Chapter 1: The Frat House
Moonlight filtered through the window of the "frat house," casting pale silver across the two bunk beds crammed into what had once been a modest bedroom. Empty beer bottles lined the windowsill, and a pair of dusty boots lay kicked in the corner. The room smelled like leather, sweat, and the faint trace of hidden beer.
Celab Beaumont sat on the lower bunk in his t-shirt and boxers, shuffling a deck of cards with practiced ease. At twenty-one, he'd been living in this room for fourteen months now, ever since the three ranching families formed the consortium. What started as a business arrangement between the Bensons, Nelsons, and Beaumonts had become something else entirely—at least for him.
"You gonna actually deal those cards or just fondle 'em all day?" Jake Benson called from the top bunk across from him. At twenty-two, Jake was the hothead of the bunch, always ready to throw a punch or crack a joke, whichever came first. He was already stretched out in his bunk, hands behind his head.
"Patience, jackass," Celab shot back with a grin. "I'm teaching Jr. here the finer points of—"
"Cheating?" Billy interrupted. At twenty, he was the youngest of the Benson brothers, but he worked twice as hard as anyone to prove himself. He was sprawled on the top bunk above Celab, his boots dangling over the edge before he kicked them off onto the floor.
"Card control," Celab corrected. "There's a difference."
Billy Jr.—sixteen and built like he'd been working ranches his whole life—sat cross-legged on the floor between the bunks in gym shorts and a faded ranch t-shirt, watching Celab's hands intently. "So you're saying you can make any card come to the top?"
"Any card I want."
"Bullshit," Jake said.
"Twenty bucks says I can."
"Deal."
Celab fanned the cards toward Jr. "Pick one. Don't show me."
Jr. pulled the seven of diamonds, showed it to Jake and Billy, then slid it back into the deck. Celab squared the cards, shuffled twice, then snapped the top card onto the floor.
Seven of diamonds.
"Son of a bitch," Jake muttered.
Jr.'s eyes went wide. "How'd you—"
"Magic," Celab said, pocketing the imaginary twenty bucks with a flourish.
Billy laughed from above. "You're gonna get your ass kicked in town if you try that at the bar."
"That's why I practice here first."
The door banged open and Pops shuffled in, a smoldering cigar clamped between his teeth and a tumbler of whisky in one weathered hand. At seventy-six, Tom Benson Sr. was the patriarch of the Benson clan—a Vietnam vet with a foul mouth, a taste for whisky and brandy, and zero patience for stupidity.
"What're you little shits doing in here?" Pops growled. "Thought you'd be asleep by now."
"Cards," Jr. said.
"Celab's cheating," Jake added.
"Damn right he is. That's how you win." Pops settled onto the lower bunk next to Jr., his knees cracking audibly. "You boys ready for tomorrow? Josh has you spread out all over hell and back."
"Yeah, we know," Billy said. "Billy's on the south fence line. Jake's got irrigation. I'm doing inventory at the north barn."
"Celab's doing inventory," Jake corrected.
"Right, Celab," Billy said. "My bad."
Pops took a long sip from his whisky and jabbed the cigar toward Celab. "Inventory's important, boy. You don't know what you got, you don't know what you need. And if you don't know what you need, you're fucked."
"Pops!" Sarah's voice called from down the hall. "Language!"
"Sorry, dear!" Pops hollered back. Then, quieter: "You're still fucked if you don't know."
The boys erupted in laughter.
Jr. leaned back against the bunk frame, grinning. "Pops, you gotta teach me how to get away with that."
"Step one: be seventy-six. Step two: not give a shit."
"Pops!" Sarah's voice again.
"She's got ears like a damn bat," Pops muttered. He stood, joints popping. "Now you boys check under that floorboard in the morning. Santa might've stopped by early."
Jr. grinned. "Thanks, Pops."
"Don't thank me. I don't know shit about any beer under any floorboards." He ruffled Jr.'s hair on his way out. "Now get some sleep. Work don't wait for hangovers."
