calm down," Tom said.
"Calm down? Billy's out there with God knows who doing God knows what and you want me to calm down?"
"Getting worked up isn't going to help your brother," Wade said firmly. "Now everybody, take a breath. We're going to handle this, but we need to be smart about it."
In the living room, the wiz kids had already set up shop. Junior's friends had their laptops out, tablets synced, portable monitors displaying maps and data feeds. They'd trained for scenarios like this—practiced emergency responses, built redundant systems, run drills. But this wasn't a drill.
Daniel was pulling up satellite imagery. Ryan had Billy's phone number ready to ping. Billy Renzo was accessing traffic camera feeds from the county system.
"We're ready," Junior announced. "Just tell us what you need."
Wade turned to Pops. "Show me everything you found. Tom, Robert—security footage from your cameras. Wilson, Ryan—get out to that pasture and process the scene. I want photos, measurements, tire track casts if you can get them."
"On it," Wilson said, already heading for the door.
Pops spread the evidence on the table. "Wallet untouched, radio smashed, no sign of Billy. Tracks heading east."
Robert had his phone out. "Checking our cameras now. If they came through consortium land, we might have caught them."
The room was organized chaos now—people moving with purpose, radios crackling, laptops humming. The mothers had gathered around Sarah and Edna, forming a tight circle of support. The men were clustering around Wade and Pops, voices low and tense.
Jake and Caleb stood shoulder to shoulder, both of them looking like they were about to explode.
"I can't just stand here," Jake said.
"You're not," Pops said. "You're waiting for intel. Soon as we know something, we move."
Junior sat down at the makeshift command center with his friends, pulling up his own tablet. His hands were shaking but his mind was clear. Billy had taught them this. All of it. The radio system, the tracking protocols, the emergency procedures.
Now they were going to use everything Billy had taught them to bring him home.
Anna came up behind Junior, resting her hand on his shoulder. "He's going to be okay, right?"
Junior looked up at her, then back at his screen. "We're going to make sure he is."
Through the window, more trucks were still arriving. The whole consortium was mobilizing. Weapons were being quietly checked, vehicles fueled, radios tested.
Whoever took Billy Benson had no idea what they'd started.
But they were about to find out.
Chapter 4: The Gathering
By 8:30, every member of the consortium had arrived. The Benson ranch house had transformed into a command center, with people working in tight coordination across multiple rooms on the main floor.
In the living room, Junior and his friends were unloading their equipment—and there was a lot of it. Six laptops, fifteen iPads, three portable monitors, a router, two network switches, six drone control tablets, and enough charging cables to wire a small building. Billy Renzo and Ryan Mattern were running ethernet cables and power strips while Daniel Rodriguez started syncing everything to their network. All four boys had sidearms holstered at their hips—Junior's gift from Pops on his fifteenth birthday.
"Holy hell," Jake said, watching the setup. His own pistol was already holstered on his belt, along with most of the men in the room. "Where did you guys get all this?"
"We've been preparing," Junior said, opening cases full of iPads. "Billy always said if something went wrong, we needed to be ready. So we got ready."
"Fifteen iPads?" Caleb asked, adjusting the holster on his hip.
"Consortium has eighteen families. We figured if we ever needed to mobilize, everybody should be able to see what's happening in real time." Billy Renzo was already configuring the network. "Every iPad syncs to our main feed. Whatever we pull up on the control laptops, everybody sees it simultaneously on their iPads."
Daniel looked up from his keyboard. "We've got full consortium camera access. All eighteen feeds coming through now."
"Perfect," Junior said. "Start handing out iPads. Kitchen, dining room, living room—make sure everyone has access."
The wiz kids moved through the main floor like a well-oiled machine, distributing iPads. Wade got one for the kitchen table where Pops, Tom, Robert, Josh, Ray, and the Beaumont men had gathered around the map—all of them armed. Wilson and Ryan Nelson each took one and stood by the counter, their duty weapons visible. Sarah, Mary, Caroline, and Rebecca clustered together in the dining room with their iPads. Edna and Anna sat together on the living room couch with one between them. Jake and Caleb grabbed one at the breakfast nook. More went to the other consortium family members standing in the den doorway and near the mudroom.
"This is incredible," Wade said, looking at the iPad screen as it populated with camera feeds. "You boys built this whole system?"
"Billy designed most of it," Junior said. "We just helped implement it. Everything's encrypted, runs on our own network. As long as we have power and internet, we're all connected."
Within ten minutes, iPads were distributed throughout the main floor. People gathered in clusters—the armed men around the kitchen table with the map, the women in the dining room holding each other up, younger folks in the living room and breakfast nook.
Junior stood in the living room at the main control station, three laptop monitors in front of him. He raised his voice so everyone could hear. "Okay, everybody listening? We're about to review the consortium camera footage. Whatever I pull up on my screen, you'll all see it on your iPads."
"We're ready," Wade called from the kitchen.
"Go ahead, honey," Sarah said from the dining room, her voice shaking.
"We're looking for any unfamiliar vehicles between 6:30 and 8:00 a.m. Starting now."
Junior pulled up the consortium camera grid—all eighteen feeds displayed simultaneously. On every iPad throughout the main floor, the same grid appeared. People leaned closer, watching as the morning footage played out at double speed—empty roads, familiar ranch vehicles, morning light spreading across the properties.
Then Daniel, sitting next to Junior at his laptop, pointed. "There. Camera twelve. Unknown vehicle."
Junior clicked on that feed, expanding it to full screen. The image appeared on all fifteen iPads simultaneously.
At 6:52 a.m., an older Chevy pickup—dark blue, primer gray on the hood, rust around the wheel wells, definitely seen better days—rolled past the Beaumont south camera.
"That truck doesn't belong to any of us," Robert said from the kitchen table.
"Is that them?" Sarah asked from the dining room, moving closer to see the iPad better.
"Has to be," Jake said from the breakfast nook, his jaw clenched, his hand unconsciously touching his holster.
Junior rewound and played it at normal speed. "Camera twelve, 6:52 a.m., heading northeast toward the Benson north pasture."
He switched to camera fourteen, the one with a partial view of the north pasture access road. At 6:58, the same truck appeared, slowing down. Then it turned onto the dirt road that led directly to where Billy had been feeding the cows.
"That's them," Pops said from the kitchen, his voice like gravel. His own sidearm sat on the table in front of him. "That's the sons of bitches who took him."
Junior kept the footage rolling. Throughout the main floor, people watched their iPads in tense silence. Seven minutes passed with no activity on camera fourteen. Then at 7:05, the truck reappeared, backing out slowly onto the main road.
"Stop," Jake called out from the breakfast nook. "Zoom in on the truck bed."
Junior was already doing it. He rewound, enhanced, and zoomed. On all fifteen iPads throughout the house, the image sharpened.
The truck bed was no longer empty. A large bundle wrapped in what looked like a tarp lay in the back, and you could make out the shape—human-sized, clearly bound.
From the dining room, Sarah gasped. "Oh God. Oh my God, that's my baby."
On the living room couch, Edna made a choking sound. Anna wrapped her arms around her.
"He's in there," Jake said, his voice tight with barely controlled rage. "Billy's in that goddamn truck bed."
