Chapter 1: The Disappearance
Jake was late.
Tom Benson checked his watch for the third time in ten minutes. Four-thirty. Jake should have been back by three at the latest—he'd only gone out to check the fence line on the south pasture and haul back some posts.
"He's probably just taking his time," Sarah said from the kitchen doorway, but her voice had an edge to it.
Tom shook his head. "Not Jake. Boy's never late. Not without calling."
Pops came down the hallway, boots heavy on the hardwood. "Still no word?"
"Nothing. Radio's dead. Phone goes straight to voicemail."
The old man's jaw tightened. He grabbed his hat off the hook. "Then we go find him."
Billy Jr. was already outside, leaning against the ATV. At sixteen, he had his great-grandfather's instincts—and right now, those instincts were screaming that something was wrong.
"I'm coming with you," he said.
Pops didn't argue. He climbed on, and Jr. took the driver's seat.
They found the mule cart twenty minutes later.
It sat abandoned near a dry creek bed, tools still loaded in the back. No Jake. No struggle. Just... empty.
Pops climbed off slowly, scanning the area. His eyes—sharp despite his seventy-six years—caught something in the dirt.
Jake's radio. Smashed to pieces.
"Pops." Jr.'s voice was tight. He pointed at the ground. "Tire tracks. Big ones. Truck, maybe."
Boot prints in the dust. Multiple sets. Drag marks leading toward where a vehicle had been parked.
Pops felt the old war instincts kick in—the cold clarity that came when things went sideways. Someone had taken his grandson.
"Hit the button," he said quietly.
Jr. pulled out his satellite phone, fingers moving fast. He pressed the emergency activation.
The mechanical voice echoed across the encrypted network, broadcasting to all eighteen phones in the consortium:
"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. BILLY JUNIOR BENSON."
All across Kings County, families stopped what they were doing.
By the time Pops and Jr. roared back into the Benson ranch yard, trucks were already pulling in.
Wade Nelson's sheriff's SUV. The Beaumonts' F-250. The Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. One by one, the six families converged on the ranch house.
The living room filled quickly—Tom, Ray, Josh, Billy, Celab. Wade and his sons Wilson and Ryan. Robert and Caroline Beaumont. The mothers gathered near the kitchen—Sarah, Mary, Rebecca, and the others, their faces drawn with worry.
Billy Jr. and his crew—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez—immediately set up at the dining table with laptops and tablets.
"What happened?" Wade asked, his sheriff's voice cutting through the murmur.
Pops stood in the center of the room. "Someone took Jake. Found his cart abandoned, radio destroyed. Tire tracks and boot prints—multiple men, heavy vehicle."
Billy's face went white. "Took him? What do you mean took him?"
"I mean he's gone," Pops said flatly.
"Jesus Christ," Ray muttered.
Celab slammed his fist into the wall. Billy paced like a caged animal, running his hands through his hair.
Tom's phone was already out, trying Jake's number again. Still nothing.
Then Wade's phone buzzed. Everyone froze.
"Hold on," Wade said, pulling it out. His face changed as he looked at the screen. "I've got... something."
"What?" Tom demanded.
Wade turned the phone around slowly.
It was a photo. A young man lashed to a wooden wall with thick hemp rope. Arms bent at his sides, wrists bound. More rope wrapped around his biceps and circled his bare chest. His ankles tied together. Shirtless, sweating, eyes wide with fury.
It was Jake.
Sarah's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God."
Tom grabbed the phone, staring at the image. His son. Tied up like an animal.
"Sons of bitches," Pops breathed.
Billy lunged forward. "Is he—is he hurt? Where is he?"
"I don't know," Wade said grimly. "But whoever sent this wants us to know they have him."
Three hours earlier.
Jake's head throbbed. His vision swam as consciousness dragged him back from the black. The first thing he registered was the ropes—thick hemp cutting into his skin. His wrists were bound at his sides, arms bent awkwardly, biceps wrapped tight. More rope circled his bare chest, pinning him against rough wood. His ankles were lashed together.
He couldn't move.
"What the hell—" His voice came out thick, confused. He blinked hard, forcing his eyes to focus in the dim light. A shed. Rotting wood, dirt floor, tools hanging on hooks. The smell of oil and decay.
Then it hit him: someone had taken him.
"HEY!" Jake's voice exploded. "HEY! You sons of bitches! Where the hell am I?"
His whole body strained against the ropes. They didn't give. Not an inch.
"UNTIE ME RIGHT NOW!" he roared. "You hear me? You're dead! You're all DEAD when I get out of here!"
Footsteps outside. Heavy boots on gravel.
"Hey!" he shouted. "You cowards! Come in here and face me!"
The door creaked open. Three men stepped inside—faces covered with bandanas, ball caps pulled low. One carried a wooden bat.
Jake's heart kicked harder, but he didn't flinch.
"You think tying me up makes you tough?" he spat. "You're NOTHING. You hear me? My family's gonna find you, and when they do—"
The man with the bat stepped forward and swung.
The wood cracked into Jake's stomach. Air exploded from his lungs. Pain radiated through his abs, his ribs. He gasped, doubled over as much as the ropes allowed.
"Shut. Up." The man's voice was low, calm.
Jake sucked in a breath, lifted his head, eyes blazing.
"Go to hell," he rasped.
Another swing. This time to his side. Jake grunted, teeth clenched, but he wouldn't scream. Wouldn't give them that.
"You'll learn," the man said. He tapped the bat against his palm. "Or you'll bleed."
The three men turned and walked out, slamming the door behind them.
Jake hung there, chest heaving, ribs screaming. But his voice came out strong.
"I'LL KILL YOU!" he shouted after them. "YOU HEAR ME? I'LL KILL EVERY ONE OF YOU!"
Back at the ranch house, Tom's phone buzzed again.
A video this time.
He opened it with shaking hands. The room went silent as he hit play.
The camera was shaky, poorly lit. But there was no mistaking what they were seeing.
Jake, lashed to the wall. Struggling against the ropes. Screaming threats at someone off-camera. Then three men entering the frame. The bat swinging. Jake's body jerking with each impact.
Sarah turned away, hand over her mouth.
Billy made a strangled sound.
Pops' face turned to stone. "God DAMN it."
The video ended. A text message appeared beneath it:
$1,000,000. Instructions to follow. You have 24 hours. Tell no one or he dies.
Wade looked up at the room. "I'm calling the Texas Rangers."
"They won't get here in time," Ray said quietly.
"Then what the hell do we do?" Billy demanded, his voice breaking.
Pops stepped forward, his eyes hard as flint.
"We find him," he said. "And we bring him home."
Chapter 2: The Demand
The Benson kitchen had been transformed into a war room.