When the door closed, Billy swung down from the top bunk and crouched by the loose floorboard near the window. He pried it up and pulled out four cold bottles from the six-pack Pops had smuggled them earlier.
"Bless this house," Jake said solemnly.
"Bless Pops," Jr. added.
Billy tossed bottles to each of them. They popped the caps off in unison, the clink and hiss like a small ceremony.
"To Pops," Celab said, raising his bottle. "The only grandpa who enables underage drinking."
"He's a great-grandpa, technically," Jr. corrected.
"To the best damn great-grandpa in Texas," Billy amended.
They clinked bottles and drank, the moonlight making their bottles glow pale amber.
"So," Jr. said, taking a sip. "Anna's been asking if you guys wanna come to the Mattern place this weekend. Ryan's setting up some kind of shooting competition."
"I'm in," Celab said immediately.
"Obviously," Jake said. "Billy?"
"Yeah, I'll go. Edna gonna be there?"
Jr. shrugged. "Probably. She's always around."
Billy grinned. "Then I'm definitely in."
They drank in comfortable silence for a moment, the kind that only comes from people who've spent enough time together that words aren't always necessary. Outside, a coyote howled in the distance.
"You know," Celab said after a while, "when my folks first said we were moving out here and partnering up with you guys, I thought it was gonna be boring as hell."
"And?" Jake asked.
"Still boring. But at least the company's decent."
Billy threw a pillow at him.
Celab caught it, laughing. "I'm just saying—"
"You're saying you love us," Jake interrupted. "It's okay, man. We know."
"I'm saying you're tolerable."
"That's Celab-speak for 'you're my brothers,'" Jr. said wisely.
Celab rolled his eyes, but he didn't argue. Because the kid was right. Somewhere over the past fourteen months, between late-night beers and early-morning work and shared meals and stupid jokes, the lines had blurred. He wasn't just the Beaumont kid living with the Bensons anymore.
He was family.
"Alright, enough of this Hallmark shit," Jake said, draining his beer. "Jr., deal the cards. Let's see if Celab really can cheat or if he just got lucky."
"I don't cheat," Celab protested. "I strategically manipulate probability."
"That's literally cheating," Billy said.
"Semantics."
Jr. dealt the cards, and they played for another hour, the moonlight their only illumination besides the occasional glow from their phones. Finally, Billy yawned and climbed back into his bunk.
"Alright, I'm done. Josh is gonna have us up at dawn."
"Yeah," Jake agreed, already half-asleep. "Night, assholes."
"Night," they mumbled back.
Celab slid the cards under his pillow and settled into his bunk. Jr. climbed up to the top bunk across from Jake. Within minutes, the room was filled with the sound of slow, steady breathing.
It was just another night on the ranch.
None of them knew it would be the last normal one for a while.
The next morning, Josh Benson's voice crackled over the radio network at dawn.
"Josh to Billy, you copy?"
Billy, still groggy, fumbled for the radio on his nightstand. "Copy, Josh. What's up?"
"South fence line today. Spotted some breaks yesterday."
"Roger that."
"Josh to Jake, you copy?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm up," Jake muttered from the top bunk.
"Irrigation checks on the west pasture. Should take you most of the morning."
"Got it."
"Josh to Celab, you copy?"
Celab grabbed his radio from the floor. "Copy. North supply barn, right?"
"Right. Full inventory. We're low on feed and I need exact numbers."
"On it."
"Josh to Jr., you copy?"
Jr. sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, Dad. What do you need?"
"Barn closest to the house. Cleaning stalls, checking equipment. Stay close to the radio."
"Will do."
The four of them dragged themselves out of bed, pulled on jeans and boots, and stumbled downstairs for breakfast. Sarah had already laid out eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee—enough to fuel a small army.
Tom Benson sat at the head of the table, reading something on his phone. Pops was next to him, already halfway through his plate.
"Morning, boys," Tom said without looking up.
"Morning," they mumbled in unison.
Celab grabbed a plate and loaded it up. "Josh got us all working solo today?"
"Looks like it," Billy said. "Guess we're efficient now."
"Or expendable," Jake muttered.