"Easy, son," Tom said from the kitchen, though his own hands were shaking as they rested near his holstered weapon.
"Can you get a plate number?" Wilson asked from his spot by the kitchen counter.
Daniel worked the enhancement tools on his laptop. "Partial. Texas plates, starts with DKR. Rest is obscured."
"Run it," Wade ordered. "That's enough to work with."
Junior continued tracking the truck through the camera system, switching feeds as the vehicle moved across consortium land. On all fifteen iPads, everyone watched the blue pickup carry Billy away.
Camera nine at 7:12—truck heading east, tarp still covering the bed.
"He's still moving," Caleb said quietly from the breakfast nook. "That's good, right? They're not stopping to—"
"Don't," Sarah said sharply from the dining room. "Don't finish that sentence."
Camera six at 7:18—still eastbound, moving at moderate speed.
"Stay with it, Junior," Pops said from the kitchen, gripping the edge of the table.
Camera three at 7:24—turning south off consortium property.
"Damn," Robert said, marking the spot on the paper map spread across the kitchen table. "That's where we lose them. They're off our cameras."
Junior pulled up a satellite map of the area south of camera three. On every iPad, the map appeared—a sprawling industrial district with dozens of buildings. "If they stayed on that road, they'd hit this area. Twenty square miles of abandoned warehouses, factories, storage facilities."
"Twenty square miles?" Mary Nelson said from the dining room, her arm around Sarah. "How do we search twenty square miles?"
"With these," Junior said, and switched the feeds to show six drones sitting ready in the yard outside. "We've got six search drones with high-resolution cameras and GPS tracking. We divide the area into sectors and search systematically."
Billy Renzo was already pulling out the drone control tablets in the living room while Ryan Mattern started programming search grids on his laptop.
"How long will it take?" Tom asked from the kitchen.
Junior did the math in his head. "With six drones covering the area... two to two and a half hours to do a thorough search."
A heavy silence fell across the main floor. Still a long time, but better than four hours.
Then Pops spoke from the kitchen, his voice steady but hard as iron. "Then we start now. Every minute counts. Boys, you find that truck, you call it in immediately. Understood?"
"Yes sir," Junior said.
Wade stood up at the kitchen table, his command voice filling the room. "Alright, listen up everyone. Tom, start making calls—get cash together in case they contact us with ransom demands. Wilson, get that partial plate and vehicle description out to every unit in the county. Ryan, contact state police with our intel. Everyone else, keep your iPads with you and your radios on. The second we have a location, we move."
"We should be out there looking," Jake said, standing up from the breakfast nook, his hand on his weapon. "We should be driving those roads—"
"And go where, exactly?" Wade asked. "Twenty square miles, Jake. You'll just burn gas and waste time. Let the drones do their job."
"Wade's right," Pops said. "This is how we do it. Smart. Systematic. We use every advantage we have."
From the dining room, Edna's voice was small. "What if they hurt him? What if we're too late?"
"We're not too late," Rebecca said firmly. "Billy's strong. He'll hold on."
"And he knows we're coming," Caleb added from the breakfast nook. "He knows we won't stop until we find him."
In the living room, the wiz kids moved with practiced precision. Junior called out assignments. "Billy Renzo, you've got drones one and two—northwest and northeast sectors. Daniel, drones three and four—central west and central east. Ryan, drones five and six—southwest and southeast. I'll monitor all six feeds from master control and coordinate."
"Wait," Jake said, stepping into the living room. "You're each controlling two drones?"
"We've trained for this," Billy Renzo said, holding up two tablets. "We can run two simultaneously. We've practiced it for months."
"Hell, we've been competing on it," Daniel added with a grim smile. "Billy always won, but we got pretty good."
They worked in synchronized silence, loading GPS coordinates, programming search patterns, calibrating cameras. Junior's main laptop monitors displayed a grid that would show all six drone feeds simultaneously—and push to all fifteen iPads.
Junior stood up, looking around at his family and friends scattered across the main floor—the armed men ready to move at a moment's notice, the women holding each other together, everyone united.
"We're launching the drones now. Everyone should see all six feeds on their iPads. We'll call out anything we spot."
"Good hunting, boys," Pops said from the kitchen.
"Please find him," Sarah said from the dining room, her voice breaking. "Please bring my baby home."
"We will, Mom," Junior said. "I promise."
He looked at his three friends, all four of them armed and ready. They nodded.
"Launching drones. Let's go get Billy."
Outside, the six drones lifted into the morning air with a synchronized whine of motors, banking south toward the industrial district in a precise formation. On every iPad throughout the main floor—all fifteen of them—six aerial camera feeds appeared in a grid, showing the countryside sliding past below.
At the kitchen table, the armed men hunched over their iPads and the map, plotting coordinates, weapons within easy reach.
In the dining room, the women held each other, eyes fixed on their screens showing all six feeds.
At the breakfast nook, Jake and Caleb sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the six-way split screen intently, both armed and ready to move.
On the living room couch, Edna and Anna clung to each other, barely breathing, watching all six drones search.
The entire main floor was connected, watching, waiting together.
The hunt was on.
The clock read 8:52 a.m.
Billy had been missing for over two hours, and somewhere in those abandoned buildings, he was waiting.
Six drones were converging on the search area.
They were coming for him.
They just had to find him first.
Chapter 5: The Chair
The burlap sack came off Billy's head and light flooded his vision. He blinked, squinting against the brightness, trying to get his bearings.
He was in some kind of abandoned building—concrete floor, peeling paint on the walls, broken windows covered with plywood. Empty. Cold. The kind of place that had been dead for years.
And he was tied to a wooden chair in the middle of it.
His wrists were still crossed behind him, bound with that rough hemp rope. His biceps were lashed tight to his sides, more rope crisscrossing his chest over his white undershirt. His ankles were tied together under the chair, and they'd added more rope connecting his ankles to his wrists behind him—not quite a hogtie, but close enough that he couldn't straighten up completely.
A bandana was tied tight across his mouth, gagging him. He could breathe through his nose, but any sound he tried to make came out as a muffled grunt.
Billy tested the ropes carefully, feeling where they bit into his skin. Too tight on the wrists—his fingers were tingling from poor circulation. The chest ropes were thick and layered, probably overkill. The ankle rope had a little give to it.
Amateurs, he thought. They knew how to tie someone up, but they didn't know how to tie someone up well.
"Look who's awake," the driver said. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, trying to look tough. The patchy beard made him look more like a cartoon villain than anything actually threatening.
The tall one with the snake tattoo was pacing by the windows, nervous energy radiating off him. "We should call them now. Get this over with."
"Shut up, Colt. We wait until noon like we said."
Colt. So that was snake tattoo's name. Billy filed that away.
"What's your name, kid?" the driver asked, walking over.
Billy stared at him, saying nothing. Couldn't say anything with the gag.
"Oh right." The driver laughed. "Forgot about that. Well, doesn't matter anyway. Here's how this is gonna work." He leaned in close, and Billy could smell stale cigarettes and cheap beer. "We're gonna call your daddy, tell him we want fifty thousand dollars cash. He's gonna pay it because you rich ranchers got money to burn. We get our cash, you get to go home. Simple."