Billy Jr. moved with practiced efficiency, pulling equipment from backpacks. Billy Renzo uncoiled ethernet cables. Ryan Mattern set up three laptops on the kitchen table while Daniel Rodriguez mounted a tablet on the wall, its screen already glowing with a digital map of Kings County.
"We need the router hardwired," Jr. said, plugging in the first laptop. "Ryan, get the satellite uplink running. Billy, start pulling cell tower data for the last six hours."
"On it," Billy Renzo muttered, fingers already flying across the keyboard.
The four sixteen-year-olds worked in synchronized silence, their movements efficient and purposeful. They'd practiced this—drilled it, even—but never thought they'd actually need it.
Within ten minutes, the command center was operational. Screens displayed live feeds from security cameras across the consortium properties. GPS trackers showed the location of every family member. The encrypted radio network hummed softly in the background.
Jr. pulled up the video Wade had received and scrubbed through it frame by frame.
"Look at the lighting," Daniel said, leaning in. "It's natural. A window, maybe."
"Wooden walls," Ryan added. "Old construction. Could be a barn or shed."
Jr. zoomed in on Jake's face, then pulled back to study the ropes. "Those knots are solid. They knew what they were doing."
Billy Renzo's jaw tightened. Jake was like another older brother to all of them.
"We'll find him," Jr. said quietly. "We're going to find him."
In the living room, Ray Benson stood with his phone pressed to his ear, his voice calm and measured despite the chaos around him.
"Frank, I need a favor. A big one."
Frank Morrison, president of Kings County Bank, sighed on the other end. "Ray, it's after five. What's going on?"
"Someone's taken Jake. They're demanding a million dollars in twenty-four hours."
Silence. Then: "Jesus, Ray. Have you called the police?"
"Wade's already on it. Rangers won't be here until morning." Ray paced toward the window, lowering his voice. "I need to stall them. Buy time for the family to work."
"Stall how?"
"Can you set up a series of wire transfers? Small increments. Make it look like we're scrambling to get the cash together—liquidating accounts, calling in loans, whatever. Each transfer buys us another hour or two."
Frank hesitated. "Ray, if something goes wrong—"
"It won't. But if we just hand over a million in one shot, they'll disappear and we'll never see Jake again. This way, we keep them engaged. Keep them talking."
Another pause. "How much do you want to send first?"
"Fifty thousand. Tell them it's all we can pull together immediately. That we need time to liquidate assets for the rest."
"Alright. I'll set it up. But Ray—be careful."
"Thanks, Frank."
Ray ended the call and immediately dialed another number. "Marcus? It's Ray Benson. I need to cash out the Hereford futures. Today... I know it's after hours. This is an emergency."
Across the room, Josh watched his brother work. Ray's mind was always three steps ahead—planning, calculating, managing risk. Right now, that analytical brain might be the only thing keeping Jake alive.
Tom appeared at Ray's shoulder. "Will it work?"
"It'll buy us time," Ray said. "Four, maybe five hours if we're lucky. But Dad—" He looked at his father. "If they get impatient..."
Tom's face was grim. "Then we better find him before that happens."
In the shed, Jake heard the door open again.
His throat was raw from shouting. His ribs ached from the bat. But when the three men entered—one now carrying a hunting knife—he lifted his head and met their eyes.
"Back for more?" he rasped. "You hit like a bunch of—"
The man with the knife stepped forward and pressed the blade flat against Jake's forearm.
Cold steel. Sharp enough to split skin with the slightest pressure.
Jake's breath caught, but he didn't look away.
The man dragged the knife slowly up Jake's arm, across his shoulder, along his neck. The edge kissed his skin but didn't cut—not yet.
"You feel that?" the man whispered. "That's what happens if your family doesn't cooperate."
The knife moved down to Jake's bare chest, tracing a line across his pectoral muscle.
"We'll start with shallow cuts. Make you bleed slow. Then we go deeper."
Jake's whole body was rigid, every muscle locked. But his voice came out steady.
"Do it," he said through clenched teeth. "Torture me all you want. But I swear to God—when my family finds you, you're dead. All of you."
The man's eyes narrowed behind the bandana. He pressed the knife tip against Jake's chest—just enough to dimple the skin.
"You think they'll find you in time?" He leaned closer. "You think they're that smart?"
Jake's lips pulled back in something between a grimace and a grin.
"My family?" He let out a bitter laugh. "You have no idea what you just started."
The man stared at him for a long moment. Then he pulled the knife away and nodded to the others.
"Let him think about that for a while."
They left, slamming the door. Jake sagged against the ropes, breathing hard.
But his eyes were still burning with defiance.
Back at the ranch house, the women had gathered in the dining room—pushed out of the kitchen by the wiz kids' command center, but refusing to sit idle.
Sarah Benson stood at the head of the table, her hands clasped so tight her knuckles were white. Mary Nelson sat beside her, one hand on Sarah's shoulder. Rebecca Nelson—Josh's wife and Jr.'s mother—paced near the window. Caroline Beaumont, the newest to the consortium, looked pale but determined.
The mothers of the wiz kids—Elena Rodriguez, Patricia Mattern, and Maria Renzo—huddled together, their faces drawn with the same fear every mother in the room felt.
"How can they just sit out there and talk about money?" Sarah's voice shook. "That's my son. My baby."
"They're doing what they can," Mary said gently. But her own voice was strained. Wade was her husband. Jake was practically family.
"They're buying time," Rebecca said, turning from the window. "Ray's smart. He knows what he's doing."
"And what are we supposed to do?" Elena asked. "Just wait?"
Caroline stood. "No. We don't wait. We prepare."
The women looked at her.
"Rebecca, you're a nurse. What supplies do we need when they bring him home?"
Rebecca blinked, then nodded sharply. "Medical kit. Bandages, antiseptic, pain meds. I can get everything from the hospital."
"Maria, Patricia, Elena—can you coordinate food? The men are going to need to eat, and they won't think about it."
The three mothers nodded, already moving toward the kitchen.
Sarah looked at Caroline, something shifting in her expression. "What else?"
"We make sure this house is ready," Caroline said firmly. "When they bring Jake home—and they will bring him home—he's going to need us. All of us."
Sarah's eyes filled with tears, but she nodded.
"Alright," she whispered. "Alright."
The women got to work.
In the living room, Billy slammed his fist into the wall again.
"God DAMN it!" he roared. "We should be out there! We should be—"
"We should be smart," Wade cut in, his sheriff's voice brooking no argument. "You go running out there half-cocked, you get yourself killed. Or worse—you get Jake killed."
Billy spun on him. "That's my brother, Wade! My—" His voice cracked. "He's my twin. We've never been apart. Not like this."