"You're expendable," Jr. shot back.
They ate quickly, trading insults and stealing bacon off each other's plates. By the time they finished, the sun was starting to burn off the morning haze.
Celab grabbed his radio, clipped it to his belt, and headed for one of the ranch trucks. "Catch you guys later."
"Stay on the net," Jr. called after him.
"Always do."
Celab climbed into the truck, started the engine, and headed north toward the supply barn. The road was dusty and rutted, winding through pastures dotted with cattle. It was peaceful out here. Quiet.
He turned up the radio, letting some old country song fill the cab, and settled in for the drive.
Ten miles out, the northern supply barn came into view—a weathered wooden structure surrounded by scrub brush and fence line. Celab parked the truck, grabbed his clipboard, and headed inside.
"Alright," he muttered to himself. "Let's see what we've got."
He didn't notice the two men waiting in the shadows.
He didn't hear them move until it was too late.
The first blow caught him across the back of the head, and the world went dark.
Chapter 2: The Discovery
The morning started like any other.
Jr. was in the barn closest to the house, mucking out stalls and checking equipment like his dad had told him. The work was monotonous—pitchfork, wheelbarrow, repeat—but he didn't mind. It gave him time to think. About Anna. About the shooting competition this weekend. About whether he could finally beat Billy Renzo in a long-range contest.
His radio crackled at his belt.
"Josh to Jr., you copy?"
Jr. grabbed the radio. "Yeah, Dad. What's up?"
"You hear from Celab yet?"
Jr. glanced at his watch. It had been almost two hours since they'd all started work. "No, not yet. Want me to check in with him?"
"Yeah, do that. He should've called in by now."
"Roger that."
Jr. clipped the radio back to his belt and keyed the mic. "Jr. to Celab, you copy?"
Static.
"Jr. to Celab, come in."
Nothing.
Jr. frowned. Maybe Celab was deep in the barn and couldn't hear the radio. Or maybe he'd left it in the truck. Wouldn't be the first time.
"Jr. to Josh, you copy?"
"Go ahead, Jr."
"Celab's not responding. You want me to drive out there and check on him?"
There was a pause. "Yeah. Go ahead. Report back when you find him."
"Will do."
Jr. put down the pitchfork, wiped his hands on his jeans, and headed for one of the ranch trucks. The north supply barn was about ten miles out—a fifteen-minute drive on the dirt roads. He climbed in, started the engine, and headed north.
The countryside rolled by, familiar and quiet. Cattle grazed in the distance. The sun was climbing higher, burning off the last of the morning cool.
Jr. turned up the radio, letting some classic rock fill the cab, but his mind kept drifting back to Celab. It wasn't like him to go dark on the radio. Even when he was annoyed or busy, he'd always respond with something sarcastic.
Probably just got distracted, Jr. told himself. He'll give me shit for checking up on him.
Ten minutes later, the northern supply barn came into view.
The parking area was empty.
Jr.'s stomach dropped.
He pulled up and killed the engine. He grabbed his radio and climbed out, scanning the area.
No truck. No Celab.
"Celab!" he called. "You in there?"
No answer.
Jr. walked toward the barn, his boots crunching on the gravel. "Celab! Come on, man, Josh is looking for you!"
Still nothing.
A knot of unease started to form in Jr.'s gut. He pushed open the barn door and stepped inside.
"Celab?"
The barn was dim, lit only by the sunlight filtering through gaps in the wooden slats. Dust motes hung in the air. Equipment was stacked neatly along the walls—feed bags, tools, spare fencing.
And on the floor, near the back of the barn, were Celab's cowboy hat and boots.
Jr. froze.
His heart kicked into overdrive.
"Celab!"
He ran toward the hat and boots, his pulse pounding in his ears. Next to them was a piece of cut hemp rope—frayed at the ends, like it had been sliced through in a hurry. Celab's iPad lay nearby, the screen dark.
Jr. dropped to one knee, his hand shaking as he picked up the rope.
No. No, no, no.
"Celab!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "CELAB!"
Nothing.