Fifty thousand. Billy kept his expression neutral, but inside he was calculating. They had no idea who they'd grabbed. Fifty thousand was nothing—his family could get that in an hour. These idiots had kidnapped the nephew of a Vietnam vet, the son of a sheriff's best friend, a member of a consortium that controlled half the county.
And they were asking for pocket change.
"You hearing me through that gag, kid?" The driver snapped his fingers in Billy's face.
Billy met his eyes, kept his expression blank. Don't give them anything. Don't let them see fear, don't let them see anger. Just... nothing.
"He's probably in shock," Colt said from the window. "We did crack him pretty good."
Billy's head was still throbbing where they'd hit him with the pistol. He could feel dried blood on the side of his face, and the gag was making his jaw ache. But the pain helped him stay focused, kept him sharp.
The driver straightened up. "Doesn't matter. His family's gonna pay either way. Come on, let's go check the perimeter. Make sure nobody followed us."
"What about him?"
"What about him? He's gagged and tied to a chair. He's not going anywhere, and he sure as hell can't call for help."
They headed toward the door, and Billy heard it slam shut, then the scrape of something heavy being pushed against it. Probably a bar or a piece of furniture. Making sure he couldn't just walk out even if he got free.
The moment their voices faded, Billy started working.
First, the gag. He worked his jaw, trying to loosen the bandana with his tongue. It was tied tight, knotted at the back of his head. Not coming off easily, but if he could stretch it...
He pushed against it with his tongue, felt it give slightly. The fabric was cotton, probably from a hardware store. It would loosen with saliva and pressure. Might take a while, but it was possible.
Then the wrists. Billy twisted them, feeling the rope. Hemp, definitely. Old stuff, probably from a ranch supply store. It had some stretch to it—not much, but some. The knot was behind him, tied in a basic figure-eight. They'd wrapped it too many times, which actually made it weaker, not stronger. The layers would shift against each other if he could get any slack.
Billy thought about all the times he and Jake had played their escape game. Hundreds of times over the years, each of them trying to beat the other's time. Jake was faster at picking locks, but Billy was better with ropes. He knew how they worked, how they held, where the weak points were.
His best time for this position—wrists crossed behind, chest bound, gagged—was seven minutes, eighteen seconds.
But that was with nylon rope he was familiar with, and without his hands half-numb from poor circulation.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to shift the chest ropes. They were tight, but they'd layered them wrong—too much overlap in the front, not enough support in the back. If he could arch his spine and create some space...
Billy took a slow breath through his nose, then another. Calming his heart rate, getting oxygen to his muscles. The gag made it harder, forced him to focus on breathing steady and deep. Pops always said the first rule of survival was staying calm. Panic killed more people than bullets.
He was going to get out of this chair.
And when he did, he was going to find a way to signal his family. They were looking for him—he knew that as sure as he knew his own name. Junior would have found the mule quad. Pops would have hit the emergency system. By now, the whole consortium would be mobilized.
He just had to stay alive long enough for them to find him.
Or get himself free and meet them halfway.
Billy twisted his wrists again, feeling the rope shift a fraction of an inch. Not much, but it was a start.
Outside, he could hear the kidnappers talking, their voices muffled through the walls. They were arguing about something—probably how to make the ransom call, where to make the drop, all the details they clearly hadn't thought through.
Idiots.
Billy kept working the rope, using the techniques Jake had accidentally taught him when they'd tried to stump each other. Rotate the wrists in opposite directions. Use your body weight to create tension. Find the weak point in the knot and exploit it.
Seven minutes, eighteen seconds was his record with a gag.
He figured he had at least a couple of hours before these morons actually made their move.
That should be plenty of time.
Billy closed his eyes, visualizing the knot behind him. Figure-eight, probably three or four wraps. Too much rope, which meant too much friction but also more room for error. They'd been in a hurry when they tied him—scared, probably, worried about getting caught.
That was going to be their mistake.
He pulled his left wrist down while pushing his right wrist up, creating opposing pressure. The hemp bit into his skin, and he gritted his teeth behind the gag. But he felt it—just the smallest bit of slack, maybe a quarter inch.
Not much.
But enough.
Billy opened his eyes and stared at the boarded-up window across from him, at the thin lines of sunlight coming through the cracks. His family was out there somewhere, looking for him.
He was going to make sure they found him alive.
And these kidnappers were going to regret the day they ever drove onto Benson land.
Billy took another slow breath through his nose and got back to work on the ropes.
The clock in his head started ticking.
Seven minutes, eighteen seconds.
He was going to beat his record.
Chapter 6: Drifters' Payday
Outside the building, Colt lit a cigarette with shaking hands. "Man, I don't know about this, Ray. This is serious shit. This is kidnapping. That's federal time if we get caught."
Ray, the heavyset driver with the patchy beard, spat into the dirt. "We ain't getting caught. Long as we're smart about it."
"Smart? You call grabbing some random ranch kid smart?"
"He ain't random. I've been watching that place for two weeks. That's the Benson ranch—one of the biggest spreads in the county. They got money, Colt. Real money."
"Fifty thousand ain't that much money."
"It is for us. And it's not so much they'll call the FBI or make a huge deal out of it. Just enough to hurt, not enough to go to war over." Ray took a drag on his own cigarette. "We get the cash, we're in Mexico by tomorrow night. New life, man. No more scraping by, no more bullshit jobs."
Colt paced, his snake tattoo writhing as he moved. "What if they don't pay? What if they call the cops?"
"They'll pay. But first we gotta prove we got him." Ray pulled out a cheap burner phone. "Come on. We take a picture, send it to the family. Show them we're serious."
They walked back into the building. Billy was still in the chair, working the ropes, but he froze when the door opened. His face was carefully neutral, showing nothing.
"Smile for the camera, kid," Ray said, holding up the phone.
Billy stared at him, his jaw set behind the gag.
The flash went off. Ray looked at the image, nodded. "That'll work. Tied up nice and tight, looking—"
"He don't look scared," Colt muttered.
"Don't matter what he looks like. What matters is he's tied to a chair and they ain't got him." Ray typed something on the phone. "I got the ranch's main number off their website. Sending it now."
He hit send, then pocketed the phone. "Alright, now we wait. Give them an hour or so to stew on it, then we call with the demands."
They left again, the door slamming shut.
Billy immediately went back to work. His wrists were loosening—he'd gained maybe half an inch of slack. A little more and he could slip one hand through...
He twisted hard, ignoring the burning pain. The rope shifted. His left hand compressed, fingers together, thumb tucked in tight. Almost...
The rope slipped over his knuckles. His left hand was free.
Billy didn't celebrate. He bent forward as much as the chest ropes would allow, reaching for the knot on his right wrist. His fingers were numb and clumsy, but he could feel the loops. Figure-eight, just like he'd thought. He started working it loose.
Two minutes. That's all he needed. Two minutes and he'd have both hands free, then he could work on the chest ropes, the ankles—
The door burst open.
"Holy shit!" Colt yelled. "Ray! He's getting loose!"
Billy lunged for the ankle ropes, trying to finish freeing himself before they reached him, but Ray was faster than he looked. A fist caught Billy in the side of the head, and stars exploded across his vision.