Celab grabbed Billy's shoulder, his own face twisted with rage and helplessness. "We'll get him back, Billy. We will."
Pops stepped between them, his voice like gravel.
"Listen to me. All of you." He looked around the room—at his sons, at Wade, at Robert Beaumont. "I've been in bad situations before. War. Ambushes. Men dying in my arms. And you know what gets you killed?"
Silence.
"Panic. Rage without direction. You want to help Jake? Then you channel that anger into something useful."
He pointed at the kitchen, where the wiz kids were working. "Those boys are tracking. Ray's stalling. Wade's coordinating with the Rangers. Everyone has a job."
He looked at Billy and Celab. "You two? Your job is to be ready. When we find him—and we will find him—we're going in fast and we're going in hard. I need you sharp. Not broken."
Billy's chest heaved. His hands were shaking. But slowly, he nodded.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
Pops clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man."
Then his satellite phone buzzed.
Everyone froze.
Pops pulled it out, looked at the screen. His face went dark.
"It's them."
Chapter 3: The Hunt Begins
In the shed, Jake heard the door open again.
He lifted his head, preparing to unleash another string of threats—but before he could speak, one of the men shoved a rag deep into his mouth. Another wrapped duct tape around his head, sealing it in place.
Jake's eyes went wide. He tried to scream, but only muffled sounds came out.
"That's better," the man with the knife said. "Now you listen."
He pressed the blade against Jake's chest again—this time harder. The tip bit into skin. Jake felt a sharp sting, then warmth as blood trickled down his pectoral muscle.
"Your family's not moving fast enough." The man dragged the knife slowly across Jake's chest, opening a shallow cut about three inches long. "Maybe this'll motivate them."
Jake's entire body went rigid. His jaw clenched against the gag. He wouldn't scream. Wouldn't give them that satisfaction.
Another cut. This one across his other pectoral. The man stepped back, admiring his work.
"Get the picture," he told one of the others.
A phone camera flashed. Once. Twice.
Then they tied a blindfold over Jake's eyes, plunging him into darkness.
"You just sit there and bleed a while," the man said. "Think about how smart your family better be."
The door slammed. Jake hung in the darkness, gagged, blindfolded, bleeding.
But his fists were still clenched.
Ten minutes later, Tom's phone rang.
He looked at the screen. His blood ran cold.
The caller ID read: JAKE BENSON
"It's Jake's phone," Tom said, his voice tight. Everyone in the room froze.
He answered on speaker. "Hello?"
No voice. Just a notification chime—a video file being sent.
Tom opened it with shaking hands. The room gathered around him.
Jake. Still lashed to the wall. Now gagged with duct tape. Blindfolded. Two fresh cuts across his bare chest, blood running down his torso.
Sarah made a strangled sound and turned away. Tom grabbed the edge of the table, staring at the screen with murder in his eyes.
"God DAMN it!" Pops roared. He hurled his brandy glass across the room. It shattered against the wall.
Billy lunged forward. "We need to GO! We need to—"
"We need a location!" Wade barked. "You want to drive around aimlessly while they carve him up?"
The text message followed:
Wire transfer instructions attached. $50,000 now. Rest within 12 hours. Any police involvement = body.
Ray's phone was already out. "I'm sending the fifty thousand right now."
"Do it," Pops said, his voice cold as ice.
But Jr. was already sprinting toward the kitchen.
"THEY USED HIS PHONE!" he shouted. "We can track it!"
Billy and Celab stood in the gun room, pulling rifles off the wall with mechanical precision.
"Remington 700," Billy said, handing one to Celab. "Henry .45-70. Dad's AR-15." He loaded them onto the dining table where the other men had gathered.
Celab pulled out the handgun case. "Glocks for the boys." He set four pistols on the table—one for each of the wiz kids.
Wilson "Horse" Nelson came through the door carrying a hard case. His brother Ryan followed with another.
"Sniper rifles," Horse said, laying the case on the table and opening it. "Barrett M82. Effective range: eighteen hundred meters."
Ryan opened the second case. "Remington MSR. We figured Robert might want options."
Robert Beaumont stepped forward, his face set. He'd been quiet most of the night, but his eyes were sharp. "I'll take the MSR. I know that platform."
"You still qualified?" Wade asked.
Robert's jaw tightened. "Four tours in Afghanistan. I'm qualified."
Pops nodded approvingly. "Good. We might need you to take a long shot."
Billy Jr. appeared from the kitchen. "Pops, we're ready for distribution."
"Do it."
Jr. returned with a duffel bag and started pulling out iPads—eighteen of them, each with a protective case and the consortium logo etched on the back.
"Encrypted network," Jr. said, handing them out. "Real-time GPS tracking for every member. Drone feeds will stream here." He tapped the screen. "Thermal imaging, night vision—everything we've got."
Billy Renzo distributed the Glocks to the wiz kids. Daniel Rodriguez checked the magazine on his, ejected it, slapped it back in with practiced ease.
"You boys know how to use these?" Wade asked.
"Pops taught us," Jr. said simply.
The old man grunted. "Damn right I did."
Ryan Mattern pulled up the tactical map on the wall-mounted tablet. "We've got six drones charged and ready. Two with thermals, four with night vision. Range: five miles each."
"Weapons loaded, iPads distributed, drones ready," Wade said, looking around the room. "Now we just need a target."
In the kitchen, Jr. was already at his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard.
"Billy, pull up the cell tower triangulation software!" he barked. "Daniel, get me into the carrier's network—I need real-time pings!"
"On it!" Daniel's hands moved in a blur.
"Ryan, boot up the drone control system. We're gonna need eyes in the air the second we narrow this down."
The other men crowded into the kitchen doorway—Tom, Pops, Wade, Billy, Celab—each holding an iPad, watching the data stream across their screens in real time.
"Got it!" Billy Renzo shouted. "Jake's phone just pinged tower 447—that's northeast, about twelve miles out."
Jr. pulled up a map on his iPad. The same map appeared on all eighteen devices simultaneously. "Tower 447 covers a radius of roughly eight miles. That's still too much ground."
"Wait," Daniel said, squinting at his screen. "I'm getting another ping—tower 419. It's overlapping coverage."
Jr.'s eyes lit up. "Triangulate it. Now."
Ryan's fingers danced across the keyboard. Numbers scrolled down the screen. The map on every iPad zoomed in, a red circle appearing and then shrinking.
"Got it," Ryan said. "Signal origin is somewhere in this three-mile radius." He marked the area on the map.
Jr. leaned in. "What's in that area?"
Billy Renzo pulled up property records. "Old Morrison ranch. Foreclosed two years ago. Been sitting empty ever since."