Jr. grabbed his radio, his hands trembling so badly he almost dropped it.
He hit the 911 button three times.
The mechanical voice echoed across the network: "911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. BILLY JR."
Every radio in the consortium—twenty radios spread across six ranches—crackled to life simultaneously.
Jr. pressed the transmit button, his voice shaking. "Jr. to all units! Celab's missing! I'm at the north supply barn—his hat and boots are on the ground, there's cut rope, and his truck is gone!"
"Jr., slow down!" Josh's voice cut through. "What do you mean missing?"
"He's gone, Dad! His stuff is here but he's not! There's rope on the ground and his truck isn't here—somebody took him!"
The radio exploded with voices.
"What the hell—"
"Where's Celab—"
"Jr., stay put—"
"Everybody shut up!" That was Sheriff Wade Nelson, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Jr., I need you to stay calm and tell me exactly what you see."
Jr. took a shaky breath. "His hat and boots are inside the barn, on the floor. There's a piece of cut hemp rope next to them and his iPad. The barn's empty. No sign of a struggle, no blood, nothing else. And his truck is gone."
"Don't touch anything else," Wade said. "I'm on my way. ETA fifteen minutes."
"I'm coming too," Josh said.
"So am I," Billy chimed in.
"Jake's already in the truck," came Jake's voice, tight with anger.
"Robert and Caroline—" That was Tom Benson, his voice low and grim. "Somebody get Robert and Caroline to the house. Now."
Jr. stood in the middle of the barn, staring at Celab's boots, his hands still shaking.
He was just here. He was just here this morning. We were joking at breakfast. He stole my bacon.
The radio crackled again.
"This is Pops," came the old man's gravelly voice. "Somebody better start explaining to me what the fuck is going on."
"Language, Pops," Sarah's voice said automatically, but it was shaky.
"I don't give a shit about language, Sarah. Where's the boy?"
"We don't know yet," Tom said quietly. "Wade's on his way."
Jr. sank down onto an overturned crate, still clutching the radio. His mind was racing.
Who would take Celab? Why? And where's his truck?
And then, like ice water down his spine, the answer hit him.
They thought he was one of us. They thought he was a Benson.
The kidnapping didn't make sense otherwise. The Beaumonts were wealthy, sure, but the Bensons were one of the biggest ranching families in Kings County. If someone wanted ransom money, they'd go after a Benson.
And Celab lived with the Bensons. Worked with the Bensons. His truck had a consortium decal on it, just like all the others.
They grabbed the wrong guy.
Jr. pressed the transmit button again, his voice steadier now. "Jr. to Wade. I think they thought he was one of us. They thought he was a Benson."
There was a long silence.
Then Wade's voice, cold and hard: "You're probably right, kid. Sit tight. We're almost there."
Jr. stood and walked back outside into the sunlight. He looked at the empty parking area, then at the dirt road stretching in all directions. Tire tracks led away from the barn—two sets. One was probably Celab's truck.
Whoever you are, Jr. thought grimly, you just made the worst mistake of your life.
Because the consortium didn't just protect their own.
They avenged them.
Fifteen minutes later, the convoy arrived.
Sheriff Wade Nelson pulled up first in his patrol vehicle, followed by Josh and Tom Benson in one truck, Billy and Jake in another, and Ray Benson right behind them. Robert and Caroline Beaumont arrived moments later, their faces pale and stricken.
Wade stepped out of his vehicle, his jaw set, his hand resting on his sidearm. He'd been sheriff of Kings County for twenty years, and he'd seen a lot. But this was different.
This was family.
"Jr.," he said, walking over. "Show me."
Jr. led him into the barn. Wade crouched next to the hat, boots, rope, and iPad, studying them carefully. He didn't touch anything.
"No blood," Wade muttered. "No signs of a fight. They hit him fast."
"He wouldn't have seen it coming," Jr. said quietly. "He was just doing inventory."
Wade stood and walked outside, studying the tire tracks. "Two vehicles. One's probably his truck. They loaded him up and drove off."