"You little bastard!" Ray grabbed Billy's free hand, wrenched it behind the chair. "Colt, get more rope! Now!"
Colt scrambled to the truck, came back with a coil of fresh rope—newer, stronger stuff.
"How the hell did he get his hand out?" Colt asked, breathing hard.
"Don't matter. It ain't happening again." Ray was furious now, all pretense of calm gone. He tied Billy's wrists together with brutal efficiency, cinching the rope so tight Billy's hands immediately started going numb. "Think you're smart, huh? Think you're gonna escape?"
He added more rope around Billy's upper arms, yanking them back hard against the chair. Billy grunted behind the gag as his shoulders strained.
"More on his chest," Ray ordered. "And make it tight. I want him so trussed up he can't even twitch."
Colt wrapped rope after rope around Billy's torso, pulling each layer tighter than the last. Billy could barely breathe, the pressure crushing his ribs.
"That'll teach you," Ray said, stepping back. Then his eyes narrowed. "You know what? I don't think his family understands how serious we are."
He grabbed Billy's white undershirt at the neck and ripped it down the middle, tearing the fabric apart. Billy's chest was exposed, already showing red marks from the ropes.
"Colt, give me your knife."
"What? Why?"
"Just give it to me!"
Colt handed over a folding knife. Ray opened it, the blade catching the light.
Billy's eyes widened slightly—the first real emotion he'd shown.
"Hold still, kid. This is gonna sting."
Ray pressed the knife to Billy's chest, just above his left pectoral. A shallow cut, maybe two inches long. Not deep enough to be dangerous, but deep enough to bleed.
Billy jerked against the ropes, a muffled sound coming through the gag.
"There we go," Ray said, watching the blood well up. "Now they'll know we mean business."
He pulled out his phone, stepped back, and took another photo. Billy tied even tighter than before, shirt ripped open, blood running down his chest, his face showing pain and anger.
"Perfect," Ray said, reviewing the image. "This one'll get their attention."
"Jesus, Ray," Colt said, looking pale. "You cut him. That's... that's torture, man."
"That's motivation. For them and for him." Ray typed out a message. "You try that escape shit again, kid, and next time I cut deeper. You understand?"
Billy glared at him, breathing hard through his nose.
"I'll take that as a yes." Ray hit send on the photo. "Come on, Colt. Let's go get some lunch. We earned it. And our friend here ain't going anywhere. Not this time."
They walked out, and this time Ray wedged a heavy metal bar across the door handle, making sure it couldn't be opened from inside even if Billy somehow got completely free.
In the chair, Billy slumped forward as much as the ropes would allow. His chest was on fire where Ray had cut him. His wrists and arms screamed with pain from the new, tighter ropes. And his breathing was shallow and difficult from the crushing pressure around his ribs.
But he was still thinking. Still planning.
They'd made a mistake. They'd shown him they were scared—scared enough to overreact, to hurt him, to prove their dominance.
That meant they were desperate. And desperate people made mistakes.
Billy closed his eyes and focused on breathing, on staying calm despite the pain.
His family was coming. He knew it. He just had to hold on.
And maybe, just maybe, not try to escape quite so obviously next time.
Outside, Ray and Colt climbed into the truck.
"You think that was too much?" Colt asked. "Cutting him?"
"It was exactly enough. Now they know we're serious, and the kid knows we're not playing around." Ray started the engine. "Let's go grab some food, come back in a couple hours, make the ransom call. By tonight, we'll be counting fifty thousand dollars."
"And if they don't pay?"
Ray's jaw tightened. "They'll pay. Trust me."
As they drove away, neither of them noticed the faint sound in the distance—a sound that could have been birds, or wind, or nothing at all.
But it wasn't nothing.
It was the synchronized hum of six drones, still searching, getting closer with every passing minute.
Chapter 7: Closing In
At 9:47 a.m., Tom Benson's phone buzzed. He looked down at the screen, and his face went white.
"Wade," he said quietly. "We've got a message."
The room fell silent. Everyone looked up from their iPads showing the drone feeds. Wade crossed to Tom in two strides.
Tom opened the message. A photo loaded—Billy tied to a wooden chair, ropes crisscrossing his chest, his face bruised, a gag across his mouth. But he was conscious, alert.
"Oh God," Sarah breathed from the dining room, moving closer to see. "That's my baby."
"He's alive," Wade said, his voice steady. "That's what matters. He's alive and they're using him for leverage."
"There's a phone number," Tom said. "They want us to call it."
"Don't," Wade said. "Not yet. Let me—"
Tom's phone buzzed again. Another message loading.
This time, when the photo appeared, multiple people gasped.
Billy was tied even tighter, more ropes wrapped around him. His white undershirt was ripped open down the middle, exposing his chest. Blood ran from a cut above his left pectoral. His face showed pain and fury.
"They hurt him," Sarah said, her voice breaking. "Those bastards hurt my son."
Jake slammed his fist on the breakfast nook table so hard the iPad jumped. "I'm gonna kill them. I swear to God, I'm gonna—"
"Jake," Pops said sharply. "Get control of yourself."
But Pops' own hands were shaking as he stared at the iPad. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscles stood out.
Edna was sobbing on the couch, Anna holding her. In the dining room, Mary and Caroline had their arms around Sarah, who looked like she might collapse.
Rebecca was already on her phone. "I'm calling Kings County Hospital. I need trauma supplies sent over—IV fluids, suture kit, antiseptic, sterile bandages, pain medication. We're bringing Billy home, and I'll treat him here."
"You sure?" Wade asked.
"That cut doesn't look deep, and I can handle everything else," Rebecca said, her nurse's training kicking in. "He'll be more comfortable at home than in a hospital. I just need the supplies."
"Why would they do that?" Mary asked. "Why would they hurt him?"
"To prove they're serious," Wade said, his voice hard. "And to make sure we pay."
"Then we pay," Tom said. "Whatever they want, we pay it."
"Not yet," Wade said. "We're close. Those drones are—"
"Sheriff!" Junior's voice cut through from the living room. "We've got something! Drone three just spotted the truck!"
Everyone surged toward the living room. On all fifteen iPads, the feed from drone three expanded—an aerial view of an abandoned industrial complex. And there, parked beside a large warehouse building, was an old blue Chevy pickup with primer on the hood.
"That's it," Robert said. "That's the truck from our cameras."
"Coordinates?" Wade barked.
Daniel was already pulling them up. "Old Bakersfield industrial park, warehouse district. Building looks abandoned. No other vehicles in the immediate area."
"Can you see inside the building?" Wilson asked.
"Negative," Junior said. "But the truck's there. If the truck's there..."
"Billy's there," Jake finished.
Wade was already on his radio. "Wilson, Ryan, get the tactical gear from the truck. Tom, Robert, Josh—I need every able-bodied man armed and ready to move. We're going in."
The room exploded into motion. The men moved to the gun safe in the den—rifles being pulled out, checked, loaded. Body armor appeared from closets and truck beds. Night vision goggles, tactical flashlights, heat sensors.
Junior and his friends were programming the GPS coordinates into tablets, pulling up building schematics from county records.