"Any structures?" Wade asked from the doorway, his eyes on his iPad.
"Main house, barn, and..." Billy scrolled. "Equipment shed on the northwest property line."
Jr. looked at Pops. "That's got to be it."
"Then let's go," Billy said, already moving toward the door.
"WAIT," Jr. commanded. "We confirm first. We go in blind, we might spook them. They'll kill Jake before we get close."
He turned to Ryan Mattern. "Launch the drones. I want thermal and visual on that entire property. Every building, every vehicle, every warm body."
"Launching now," Ryan said.
On every iPad in the house, six separate video feeds came to life. The drones lifted off from the ranch yard, their cameras showing the night sky, then banking northeast.
In the dining room, the women gathered around their own iPads, watching the feeds in tense silence.
Sarah stood with one hand gripping the edge of the table, the other clutching her iPad so tight her knuckles were white.
Rebecca stood behind her son in the kitchen doorway, watching over Jr.'s shoulder, one hand on his back.
Caroline held her iPad close, standing beside Robert.
Mary Nelson watched with her hand over her mouth.
And in the corner, Elena Rodriguez had dropped to her knees, rosary beads threaded through her fingers. Her voice was barely a whisper, but steady:
"Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo..."
Patricia Mattern and Maria Renzo knelt beside her, joining the prayer.
On the screens, the drones streaked across the dark countryside, their lights blinking like fireflies.
"ETA four minutes," Ryan said.
Billy stood beside Jr., rifle in hand, his eyes locked on his iPad, his whole body coiled like a spring.
Celab gripped his own weapon, jaw set, watching his screen.
Pops loaded shells into a shotgun with one hand, his iPad balanced in the other, his movements calm and methodical.
Wade checked his service weapon, his sheriff's star catching the light, his eyes never leaving the drone feed.
Robert Beaumont slung the sniper rifle over his shoulder and pulled on a tactical vest, his iPad secured to his chest rig.
Ray stood with his phone in one hand, iPad in the other—the wire transfer confirmation glowing on the phone screen, fifty thousand dollars sent into the void, buying them precious minutes.
Tom stood alone near the window, watching his iPad, his jaw working, silent prayers of his own.
On the screens, the drones closed in on the Morrison property.
"Two minutes," Ryan said.
Jr. switched his iPad to thermal imaging. "Come on. Come on. Show me something."
All across the house, eighteen iPads displayed the same feeds.
The drones swept over the main house—dark, empty, cold.
Then the barn—nothing.
Then the equipment shed on the northwest corner.
"THERE!" Daniel shouted.
On every iPad in the house, the thermal feed showed three heat signatures inside the shed. Two standing. One sitting—no, hanging.
"That's him," Jr. said, his voice shaking. "That's Jake."
Behind him, Rebecca's hand tightened on his shoulder.
In the corner, Elena's prayers grew louder: "Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores..."
Sarah let out a sob.
Tom's eyes burned with tears and rage.
Pops stepped forward, his face carved from granite.
"Saddle up," he said. "We're going to war."
Chapter 4: Mobilization
"Listen up!" Wade's voice cut through the organized chaos. "We move in three vehicles. Sheriff's SUV takes point with tactical command. Jr., you're riding with us—you're our eyes in the sky."
Jr. nodded, already slinging his laptop bag over his shoulder, iPad in hand.
"Billy Renzo, you're in the Beaumont F-250 with your dad and the Matterns. Keep the second drone feed active. Ryan Mattern stays on thermal."
"Got it," Billy Renzo said.
"Daniel Rodriguez, you're with the Bensons in Tom's truck. Monitor cell tower activity—if that phone moves, I want to know immediately."
Daniel grabbed his gear. "Yes sir."
"The rest of you—Celab, Billy, Ray, Josh, Ryan Nelson—distribute between the vehicles. We go in coordinated. Nobody moves until I give the word."
Wade pulled out his radio. "Eighteen channels, eighteen radios. One stays here in the kitchen." He handed it to Sarah. "You'll hear everything. If something goes wrong, you hit the emergency button and call the Rangers directly."
Sarah took the radio with trembling hands. Rebecca stood beside her, along with Mary, Caroline, and the other mothers. Elena was still on her knees, rosary beads clicking softly.
"We'll bring him home," Wade said quietly.
Sarah nodded, unable to speak.
The men loaded into the vehicles with military precision.
Wade's sheriff's SUV: Wade driving, Jr. in the passenger seat with his laptop, Wilson Nelson in the back with his sniper rifle and equipment.
"All radios, check in," Wade said into his handset.
"Vehicle Two, check." That was Tom's truck—Tom driving, Billy beside him, Josh and Celab in the back, Daniel Rodriguez with his laptop wedged between them.
"Vehicle Three, check." Robert Beaumont's F-250—Ray Benson driving, Pops in the passenger seat with his Remington 700, Robert and Ryan Nelson in the back with their sniper rifles, Billy Renzo and Ryan Mattern crammed in with their equipment.
"Kitchen, check." Sarah's voice, tight but steady.
Wade pulled up the drone feed on his iPad mounted to the dashboard. Jr. had his own laptop open, coordinating all six drone feeds simultaneously.
"Three tangos inside," Jr. said, studying the thermal images. "Two mobile, one stationary."
"The stationary one is Jake," Wade said.
"I'm locking GPS coordinates now. Sending to all units."
Every iPad in every vehicle updated simultaneously, showing the exact location of the shed, the main house, the barn, and the best approach routes.
"Pops," Wade said over the radio. "You see that water tower? Eight hundred meters northwest of the shed?"
"I see it," Pops' gravelly voice came back.
"That's your perch. You'll have clear line of sight to the shed entrance and the main house."
"Copy that."
"Robert, you set up on the barn roof. Cover the east approach."
"Understood," Robert said.
"Wilson, you take the grain silo. You'll have elevation on the south side."
"Yes sir," Wilson said from the back seat.
Jr. spoke up. "Sheriff, I'm picking up a vehicle behind the main house. F-350, looks like. Engine's still warm on thermal."
"That's their escape route," Wade said. "We block it."
He keyed his radio. "All units, listen up. We're ten minutes out. When we arrive, we set up a perimeter. Nobody—and I mean nobody—gets in or out of that property."
He paused, then continued, his voice taking on formal weight.
"By the authority vested in me as Sheriff of Kings County, I am hereby deputizing every man on this operation. That includes you, wiz kids. You are now acting deputy sheriffs of Kings County."
Jr.'s eyes widened slightly. In the other vehicles, Billy Renzo and Ryan Mattern exchanged glances. Daniel Rodriguez sat up straighter.