"The radios," Jr. said suddenly. "Josh gave out the work assignments over the radio this morning. Anybody listening would've known where we all were."
Wade's eyes narrowed. "The network wasn't scrambled?"
"No," Josh said from the doorway. His face was ashen. "We don't usually scramble it for daily work assignments. Didn't think we needed to."
"Well, now we know better." Wade pulled out his own radio. "Wilson, Ryan, you copy?"
"Copy, Dad," came Wilson Nelson's voice. He was one of Wade's deputies—and one of Jr.'s close friends.
"Get out here. North supply barn. We've got a kidnapping."
"On our way."
Robert Beaumont pushed past the others and into the barn. His face was a mask of barely controlled panic. "Where is he? Where's my son?"
"We're going to find him, Robert," Wade said firmly. "I need you to stay calm."
"Stay calm?" Robert's voice cracked. "My boy is missing!"
Caroline appeared behind him, tears streaming down her face. "Please," she whispered. "Please find him."
Tom Benson put a hand on Robert's shoulder. "We will. All of us. We're not stopping until we bring him home."
Jake was pacing outside the barn, his fists clenched. Billy stood next to him, his jaw tight.
"I'm gonna kill whoever did this," Jake said quietly.
"Get in line," Billy muttered.
Pops arrived last, driving one of the ranch trucks with one hand and holding his cigar in the other. He climbed out slowly, his face like carved stone.
He walked into the barn, looked at the hat and boots, and then turned to Wade.
"What do you need?" Pops asked.
"I need everybody to stay sharp," Wade said. "Jr., I need you to round up your tech crew. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez—get them all to the ranch house. Bring every piece of equipment you've got. If these bastards make contact, I want you ready to trace it."
Jr. nodded. "Yes, sir."
Wade turned to Tom and Josh. "I need a list of everyone who might've had a grudge against the consortium. Rivals, former employees, anybody you've had trouble with."
"We'll get it to you," Tom said.
Wade looked at Robert and Caroline. "I know this is hard. But I need you to go back to the house and wait. If they make a ransom demand, you'll be the first to know."
Robert nodded, his hands shaking. Caroline buried her face in his shoulder.
Pops walked over to them and put a weathered hand on Robert's arm. "We're gonna get him back," Pops said quietly. "That boy's one of mine. And nobody takes one of mine."
Robert looked at Pops, his eyes red. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Pops said. "Thank me when we bring him home."
The convoy headed back to the Benson ranch house, a caravan of dust and determination.
When they arrived, the driveway was already filling with vehicles. The other consortium families had gotten word—the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. Everyone was coming.
Inside the house, Sarah and Mary Nelson had already taken charge. They guided Caroline into the living room, surrounding her with the other women—Rebecca, Edna, Anna. Coffee was being made. Tissues were being passed. The ladies formed a protective circle around Caroline, who sat on the couch, her hands trembling as she clutched a framed photo of Celab.
"We're going to get him back," Sarah said firmly, sitting next to her. "These boys—all of them—they won't stop until he's home."
Caroline nodded, but tears streamed down her face. "He's all I have," she whispered.
"He's all of ours now," Mary Nelson said quietly, taking her other hand.
In the dining room, the men had taken over. The large oak table was covered with maps, radios, and laptops. Tom Benson stood at the head, his face grim. Josh was next to him. Robert paced near the window, unable to sit still. Ray was on his phone with the bank. Pops sat in a corner with a tumbler of whisky, his cigar smoldering, his eyes hard as flint.
Wade Nelson spread a county map across the table. "Alright, listen up. We've got tire tracks heading east from the north supply barn. Wilson and Ryan are following them now, but we need to cover more ground."
"What about choppers?" Tom asked.
"I've got one on standby," Wade said. "But these bastards are smart. They'll be holed up somewhere by now, probably an abandoned building or a remote location. We need intel."
"That's where we come in," Jr. said from the doorway.
He walked in with Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—the wiz kids. All four of them were carrying backpacks loaded with equipment. They moved to the far end of the table and started unpacking.
Laptops. Tablets. Satellite phones. Charging cables. A portable router.