"We've got three entry points," Daniel said, pointing at the screen. "Main door on the south side, loading dock on the east, emergency exit on the north."
"Can we get a heat signature?" Wade asked.
Ryan Mattern pulled out a thermal imaging camera and linked it to drone three. "Repositioning now... got it. Two heat signatures inside the building. One stationary, one moving."
"The stationary one is Billy," Pops said. "Tied to that chair."
"The moving one is probably a guard," Wade said. "Which means the second kidnapper might be—"
"Sheriff, we've got movement!" Billy Renzo called out. "Two men just came out of the building. They're getting in the truck!"
On every iPad, they watched as Ray and Colt climbed into the Chevy. The engine started, a puff of exhaust visible even from the drone's altitude.
"They're leaving," Jake said. "They're leaving Billy alone!"
"Daniel, keep drone three on that building," Junior ordered. "Billy, I need drone four to follow that truck. Don't lose them."
"On it," Billy Renzo said, taking control of drone four.
Wade made a split-second decision. "Wilson, Ryan—you're with me. We're going after that truck. We get those kidnappers, we end this clean. Tom, you take the rest of the men to the building. Get Billy out."
"What about the heat signature inside?" Wilson asked.
"There's only one now," Ryan Mattern said, watching the thermal feed. "And it's stationary. That's Billy. The building's empty except for him."
"Good," Tom said, grabbing his rifle. "That makes this simple."
Wade looked at the wiz kids. "I need one of you with me to track that truck. The others go with Tom to coordinate the building entry."
"I'll go with you, Sheriff," Billy Renzo said, grabbing his tablet and sidearm. "I've got drone four locked on the truck."
"Junior, Daniel, Ryan—you're with us," Tom said. "We need the building schematics, thermal imaging, and communications."
"Boys, check your sidearms," Pops said, his voice steady and commanding. "You're coming into a tactical situation. Stay sharp, stay safe."
Junior, Daniel, and Ryan Mattern immediately checked their weapons, ensuring magazines were seated and safeties were on until needed.
The consortium men moved with military precision. Wade, Wilson, Ryan Nelson, and Billy Renzo headed for Wade's patrol vehicle, the young drone operator settling into the back seat with his tablet and equipment.
Tom, Robert, Josh, Ray Benson, the Beaumont men, Pops, Jake, and Caleb divided into four trucks. Junior climbed into Tom's truck with Pops in the passenger seat and Jake and Caleb in the back. Daniel and Ryan Mattern split between the other trucks with their tablets and gear.
Sarah stood in the dining room doorway, tears streaming down her face. "Please bring him home. Please."
"We will," Pops said through the truck window, his rifle across his lap. "I promise you, Sarah. We're bringing Billy home."
Josh leaned into the truck, looking at his son. "Junior, you stay in this truck until they say it's clear. You understand?"
"Yes sir," Junior said, his hand resting on his sidearm.
Jake was vibrating with barely controlled energy, his rifle gripped tight. Caleb sat beside him, calmer but just as ready.
Rebecca finished her call. "Hospital's sending supplies over within the hour. I'll have everything ready to treat him as soon as he walks through that door."
On the iPads back at the house, they could see drone four tracking the blue pickup as it left the industrial park. Drone three held position above the warehouse where Billy was being held.
"Convoy's ready," Robert called over the radio.
Wade keyed his mic. "All units, this is Sheriff Nelson. We have a positive location on the kidnap victim and suspects. We are moving to intercept. Team One, you're with me pursuing the suspects. Team Two, you're with Tom Benson extracting the victim. Maintain radio contact. Our priority is getting Billy Benson out alive. Let's move."
The vehicles roared to life. Wade's patrol car peeled out first, heading east to intercept the kidnappers' route. The four consortium trucks followed the GPS coordinates south toward the warehouse.
Through the windows, the women watched their men leave—armed, determined, dangerous.
Mary Nelson stood with Sarah, both women watching the iPads. "They'll get him," Mary said. "Wade won't let anything happen to Billy."
On the living room couch, Edna stared at the drone feed showing the warehouse. "Hold on, Billy," she whispered. "Just hold on a little longer."
In Wade's patrol car, Billy Renzo tracked the Chevy on his tablet. "They're heading into town, Sheriff. Looks like they're stopping at... a diner. They're going to get food."
"Perfect," Wade said grimly. "We'll take them in the parking lot. Clean and simple."
In Tom's truck, Junior had the thermal imaging up on his tablet. "Still showing one heat signature in the building. Stationary. That's definitely Billy."
"How far out are we?" Pops asked.
"Eight minutes," Tom said, his jaw set.
In the back seat, Jake stared at the drone feed on his iPad, watching the warehouse get closer. "Hang on, brother," he muttered. "We're coming."
And high above, six drones tracked everything. One following the kidnappers' truck toward the diner. One holding position over Billy. Four more providing overwatch and security.
The hunt was ending.
The rescue was about to begin.
Chapter 8: The Arrest
Wade's patrol car pulled into the back of the parking lot behind a delivery truck, staying out of sight. The old diner sat on the edge of town—one of those places that had been serving the same menu since 1972 and never bothered to update anything.
And parked right in front, bold as brass, was the blue Chevy pickup.
"Target vehicle confirmed," Wilson said from the passenger seat, checking his service weapon.
In the back, Billy Renzo had his tablet on his lap, drone four holding position two hundred feet above the diner. "I've got eyes on both suspects. They just went inside. Sitting at a booth by the window."
"Idiots," Ryan Nelson muttered from behind the wheel. "They kidnap someone and then stop for pancakes."
Wade keyed his radio. "Tom, this is Wade. We have visual on suspects at Rosie's Diner on Highway 12. We're moving to intercept."
Tom's voice came back immediately. "Copy that. We're five minutes out from Billy's location. Keep us posted."
Wade turned to look at Billy Renzo. "You stay in this vehicle. Lock the doors. If anything goes wrong, you call for backup and you do not get out. Understood?"
"Yes sir," Billy Renzo said, though his hand rested on his sidearm.
"Wilson, Ryan—vests on. We go in calm and controlled. These boys don't know we're here, and I want to keep it that way until we're on top of them."
The three men pulled on their tactical vests, checked their weapons one final time. Wade grabbed the radio mic. "Dispatch, this is Sheriff Nelson. We are moving to apprehend two suspects in the Benson kidnapping. Requesting backup to our location, but we are proceeding now. Suspects are considered armed and dangerous."
"Copy, Sheriff. Units are en route. ETA eight minutes."
"We'll be done in five," Wade said.
He looked at his sons. Wilson was calm, focused—the older brother who'd been through this before. Ryan was wound tighter, but steady. Good men. Both of them.
"Let's bring these bastards in," Wade said.
They exited the vehicle and moved across the parking lot in a tactical formation. Through the diner window, Wade could see Ray and Colt sitting in a booth, arguing about something. Ray was gesturing with a fork. Colt was smoking a cigarette even though there was clearly a "No Smoking" sign on the wall.
Amateurs. Dangerous amateurs, but amateurs nonetheless.
Wade positioned himself at the front door. Wilson moved to the side entrance. Ryan stayed at the back exit. All three men drew their weapons.
Wade keyed his shoulder mic. "On three. One... two... three."