"Rules of engagement," Wade said, his voice hard. "We are attempting a rescue of a kidnapping victim. Lethal force is authorized if the victim's life is in immediate danger. I want clean shots only. Confirm your targets. Watch your backgrounds. We have an innocent man in there."
"Understood," came the chorus of voices over the radio.
"Sharpshooters—Pops, Robert, Wilson—you do not fire unless I give the command or you have a clear and immediate threat to Jake's life. Is that clear?"
"Clear," they responded in sequence.
Wade glanced at Jr. beside him, then spoke into the radio again.
"One more thing. These men took one of ours. They tortured him. But we do this right. We bring Jake home alive, and we make sure no one else gets hurt in the process. Collateral damage is not acceptable."
A pause. Then Pops' voice, cold and certain: "We get Jake out safe. Then those sons of bitches answer for what they did."
"Agreed," Wade said.
The three vehicles roared down the county highway, headlights cutting through the darkness. Dust billowed behind them in great plumes.
In the kitchen, the women watched the GPS trackers on their shared iPad, three dots moving northeast across the map.
"They're five minutes out," Rebecca said quietly.
Sarah gripped her rosary—she'd borrowed one from Elena. Her lips moved in silent prayer.
Caroline stood with her arms wrapped around herself, watching the screen.
Mary held the radio close, listening to the occasional check-ins.
"Vehicle One, three minutes to target."
"Vehicle Two, copy."
"Vehicle Three, copy."
The mothers of the wiz kids stood together near the window, looking out into the darkness as if they could see their sons from there.
In Wade's SUV, Jr. narrated what he was seeing on the drone feeds.
"No movement outside the buildings. Thermal shows the three signatures still in the shed—two standing, one restrained. Main house is dark. The truck behind it hasn't moved."
"Good," Wade said. "They don't know we're coming."
Wilson checked his rifle in the back seat. "How do you want to play this?"
"Fast and precise," Wade said. "Sharpshooters in position first. Then we move on the shed. We give them one chance to surrender. After that—"
"After that, they made their choice," Pops said over the radio.
Jr. looked up from his screen. "Sheriff, we're two minutes out. I'm going radio silent on the open channel. Switching to tactical frequency."
"Do it."
Jr. tapped his keyboard. "All units, switch to tac frequency three. Confirm."
One by one, the radios clicked over.
"Vehicle Two, switched."
"Vehicle Three, switched."
"Kitchen, switched."
Wade killed the headlights. The two vehicles behind him did the same. They drove by moonlight now, slowing as they approached the turnoff to the Morrison property.
"One minute," Jr. said softly.
On every iPad, the drone feeds showed the dark ranch, the shed, the three heat signatures.
Wade keyed his radio one last time.
"All units, we are going in. Radio discipline from here on out. Stay sharp. Stay focused. Let's bring our boy home."
The three vehicles turned onto the dirt road leading to the Morrison ranch.
No lights. No sirens. Just the quiet rumble of engines and the crunch of tires on gravel.
In the shed, Jake hung in the darkness, bleeding, gagged, blindfolded.
He didn't know help was coming.
But it was.
Wade's SUV crested a small rise, and the Morrison property came into view.
Dark buildings silhouetted against the star-filled sky. The shed, small and isolated, sat on the northwest corner. Light leaked through gaps in the wooden walls.
"Visual confirmed," Wade whispered into his radio. "Target structure, northwest corner. Light visible inside."
"Copy," came the quiet responses.
The vehicles rolled to a stop about two hundred meters out, tucked behind a tree line.
Men exited silently, weapons ready, iPads glowing softly in the darkness.
Pops moved toward the water tower with his Remington 700, his seventy-six-year-old body moving with the practiced efficiency of a soldier half his age.
Robert Beaumont headed for the barn, his MSR sniper rifle slung across his back.
Wilson Nelson made his way to the grain silo, moving like a shadow.
Tom, Billy, Celab, Josh, Ray, and Ryan Nelson formed up near the vehicles, weapons ready, studying the drone feeds on their iPads.
Wade coordinated from the SUV, Jr. beside him managing the drone network.
"All sharpshooters, move to positions," Wade said quietly into his radio.
The three men disappeared into the darkness.
In Vehicle Three, the four wiz kids gathered in the back—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, and Jr. had rejoined them after handing control to Wade.
They sat close together, each holding their Glock, their iPads still active, showing the thermal feeds.
"You scared?" Billy Renzo whispered.
"Terrified," Ryan Mattern admitted.
Daniel Rodriguez's hand was steady on his weapon. "Jake's in there. That's all that matters."
Jr. stared at the screen showing the heat signature of his uncle, hanging motionless in that shed. His jaw was set, his eyes hard.
"We're getting him out," he said quietly.
The other three nodded.
They sat in tense silence, watching the screens, waiting.
One by one, the sharpshooters radioed in.
"Pops, in position. I have eyes on the shed entrance and main house. Clear shot."
"Robert, in position. East approach covered. I can see two tangos moving inside the shed."
"Wilson, in position. South side secured."
Wade's voice came through calm and steady. "Copy all. Thermal confirms three tangos still inside. Target remains stationary, northwest corner."
On every iPad, the assault team could see their own positions marked in green, the sharpshooters marked in blue, and the three red dots inside the shed.
Tom gripped his rifle, standing beside Billy and Celab. His son was in there. Bleeding. Tortured.
Billy's hands shook with rage and fear. Celab put a hand on his shoulder.
Ray stood with Josh, both armed, both ready.
Ryan Nelson checked his service weapon one more time.
In the back of the vehicles, the four wiz kids watched everything unfold on their screens, their Glocks held tight, their hearts pounding.
Wade keyed his radio one final time.
"All units, stand by. On my mark, we move."
The night was silent except for the distant sound of wind through the grass.
And somewhere in that shed, Jake Benson hung in the darkness.
But his family had come for him.
Chapter 5: The Rescue
Wade lifted the bullhorn to his mouth, his voice amplified across the dark property.
"THIS IS SHERIFF WADE NELSON OF KINGS COUNTY. YOU ARE SURROUNDED. RELEASE THE HOSTAGE AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP. THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING."
Silence.
Inside the shed, Jake's head jerked up. The blindfold was still tight, but he could hear—muffled, distant. A voice. Authority.
His heart hammered. They found me.
Then terror gripped him. He couldn't see. Couldn't move. Couldn't warn them.
The shed door burst open. Footsteps—frantic, cursing.
"They're out there! How the hell did they—"
"Shut up! Get the guns!"
"What about him?"
"Leave him! We gotta go!"
Jake strained against the ropes, trying to make noise through the gag. Trying to warn them what was coming.
Outside, thermal imaging showed movement inside the shed.