"What've you got?" Wade asked.
Jr. pulled out one of the sixteen consortium iPads and powered it on. "We've got the whole network synced. Sixteen iPads, eighteen encrypted satellite phones, six drones with thermal and night vision. If they make contact—video, email, text, anything—we can trace it."
"How fast?" Wade asked.
"Depends on how they send it," Billy Renzo said, his fingers already flying over a keyboard. "If it's email or text, we can triangulate within minutes. If it's video, we need them to stay online long enough for us to get a lock."
"What about the drones?" Josh asked.
"Already prepped," Ryan Mattern said. "We've got them charged and ready to deploy. Thermal imaging will pick up body heat signatures within a two-mile radius. Night vision extends that even further after dark."
Daniel Rodriguez was setting up the portable router. "We're creating a local mesh network so all our devices stay connected even if cell service drops. Wade, if your deputies are in the field, we can patch them in too."
Wade nodded, impressed. "Do it."
Jr. started distributing the iPads. "Everybody gets one. They're all synced to the same network. If one of us finds something, everybody sees it."
He handed one to Tom. One to Josh. One to Robert, who took it with shaking hands. One to Pops, who squinted at it like it might explode.
"How the hell do I work this thing?" Pops muttered.
"Just watch the screen, Pops," Jr. said. "If something happens, you'll see it."
Billy and Jake stood near the back of the room, arms crossed, watching everything with barely contained rage.
"What do you need us to do?" Billy asked.
"Stay ready," Wade said. "When we get a location, I'm going to need every man who can ride or drive. We're going in fast and we're going in hard."
"Good," Jake said through gritted teeth.
Pops looked over at the two brothers, then set down his whisky with a deliberate clink. "Billy. Jake. Come here."
They walked over to him.
Pops stood, took a long drag from his cigar, and looked them both in the eye. "I need you boys to do something for me."
"Anything, Pops," Billy said.
"Go to the gun room. Inventory everything we've got—rifles, shotguns, handguns, ammo. All of it. Then start distributing sidearms to every man in this house who knows how to use one." His voice dropped lower. "Just in case."
Jake's jaw tightened. "You think it's gonna come to that?"
"I think," Pops said slowly, "that we prepare for the worst and pray for the best. And right now, the worst means those bastards might not give us a choice."
Billy nodded. "We're on it."
"Good boys." Pops clapped them both on the shoulder. "And Billy—make sure you grab something for yourself and your brother. Keep 'em on you."
"Yes, sir."
The two brothers headed down the hallway toward the gun room, their footsteps heavy with purpose.
Ray hung up his phone and turned to the group. "Bank says they can have a million in cash ready within four hours. They're asking if we want it in marked bills."
"No," Wade said immediately. "We're not giving these bastards a damn thing if we can help it. But if it comes down to it, we pay. We get Celab back first. We deal with them second."
Robert looked up from his iPad, his voice hoarse. "Whatever it takes. I don't care about the money."
"We know," Tom said quietly. "And we're all in this together."
Pops drained his whisky and set the glass down with a sharp clink. "Damn right we are."
Jr. sat down at the table with his laptop, the other wiz kids flanking him. Their screens glowed in the dim light. Lines of code scrolled. Maps loaded. Communication channels opened.
The room fell into a tense, focused silence.
All they could do now was wait.
And hope that Celab was still alive.
Chapter 3: The First Video
Many miles away, in an abandoned house on the outskirts of the county, Celab Beaumont lay on a filthy mattress on the floor.
His head was pounding where they'd hit him. His vision had been blurry when he first came to, but it was clearing now. He could taste blood in his mouth.
The ropes were tight. Too tight.
His wrists were bound behind his back with hemp rope, then tied to his ankles in a hogtie that made every muscle in his body scream. More rope wrapped around his torso, pinning his upper arms against his sides. He'd been struggling against them since he woke up, and the rough hemp had already rubbed his skin raw.
Tape covered his mouth, tight and suffocating. He could breathe through his nose, but every breath felt like panic trying to claw its way out of his chest.