He pushed through the front door, gun raised. "Sheriff's department! Nobody move!"
Inside the diner, five other customers immediately hit the floor. The waitress dropped her coffee pot with a crash.
Ray's head snapped up, eyes wide. His hand went for his waistband.
"Don't!" Wade barked. "Hands where I can see them! Now!"
Colt was already putting his hands up, his face going pale. But Ray was calculating, his hand hovering near his belt.
Wilson came through the side door, weapon trained on Ray. "You really want to try it? Three trained deputies, one dumb kidnapper. Do the math."
Ray's jaw clenched. Then, slowly, he raised his hands.
"Smart choice," Wade said. "Now stand up, slow, and turn around. Hands behind your head."
Both men complied. Wilson moved in first, yanking Ray's arms down and cuffing him with practiced efficiency. A pistol clattered to the floor from Ray's waistband.
"Armed kidnapping," Wilson said. "That's going to add some years."
Ryan had Colt cuffed and was already reading them their rights. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..."
Wade holstered his weapon and turned to address the diner. The customers were slowly getting up from the floor, wide-eyed and shaken.
"Folks, I apologize for the disruption," Wade said, his voice carrying through the small space. "These two men kidnapped a twenty-year-old ranch worker this morning. Took him at gunpoint, tied him up, hurt him. But we tracked them down, and now we're going to get that young man home safe to his family."
The waitress, an older woman with gray hair pulled back in a bun, straightened up. "Billy Benson? Tom and Sarah's boy?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Is he alright?"
"We're going to make sure he is," Wade said.
Wilson and Ryan hauled the handcuffed suspects toward the door. Ray kept his eyes down, his face hard. Colt looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor.
As they passed through the diner, one of the customers—a rancher in a worn Carhartt jacket—started clapping. Then another joined in. Then the waitress. Within seconds, the entire diner was applauding as the kidnappers were marched outside in handcuffs.
"Good work, Sheriff!" someone called out.
"Bring Billy home!" the waitress added.
Wade tipped his hat to them and followed his deputies outside. They loaded Ray and Colt into the back of the patrol car, securing them behind the partition.
Wade climbed into the driver's seat. In the back, Billy Renzo had his tablet up, watching the drone feed of the warehouse. "I can see the consortium trucks. They're taking positions around the building."
"Good," Wade said, starting the engine. "Let's go get Billy."
Behind the security partition, Ray and Colt sat in handcuffs. Ray was still silent, his face like stone. Colt looked like he might throw up.
"How much trouble are we in?" Colt asked quietly.
"Federal kidnapping charge," Wilson said from the passenger seat. "Assault with a deadly weapon. Probably looking at twenty-five to life. Each."
"Oh God," Colt said.
"Should've thought about that before you grabbed that kid," Ryan said.
Wade keyed his radio as they pulled onto the highway. "Tom, this is Wade. Suspects are in custody. Both males secured, one weapon recovered. We're code four and heading your way. ETA fifteen minutes."
Tom's voice came back, tight with emotion. "Copy that. Good work, Wade. We're at Billy's location now. Moving in to extract."
"We'll be there shortly," Wade said.
The patrol car accelerated south, back toward the industrial district. The radio crackled with updates from the consortium—positions secured, thermal imaging confirmed, one heat signature inside, stationary.
Billy was still alive.
They were going to get him out.
In the back seat, Billy Renzo kept his eyes on the tablet, watching the drone feed as the consortium men moved into position around the warehouse. "Come on, Uncle Billy," he whispered. "Hang on just a little longer."
Chapter 9: The Rescue
The four consortium trucks pulled up to the abandoned warehouse at 2:32 p.m. Tom killed the engine and immediately reached for his rifle. Beside him, Pops checked his weapon one more time. In the back seat, Jake and Caleb were already moving, Junior between them with his tablet showing the thermal feed.
"Still one heat signature," Junior said. "Stationary. Center of the building."
"That's my boy," Tom said quietly.
The other trucks had stopped in formation around the building—Robert and Josh at the east entrance, Ray Benson and the Beaumont men at the north exit. All of them armed, all of them ready.
Wade's voice came over the radio. "Tom, this is Wade. We're ten minutes out. Building is yours. Get Billy out."
"Copy that," Tom said. He keyed the consortium frequency. "All units, we're moving in. Three entry points. Wilson team takes south, Robert team takes east, Ray team takes north. Thermal shows one person inside, no movement. Stay sharp anyway."
"Ready when you are," Robert's voice came back.
Tom looked at Junior. "You stay in this truck. You hear me?"
"Yes sir," Junior said, though every muscle in his body wanted to go with them.
Tom, Pops, Jake, and Caleb exited the vehicle, weapons ready. They moved toward the main door on the south side—a heavy metal door with a bar wedged across it from the outside.
"They barred it from out here," Jake said. "He really is alone in there."
"Good," Pops said. "Easier this way."
Tom grabbed the bar and pulled. It scraped against concrete, then fell away with a clang. He tested the door—unlocked. He looked at his father-in-law, at his sons. All of them nodded.
Tom pulled the door open.
The warehouse was dim, lit only by thin shafts of afternoon sunlight coming through cracks in the boarded windows. And there, in the middle of the empty space, was Billy.
Tied to a wooden chair, ropes wound tight around his chest and arms. His white undershirt was ripped open, blood dried on his chest from a cut above his left pectoral. His face was bruised, a bandana gagged across his mouth. But his eyes were open, alert.
And when he saw them, those eyes widened with relief.
"BILLY!" Jake was already running, rifle slung over his shoulder.
"Hold!" Tom barked. "Check the perimeter first. Make sure we're alone."
Robert's team came through the east entrance, weapons sweeping the space. Ray's team cleared the north side. Wilson team—Caleb and two of the Beaumont men—covered the south.
"Clear!" Robert called.
"Clear!" Ray echoed.
"Building is secure," Tom said into his radio. Then he ran to his son.
Billy made a muffled sound behind the gag, trying to speak. Tears were running down his face now, cutting tracks through the dirt and dried blood.
"We got you," Tom said, his own voice breaking. "We got you, son."
Pops was already there, pulling a knife from his belt. "Hold still, Billy. Let's get you out of this."
He cut the bandana first. It fell away and Billy gasped, working his jaw.
"Took you long enough," Billy said, his voice hoarse but steady. "I've been sitting here for eight hours."
Jake laughed—half relief, half disbelief. "Only you would complain about the response time."
Pops started on the chest ropes, cutting through layer after layer. "They really didn't want you getting loose, did they?"
"I tried once," Billy admitted. "Got one hand free. They caught me, retied me, and..." He looked down at the cut on his chest. "Made their point."
"Bastards," Tom muttered. He was on his knees, cutting the ankle ropes.
"Where are they?" Billy asked. "The kidnappers?"
"In custody," Pops said, cutting through the last of the chest ropes. "Wade picked them up at a diner a couple hours ago. Idiots stopped for lunch."
Billy almost smiled. "Seriously?"
"Seriously." Pops moved to the wrist ropes—multiple layers of new, tight rope. "These are going to take a minute."
"I had most of the original ropes loosened," Billy said. "But when they caught me, they used the good stuff."