"They're mobilizing," Jr. said into the radio. "Two tangos moving toward the door. One staying back with the target."
"All units, weapons hot," Wade commanded. "Sharpshooters, acquire targets."
At the water tower, Pops pressed his eye to the scope of his Remington 700. The shed entrance filled his view. Crosshairs steady. Breathing slow.
On the barn roof, Robert Beaumont lay prone, the MSR sniper rifle braced against his shoulder. He could see the east side of the shed, the thin gaps in the wood where light leaked out. Movement inside.
At the grain silo, Wilson Nelson had the south approach covered. His Barrett M82 rested solid on its bipod. He tracked the door through his scope.
"Pops, I have the door," he whispered into his radio.
"Robert, east window."
"Wilson, south exit if they run."
Wade's voice: "Fire on my command. Clean shots only. Do not hit the target."
The shed door cracked open. A figure emerged—silhouetted against the light from inside. Then another.
Both holding rifles.
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS!" Wade's voice boomed through the bullhorn.
One of the men raised his rifle toward the sheriff's SUV.
Muzzle flash.
The shot went wide, kicking up dirt twenty feet short.
"FIRE!" Wade commanded.
Three rifles spoke almost simultaneously.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
The first man dropped instantly—Pops' shot caught him center mass. He crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.
The second man spun, trying to retreat back inside. Robert's round punched through his shoulder, spinning him. Wilson's follow-up shot ended it.
Both men lay still in the dirt.
"Two down," Wade said into the radio. "Third tango still inside with the hostage. Move in. MOVE IN!"
Inside the shed, Jake heard the gunfire. Close. Terrifyingly close.
He couldn't see. Couldn't process what was happening. His breathing came fast and panicked through his nose, the gag choking him.
Footsteps nearby—heavy boots. The third man.
"You son of a bitch," the man hissed. "This is your fault. YOUR FAULT!"
Jake felt the cold steel of the knife against his throat.
Then the door exploded inward.
Wade came through first, service weapon raised, flashlight cutting through the dim interior.
"SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT! DROP THE WEAPON!"
Tom and Billy were right behind him, rifles up.
"HANDS UP! NOW!"
The third man stood behind Jake, knife pressed to his throat, using him as a shield.
"Back off!" the man screamed. "Back off or I cut his throat!"
Wade's weapon never wavered, his aim steady. "You don't want to do this. Put the knife down. Nobody else has to die tonight."
"BACK OFF!"
The man's hand shook. The knife bit into Jake's skin—a thin line of blood appeared.
Jake's eyes were wide, terrified, locked on his father.
Wade took one slow step forward. His voice dropped, calm and cold.
"Last chance."
The man's grip tightened on the knife.
Wade fired.
A single shot—precise, controlled.
The round caught the man in the forehead. He dropped instantly, the knife clattering to the floor. His body collapsed behind Jake.
"CLEAR!" Wade shouted. "Shed is clear!"
Jr. and Billy Renzo burst through the door, iPads in hand, already broadcasting.
"Kitchen, we have visual," Jr. said into his radio. "Jake is alive. Repeat, Jake is alive."
They moved to the side, angling their iPads to capture the scene as Pops rushed forward.
In the kitchen, all the women crowded around Sarah's iPad, watching the live feed.
Jake—gagged, blindfolded, bound to the wall. Bleeding but conscious.
Sarah's hand covered her mouth, tears streaming down her face.
"Oh thank God," Mary whispered.
Elena's rosary beads clicked faster, her prayers continuing.
"Jake, it's Pops. You're safe. You're safe, boy."
The blindfold came off first. Jake blinked hard against the sudden light. Faces swam into view—Pops, Robert, Wilson, their faces tight with controlled fury and relief.
"Hold still," Pops said, pulling out a folding knife. He started sawing through the ropes around Jake's chest. "We're getting you out."
Robert cut the ropes binding Jake's wrists. Wilson worked on his ankles.
The gag came off last. Jake gasped, sucking in air, his throat raw.
"Easy, easy," Pops said. "You're alright now."
Jake's legs gave out the moment the ropes fell away. Pops and Robert caught him, lowering him gently to the dirt floor.
Tom rushed in, dropping to his knees beside his son. "Jake. Oh God, Jake."
Billy was right behind him, his face streaked with tears. "You're okay. You're okay. We got you."
Celab stood in the doorway, his rifle still in hand, staring at Jake with a mixture of relief and rage at what had been done to him.
Jr. kept the iPad steady, making sure the kitchen could see everything.
Rebecca's voice came through his earpiece, professional and focused. "Jr., zoom in on the chest wounds. I need to see the lacerations."
Jr. adjusted the angle. The cuts across Jake's pectorals were visible—shallow, bleeding but not life-threatening.
"Lacerations, non-critical," Rebecca said, her voice steady. "Possible contusions to the ribs. He's conscious and responsive—that's good. Tell them to keep him warm. Watch for shock."
"Copy that," Jr. said.
Robert was already pulling off his jacket, draping it over Jake's shoulders.
Billy Renzo panned his iPad to show the full scene—the family surrounding Jake, Pops with one hand on his grandson's face, Tom and Billy kneeling beside him.
In the kitchen, Sarah sobbed with relief. Caroline had her arm around her. Mary and the other mothers watched, their own tears falling freely.
Pops crouched beside his grandson, one hand on Jake's face. "You did good, boy. You held on. You held on and we found you."
Jake's voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper. "I knew... I knew you'd come."
Rebecca's voice came through the radio again, softer now, no longer the nurse but the aunt. "Bring him home."
Wade holstered his weapon and looked around at the scene. Three bodies outside. One inside. All threats neutralized.
"All units, targets down. Hostage secured. We're coming home."
Jr. and Billy Renzo lowered their iPads, looking at each other. Both had tears on their faces.
In the back of Vehicle Three, Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez watched their own screens, their Glocks still in hand. Ryan's hand shook. Daniel whispered a prayer in Spanish.
Jr. looked back at his uncle—alive, safe, surrounded by family.
"We did it," he said quietly.
And for the first time in hours, they could breathe.
Chapter 6: Homecoming
Three days later, the Benson ranch was alive with celebration.
The pig had been roasting since dawn, smoke rising thick and sweet from the pit. Tables lined the yard, groaning under the weight of food—brisket, ribs, potato salad, cornbread, coleslaw, beans, and at least a dozen pies. The six consortium families had descended with everything they had.
Jake sat in a lawn chair near the house, Rebecca hovering nearby with her nurse's bag.
"I'm fine," Jake said for the hundredth time.
"You're healing," Rebecca corrected, checking the bandage across his chest for the third time that hour. "There's a difference."
"Becca, I'm sitting down. What could possibly happen?"