"You were escaping?" Caleb asked.
"Trying to. Got my record down to six minutes before they interrupted."
Jake shook his head. "Even kidnapped, you're competing."
The last wrist rope fell away. Billy brought his arms forward slowly, wincing. His wrists were raw and red, rope burns visible. His hands were pale from poor circulation.
"Can you stand?" Tom asked.
"Yeah, I think—" Billy tried to push up from the chair and his legs buckled. Tom and Pops caught him immediately.
"Easy," Pops said. "You've been tied up for eight hours. Give your body a minute."
They held him steady while he got his balance back. Blood was returning to his hands, causing pins and needles. His chest throbbed where they'd cut him, and his shoulders ached from being wrenched back for so long.
But he was standing. He was free.
"Can you walk?" Tom asked.
Billy took a tentative step, then another. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."
They moved toward the door, Tom and Pops on either side of Billy, Jake and Caleb flanking them. The other consortium men formed a protective cordon, weapons still ready, just in case.
Outside, the afternoon sun was bright. Billy squinted against it, breathing in fresh air that didn't smell like dust and blood.
Junior jumped out of the truck the moment he saw them. "Billy!"
"Stay back!" Josh called, but Junior was already running.
He stopped short when he saw Billy up close—the ripped shirt, the blood, the bruises, the rope burns on his wrists. "Oh my God."
"I'm okay," Billy said. "I promise, Jr. I'm okay."
Junior wrapped his arms around his uncle carefully, trying not to hurt him. Billy hugged him back with one arm.
"You found me," Billy said. "I knew you would."
"We had drones, thermal imaging, the whole system," Junior said, pulling back. "Everything you taught us."
"Good man."
They got Billy to Tom's truck. Pops opened the back door, then reached into a cooler on the floor and pulled out a cold beer. He cracked it open and handed it to Billy.
"Thought you might want this," Pops said.
Billy took it, took a long drink, and closed his eyes. "God, that's good."
"Best beer you'll ever have," Pops said.
Jake climbed in on one side of Billy, Caleb on the other. Junior got in the front with Tom and Pops. They were packed in tight, but nobody minded.
Tom keyed the radio. "Wade, this is Tom. We have Billy. He's conscious, mobile, talking. We're heading home."
"Copy that," Wade said, and there was relief clear in his voice. "We're five minutes behind you. See you at the ranch."
Tom started the engine. Around them, the other consortium trucks were loading up, the armed men finally relaxing, weapons being secured.
"How you feeling?" Tom asked, looking at Billy in the rearview mirror.
"Like I got kidnapped, tied to a chair, and cut with a knife," Billy said. "But I'll live."
"Rebecca's got medical supplies waiting at the house," Tom said. "She'll fix you up."
"Mom's going to lose it when she sees me," Billy said quietly.
"She already lost it when she saw the photos they sent," Jake said. "But she'll be okay once you're home."
Billy took another drink of his beer, leaning back between his brothers. His body hurt everywhere, but he was in a truck full of family, heading home.
"What time is it?" he asked.
Junior checked his phone. "2:47."
"Eight hours and seventeen minutes," Billy said. "From kidnapping to rescue. That's pretty good."
"We had Junior and his tech," Pops said from the front. "Soon as we saw that truck on the cameras, we knew where to look."
"The drones found us?"
"Six of them," Junior said. "Searched twenty square miles in a couple hours."
Billy smiled despite the pain. "That's my system working."
The convoy of trucks headed north, back toward the Benson ranch. Behind them, the warehouse sat empty, the chair and cut ropes the only evidence of what had happened there.
In the truck, Billy closed his eyes, the cold beer in his hand, his brothers on either side of him, his family bringing him home.
The clock read 2:51 p.m.
In eight hours and twenty-one minutes, he'd been kidnapped, tied up, cut, and rescued.
Now he was going home.
And he was never going to let anyone forget that he'd almost escaped on his own.
Chapter 10: Home
The convoy of trucks pulled up to the Benson ranch house at 3:22 p.m. Before Tom even killed the engine, the front door burst open and Sarah came running down the porch steps, followed by Mary, Caroline, Rebecca, Edna, and Anna.
"BILLY!" Sarah's voice carried across the yard.
Tom opened the back door and Billy climbed out slowly, still holding his beer. His shirt was ripped open, blood dried on his chest, bruises visible on his face and wrists. But he was standing. He was home.
Sarah wrapped her arms around him, sobbing. "My baby. Oh my God, my baby."
"I'm okay, Mom," Billy said, hugging her back with one arm. "I'm okay."
"They hurt you. They cut you—"
"It's not bad. I promise."
Mary and Caroline were right behind her, checking Billy over with practiced maternal eyes. Edna and Anna hung back, both crying, waiting their turn.
Rebecca went into nurse mode immediately. "Billy, I need to check you out. Inside. Now."
"Yes ma'am," Billy said.
The whole consortium had gathered—all six families filling the yard and porch, watching as Billy was helped inside. Wade's patrol car pulled up behind the trucks, Ray and Colt still cuffed in the back seat.
"We'll process these two at the station," Wade called to Tom. "I'll be back in an hour for the statement."
"Sounds good," Tom said.
Inside, Rebecca had already set up a makeshift examination area in the kitchen. Medical supplies from Kings County Hospital covered the counter—IV fluids, suture kits, bandages, antiseptic, pain medication.
"Sit," Rebecca ordered, pointing to a chair at the kitchen table.
Billy sat. Everyone else crowded into the kitchen and dining room, watching.
Rebecca pulled on sterile gloves and carefully examined the cut on Billy's chest. She cleaned it with antiseptic, Billy wincing at the sting. After a minute, she sat back.
"It's shallow," she said. "Maybe a quarter inch deep. Clean cut, no sign of infection. I can close it with butterfly bandages, doesn't need sutures."
"Thank God," Sarah breathed.
Rebecca worked efficiently, cleaning the wound thoroughly, applying antibiotic ointment, and securing it with butterfly bandages and a sterile dressing. Then she moved to his wrists.
"Rope burns. Nothing serious, but they're going to be sore for a few days." She applied ointment and wrapped them with gauze. "Any other injuries? Your head?"
"They hit me with a pistol a couple times. Got a headache but nothing major."
Rebecca checked his pupils, felt along his scalp. "No sign of concussion. You got lucky."
"I got found," Billy corrected. "Thanks to Junior and the wiz kids."
Junior beamed from his spot by the doorway.
"Alright," Rebecca said, stripping off her gloves. "Regular Tylenol for pain, keep those bandages clean and dry, and take it easy for a few days. You're going to be sore, but you'll be fine."
"Jack Daniels," Pops said from his spot at the head of the table. "That's the real medicine. Tylenol's for amateurs."
"Dad," Sarah started.
"The boy's been kidnapped, tied up, and cut with a knife. He deserves some Jack." Pops looked at Billy. "You want some Jack?"
"Yes sir," Billy said, grinning.
Pops pulled a bottle from the cabinet—the good stuff he kept hidden from Sarah—and poured two fingers into a glass. He handed it to Billy, then poured one for himself.
"To coming home," Pops said, raising his glass.
"To coming home," Billy echoed, and they both drank.