"With this family? Everything." But she smiled and stepped back. "Alright. But if those cuts start bleeding again—"
"You'll be the first to know. I promise."
Sarah appeared with a plate piled high with food. "Eat. You're too thin."
"Mom, I've been eating nonstop for three days."
"Not enough." She set the plate in his lap and kissed the top of his head before moving on to fuss over someone else.
Jake shook his head, but he was grinning.
Billy dropped into the chair beside him, beer in hand. "How's the invalid?"
"Shut up."
"What? You got waited on hand and foot. Rebecca playing nurse, Mom cooking everything you look at, Dad letting you skip chores—"
"I got kidnapped and tortured, Billy."
"Yeah, but you couldn't even get yourself untied." Billy's grin was wicked. "Had to wait for us to come rescue you like some damsel in distress."
Celab walked up, beer in hand, shaking his head. "Pathetic, really. All that yelling and cursing, and you still couldn't break a few ropes."
Jake's jaw dropped. "Are you kidding me right now?"
"I'm just saying," Celab continued, stretching out in another chair, "if it was me, I'd have had those ropes off in five minutes. Ten, tops."
"They had me tied to a wall!"
Billy leaned back, taking a long drink. "Excuses, excuses."
"And gagged!" Jake protested. "And blindfolded!"
"Still," Celab said thoughtfully. "Seems like you could've done something."
Jake stared at them, then burst out laughing. It hurt his ribs, but he didn't care. "You two are the absolute worst."
"We know," Billy said, clapping him on the shoulder—carefully. "Good to have you back, brother."
"Good to be back," Jake said quietly.
The moment hung there, real and solid, before Celab broke it.
"Even if you are kind of a wimp."
"Oh for the love of—"
As the afternoon wore into evening, the party showed no signs of slowing. Someone had set up speakers, music drifting across the yard. Kids ran wild between the tables. The men gathered near the pig roast, beers in hand, telling stories and lies in equal measure.
Pops stood near the back porch, presiding over what everyone called his "liquor store"—a card table loaded with bottles of whiskey, bourbon, and Jack Daniels, with coolers full of beer underneath.
The four wiz kids approached—Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—trying to look casual and failing miserably.
Pops eyed them. "What do you boys want?"
"Just...you know...thought we'd see what you got," Jr. said.
"Uh huh." Pops pulled out four bottles of beer, cracked them open, and handed them over.
The boys took them, started to turn away.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Pops growled.
They froze.
Pops pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels and four shot glasses. He poured carefully, each glass filled to the brim.
"You boys earned this." He pushed the glasses toward them. "You found Jake. You tracked him down when nobody else could. That makes you men in my book."
The four teenagers stared at the shots like they were looking at gold.
"Well?" Pops said. "You gonna drink or just stand there gawking?"
They grabbed the glasses.
"To Jake," Jr. said, raising his shot.
"To Jake," the others echoed.
They downed the whiskey. All four of them immediately coughed, eyes watering.
Pops laughed—a deep, belly laugh. "That's how you know it's the good stuff!"
Billy Renzo wheezed. "That's terrible!"
"You'll learn to love it," Pops said, refilling the glasses. "One more. For good measure."
Near the pig roast, Wade Nelson stood with Tom, Ray, and Josh, watching the festivities.
"Got something for the boys," Wade said, pulling a small box from his jacket.
Tom raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"
Wade opened it. Inside were four deputy badges—official Kings County Sheriff's Department stars.
"I deputized them during the operation," Wade said. "Figured they should have something to show for it. They earned it."
Tom looked at the badges, then at Wade. "They're sixteen."
"And they did what trained investigators couldn't do in time. They found Jake. They coordinated a rescue operation with military precision." Wade closed the box. "Age doesn't mean much when you've got that kind of skill and courage."
Ray nodded slowly. "They did good."
"Damn right they did," Wade said.
"Hey!" Wade called out across the yard. "Jr.! Billy! Ryan! Daniel! Get over here!"
The four boys approached, still clutching their beers, smelling faintly of whiskey.
Wade opened the box. "By the authority vested in me as Sheriff of Kings County, I'm making your deputization official."
He handed each of them a badge.
Jr. stared at his, speechless.
Billy Renzo grinned so wide his face looked like it might split.
Ryan Mattern turned the badge over in his hands like it was made of diamonds.
Daniel Rodriguez whispered something in Spanish that sounded like a prayer.
"You boys did something extraordinary," Wade said. "Don't forget it. And don't let it go to your heads."
"Yes sir," they said in unison.
Wade's expression grew more serious. "And I mean it. If we have a missing person, or other action that needs searching—we're calling you four in to manage the search. On salary."
The four boys looked at each other, eyes wide.
"You serious, Sheriff?" Jr. asked.
"Dead serious," Wade said. "What you boys did—the cell tower triangulation, the property records search, the drone coordination—that's professional-level work. Better than professional. You found Jake in four hours when it could've taken days."
"We get paid?" Billy Renzo said, his voice cracking slightly.
"County consultant rates," Wade said. "You'll be on call. When we need you, you drop everything and you work. But yeah—you get paid."
Ryan Mattern looked like he might pass out. "Holy—"
"Language," his mother called from across the yard.
Daniel Rodriguez was grinning ear to ear. "My mom's gonna flip."
"Your moms already know," Wade said. "I cleared it with all the parents. They're proud of you. We all are."
Jr. looked down at his badge, then back up at Wade. "We won't let you down, Sheriff."
"I know you won't," Wade said. "You already proved that."
Wilson and Ryan Nelson came over, both grinning.
"Look at you," Wilson said. "Deputy wiz kids."
"Don't get cocky," Ryan added. "You still can't outshoot us."
"Yet," Jr. said, and everyone laughed.
"Wait till word gets around school," Billy Renzo said. "We're gonna be legends."
"You're gonna be insufferable," Wilson said, but he was smiling.
The boys drifted away, clutching their badges like treasure, already talking excitedly about what this meant.
As the sun set and the lights came on across the yard, Jr. found himself surrounded by people wanting to hear the story.
He sat on the edge of the porch, the other three wiz kids flanking him, and held court.
"So we knew they'd used Jake's phone to send the video," Jr. said. "That was the break we needed. The second that phone pinged a tower, we had him."
"How'd you narrow it down?" someone asked.
"Triangulation," Billy Renzo said. "Two towers, overlapping coverage. We got it down to a three-mile radius."
"Then property records," Ryan Mattern added. "Foreclosed properties, abandoned structures. The Morrison ranch was the only one that fit."
"And the drones confirmed it," Daniel finished. "Thermal imaging showed three heat signatures in the equipment shed. Two standing, one restrained."