Pops looked around at the crowd filling the house—all six consortium families, still milling around, unsure what to do now that the crisis was over.
"BBQ," Pops announced. "Six o'clock. We're celebrating."
"Dad, we can't feed this many people on short notice—" Sarah started.
"Sarah, we live on a cattle ranch. We got enough steaks to feed an army." Pops looked at Tom and Robert. "You boys go pick out some good ones. Josh, fire up the big grill. We're doing this right."
Within minutes, the ranch house transformed from a command center into party central. The men went to select steaks from the ranch's supply. The women took over the kitchen—corn on the cob, baked potatoes, coleslaw, baked beans. Someone ran to town for more beer. The wiz kids packed up their equipment, but left the iPads out in case anyone wanted to review the drone footage later.
Billy sat at the kitchen table, his Jack Daniels in hand, watching his family mobilize. Edna finally worked up the courage to approach him.
"Hey," she said quietly.
"Hey," Billy said.
"I was so scared." Her voice cracked. "When I saw those photos—"
"I'm okay. Really." Billy stood up, pulled her into a hug. "Takes more than a couple of drifters to take me down."
Anna joined the hug, and for a moment the three of them just stood there in the kitchen while organized chaos swirled around them.
By 5:30, the big grill was fired up and loaded with steaks. By 5:45, the picnic tables in the yard were covered with food. By 6:00 p.m., the entire consortium was gathered for what Pops was already calling "the greatest BBQ in ranch history."
Twenty steaks sizzled on the grill—thick, perfect cuts from the ranch's own cattle. Corn on the cob steamed in huge pots. Baked potatoes wrapped in foil lined a table. Beer coolers sat at strategic locations. And Pops' Jack Daniels made the rounds, much to Sarah's exasperation.
Billy sat at the head of one of the picnic tables, flanked by Jake and Caleb, with Junior and the wiz kids across from him. His chest was bandaged, his wrists wrapped, but he had a cold beer in his hand and a plate of food in front of him.
"So you really almost got free?" Daniel asked.
"Had one hand out," Billy said. "Would've been completely loose in another two minutes, but they came back early."
"And they retied you tighter?" Ryan Mattern asked.
"Way tighter. Used the good rope too. Professional grade stuff." Billy took a bite of steak. "But the first set of ropes? Amateur hour. I had those figured out in ten minutes."
"What was your time?" Jake asked, grinning.
"Six minutes flat before they interrupted. New personal record."
"Even kidnapped, you're keeping score," Caleb said, shaking his head.
"Always keep score," Billy said.
At the next table, Wade was regaling the adults with the story of the arrest. "—and these idiots are sitting in a diner, eating pancakes, like they didn't just commit a federal felony. Ray even had his pistol tucked in his waistband where anyone could see it."
"Did they say why they picked Billy?" Robert asked.
"Ray said he'd been watching the ranch for two weeks. Thought we were easy targets." Wade snorted. "Didn't realize he was grabbing the nephew of a Vietnam vet, part of a consortium with six families, and a kid who designed his own emergency response system."
"Bet he wishes he'd picked someone else," Josh said.
"Oh, he does now," Wade said. "Especially after I told him we'd been tracking them with drones for hours. Colt about had a heart attack."
Laughter rippled through the gathering.
Pops stood up, his Jack Daniels in hand. "I want to say something."
The yard quieted down.
"This morning, someone took my grandson. Thought they could just drive onto our land, grab one of ours, and get away with it." Pops looked around at all six families. "They didn't know what they were starting. They didn't know about Junior's tech, or the drones, or the cameras. They didn't know that when you hurt one of us, you're going to answer to all of us."
"Damn right," someone called out.
"Billy's home because this consortium works. Because we look out for each other. Because we don't quit." Pops raised his glass. "To the consortium. And to Billy—too stubborn to stay tied up for long."
"To the consortium!" everyone echoed.
"To Billy!"
They drank, and the party rolled on.
By 7:00, someone had brought out guitars. By 7:30, there was music and singing. By 8:00, the stars were out and the beer was flowing and the Jack Daniels was making everyone philosophical.
Billy ended up on the porch with his brothers and Junior, watching the celebration.
"You really okay?" Jake asked quietly.
"Yeah," Billy said. "Sore as hell, but I'm good."
"When they sent that second photo, with the blood..." Jake's voice was tight. "I wanted to kill them."
"They're going to prison for twenty-five to life," Billy said. "That's better than killing them. They get to think about what they did for the next quarter century."
"Fair point," Caleb said.
Junior was quiet, staring at his iPad, which was showing the saved drone footage from earlier.
"You did good today, Jr.," Billy said. "Real good. That system worked exactly like we designed it."
"I was so scared we wouldn't find you in time," Junior admitted.
"But you did. And that's what matters." Billy put his hand on Junior's shoulder. "You kept your head, used the tech, coordinated everything. I'm proud of you."
Junior looked up, eyes shining. "Thanks, Uncle Billy."
They sat in comfortable silence, watching the consortium families eat and drink and celebrate. Watching Pops hold court at one table, telling war stories. Watching the wiz kids demonstrate the drone footage to fascinated adults. Watching Wade and his deputies finally relax after a long day.
"You know what's funny?" Billy said. "I was only supposed to feed eight cows this morning. Routine check. Be back by nine."
"Life comes at you fast," Jake said.
"Sure does."
The party went on into the night. More stories were told, more beer was drunk, more laughter filled the air. The kidnapping had ended in less than nine hours—from 6:30 a.m. when Billy was taken to 2:32 p.m. when he was freed. But the celebration would be talked about for years.
By 10:00 p.m., families started heading home, hugging Billy on their way out, telling him they were glad he was safe. By 10:30, it was just the immediate family left—Tom and Sarah, Ray and Rebecca, Josh and Caroline, Pops, Jake, Caleb, and Junior.
They sat around the kitchen table, tired but content.
"Hell of a day," Pops said.
"Hell of a day," Tom agreed.
Billy looked around at his family—the people who'd dropped everything, mobilized an army, tracked him down, and brought him home. The people who'd thrown a BBQ to celebrate instead of dwelling on what could have gone wrong.
"Thanks," Billy said. "All of you. For coming to get me."
"Always," Tom said. "That's what family does."
"Damn right," Pops added. He poured another round of Jack Daniels. "Now drink up. Doctor's orders."
They laughed, and drank, and eventually headed off to bed.
Billy ended up in the frat house with Jake, Caleb, and Junior. They helped him up the stairs, made sure he had water and Tylenol on the nightstand.
"Need anything else?" Jake asked.
"Nah, I'm good," Billy said, climbing carefully into his bunk. His chest hurt, his wrists hurt, everything hurt. But he was in his own bed, in his own room, with his brothers nearby.
"Goodnight, Billy," Junior said from his bunk.
"Goodnight, Jr."
The lights went out. Billy lay there in the dark, listening to his brothers breathe, feeling the familiar sag of his old mattress beneath him.
Eight hours and seventeen minutes.
That's how long he'd been gone.
But he was home now.
And tomorrow morning, he'd probably go feed those eight cows again.
Because that's what you did on a ranch.
You got back up, and you kept going.
Billy smiled in the dark, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.