"That's when we knew," Jr. said. "That's when we knew we had him."
People shook their heads in amazement.
"How long did all that take?" Robert Beaumont asked.
"From the phone ping to drone confirmation?" Jr. thought about it. "Maybe forty-five minutes."
"Forty-five minutes," someone repeated. "Jesus."
Pops appeared with fresh beers for the boys. "These kids are the future," he announced to anyone listening. "Smarter than all of us old bastards combined."
"Pops!" Sarah called from across the yard.
"What? It's true!"
Rebecca came over and hugged Jr. from behind. "I'm so proud of you."
"We just did what we had to do, Mom."
"You saved your uncle's life."
Jr. looked over at Jake, who was still surrounded by family, eating and laughing and very much alive.
"Yeah," Jr. said softly. "I guess we did."
Later—much later, when the party had mellowed and the adults were deep into their own stories and drinks—the boys slipped away to the frat house.
Jake, Billy, Celab, and Jr. climbed the stairs, the four wiz kids following close behind. All of them were pleasantly buzzed, their deputy badges still pinned to their shirts.
The room was exactly as they'd left it—two bunk beds, posters on the walls, the floorboards hiding their secret beer stash.
Billy pulled up the loose board and retrieved what was left of their contraband. "Pops' stuff was better," he admitted.
"Everything's better after you've been deputized," Billy Renzo said, still touching his badge like he couldn't quite believe it was real.
They settled in—Jake and Billy on one bunk, Celab stretched out on the floor, Jr. and the other wiz kids claiming the second bunk and any available floor space.
Someone turned on music, low. Someone else produced a deck of cards.
For a while, they just sat there, the eight of them, drinking beer and not saying much.
Then Billy looked at Jake. "You really okay?"
Jake touched the bandage under his shirt. "Yeah. I really am."
"You scared?"
"Terrified," Jake admitted. "The whole time. Especially when I heard the gunshots and couldn't see what was happening. I thought..." He stopped, swallowed. "I thought they were shooting you guys."
"We were shooting them," Celab said quietly.
"I know that now. But in the moment, blindfolded, gagged—I couldn't tell what was happening. Just gunfire, then silence, then more gunfire. It was..." Jake shook his head. "Worst few seconds of my life."
"You didn't sound scared," Billy said. "In the videos. You sounded pissed."
"I was that too," Jake said. "But mostly scared. I just...I didn't want to give them the satisfaction."
Jr. leaned forward. "You knew we'd come."
"I knew you'd try," Jake said. "I didn't know if you'd make it in time. Or if you'd be able to find me at all." He looked at Jr., at the other wiz kids. "But you did. You actually did it."
"Cell tower triangulation," Ryan Mattern said with a small smile.
"And property records," Daniel added.
"And drones," Billy Renzo finished.
"And being scary-smart sixteen-year-olds," Jake said. "Seriously. You guys are insane."
"We're deputies now," Jr. said, touching his badge. "Official and everything."
"And getting paid," Billy Renzo added, still somewhat in shock about that part.
"My mom cried when Wade told her," Daniel said. "Happy crying. She kept saying 'mi hijo, mi hijo' and hugging me."
"All our moms cried," Ryan said. "It was kind of embarrassing."
"It was kind of awesome," Jr. corrected.
Billy raised his beer. "To the wiz kids. Who saved my brother's ass."
"To us," Jr. said, grinning.
"To family," Jake added.
"To family," they all echoed, bottles clinking together.
They drank, and someone dealt the cards, and the conversation drifted—school, girls, the upcoming hunting season, whether they should upgrade the drone systems.
"We should get thermal drones that can fly farther," Billy Renzo said. "Five miles isn't enough."
"We should get a mobile command center," Ryan suggested. "Like a trailer or something we can pull out to a site."
"We should get paid first," Daniel pointed out, and they all laughed.
At some point, Pops appeared in the doorway with the bottle of Jack Daniels and pretended not to notice the beer scattered around the room.
"Room for one more?" he asked.
"Always," Jake said.
Pops sat down heavily, his joints creaking. He poured himself a shot and raised the glass.
"To my boys," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "All of you. You did good. Real good."
They raised their beers.
"Jake," Pops said, looking at his grandson. "You held on. You were brave as hell, even when you were scared. That's what matters."
"Thanks, Pops."
"And you four," he said, turning to the wiz kids. "You found him. You brought him home. I don't..." He stopped, cleared his throat. "I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't figured out that phone ping. So thank you. From this old man's heart—thank you."
Jr.'s eyes were suddenly wet. "We couldn't let them hurt him, Pops."
"I know, boy. I know." Pops raised his glass higher. "And Jake—don't you ever scare us like that again."
"I won't, Pops. I promise."
"Good. Because next time, I might not be so nice to the bastards who take you."
Everyone laughed, even though they all knew he meant it.
The night wore on. The music played softly. The cards were dealt and redealt. Pops told a story about Vietnam that had them all riveted. Jake told them what it was like being tied up, the mix of terror and rage and determination not to break.
"I kept thinking about this room," Jake said quietly. "About you guys. About getting back here. That's what kept me going."
Billy threw an arm around his brother's shoulders. "You're stuck with us, man. For life."
"I know," Jake said. "Wouldn't have it any other way."
Sometime after midnight, Pops stood to leave.
"You boys get some sleep," he said. "We got work tomorrow."
"Even Jake?" Billy asked.
"Especially Jake. Can't have him getting soft."
Jake groaned, but he was smiling.
After Pops left, they stayed up a while longer, but the energy was winding down. One by one, they claimed their sleeping spots—bunks and floor space and the one battered armchair in the corner.
Jr. ended up on the floor next to Billy Renzo, both of them still wearing their deputy badges.
"You think we'll really get called in?" Billy whispered.
"I think Wade meant it," Jr. said. "He doesn't say things he doesn't mean."
"We're gonna be famous."
"We're gonna be useful," Jr. corrected. "There's a difference."
"Still pretty cool though."
"Yeah," Jr. agreed, touching his badge one more time. "Yeah, it is."
Across the room, Jake lay in his bunk, Billy snoring softly below him. Celab was sprawled on the floor. The other two wiz kids were tangled up in blankets by the window.
His ribs still ached. The cuts on his chest still stung under the bandages. But he was home. He was safe.
He was surrounded by his brothers—blood and chosen both.
And for the first time in three days, Jake Benson slept without nightmares.
The frat house was quiet except for soft breathing and the occasional snore.
Outside, the ranch was peaceful. The lights were going out across the property. The celebration was winding down.
But inside that room, eight boys who'd been through hell together slept the sleep of the exhausted and the grateful.
Family.
Brothers.
Home.
THE END