Stay calm. Think.
The room was dim, lit only by sunlight filtering through boarded-up windows. The walls were water-stained and peeling. The floor was bare concrete, cold against his cheek. There was a wooden table a few feet away with a couple of chairs. His consortium radio and cell phone sat on the table, just out of reach.
So close.
Two men stood near the table, their backs to him. One was tall and lean, wearing a faded denim jacket. The other was shorter, stockier, with a scraggly beard. They were arguing in low voices.
"—million easy," the shorter one was saying. "The Bensons are loaded. They'll pay."
"If they pay," the tall one said. "We gotta make sure they know we're serious."
"So we send them proof. Film the kid, make some threats, show them we mean business."
Celab's stomach dropped.
They think I'm a Benson.
He tried to speak through the tape, but all that came out was a muffled grunt.
The tall one turned around. "Oh, look who's awake."
He walked over and crouched down next to Celab, his breath reeking of cigarettes. "Morning, sunshine. You're probably wondering what's going on, huh?"
Celab glared at him.
"Here's the deal, Benson," the man said. "Your family's gonna pay us a million bucks to get you back. Simple transaction. You behave, you go home. You give us trouble, well..." He shrugged. "Let's not find out."
Celab shook his head violently, trying to tell them they had the wrong guy. But with the tape over his mouth, there was no way to explain.
"Don't worry," the shorter one said, pulling out a phone. "We'll let them know you're alive. For now."
He held up the phone and started recording.
Celab's heart raced. He could see himself on the screen—bound and gagged on the dirty mattress, his face sweaty and pale, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and rage.
They're gonna send this to my parents. To the Bensons. To everyone.
"Say hi to your family," the shorter one said with a grin.
Celab didn't move. He just stared into the camera, his jaw clenched beneath the tape.
The tall one leaned into the frame. "One million dollars. You've got forty-eight hours. We'll send instructions. Don't call the cops, or the kid dies."
The shorter one stopped recording and laughed. "That oughta do it."
They left the room, and Celab heard the door lock behind them.
He was alone.
Okay. Think. You've been in worse situations.
He hadn't, actually. But he wasn't about to give up.
He tested the ropes again, twisting his wrists. The hemp bit into his skin, and he felt the warm trickle of blood where it had rubbed through. But there was a tiny bit of give. Not much, but enough to know that if he kept working at it, he might—might—be able to loosen them.
His legs were cramping from being bent backward in the hogtie. His shoulders ached. His head throbbed.
But he didn't stop.
Jake would make some stupid joke right now. Billy would tell me to stop whining and get to work. Jr. would probably already have a plan.
The thought of them made his chest tighten.
They're looking for me. I know they are.
He just had to stay alive long enough for them to find him.
Back at the Benson ranch house, the first notification came through at 2:47 PM.
Jr. was sitting at the dining room table with the other wiz kids, their laptops open, when his iPad pinged.
He looked down at the screen.
New Video Message Received
His blood went cold.
"Guys," he said quietly. "We've got something."
Immediately, every head in the room turned toward him. Tom, Josh, Wade, Robert, Ray—they all moved closer. Billy and Jake came running back from the gun room, handguns now holstered at their sides.
Jr. tapped the notification. The video opened.
And there he was.
Celab.
On a dirty mattress. Hogtied with thick hemp rope. His wrists bound behind his back, connected to his ankles. More rope wrapped around his torso, pinning his upper arms. Duct tape over his mouth. His face was pale and slick with sweat, his eyes wide and fierce.
Caroline gasped from the doorway, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my God. Oh my God, that's my baby—"
Sarah and Mary quickly moved to hold her as she started to sob.
Robert stared at the screen, his face drained of all color. "Celab," he whispered.
The video played. One of the kidnappers leaned into the frame, his face partially obscured by shadow.
"One million dollars. You've got forty-eight hours. We'll send instructions. Don't call the cops, or the kid dies."
The video ended.
The room was silent for a long, terrible moment.
Then Jake exploded.
"Those motherfuckers!" He grabbed the nearest chair and hurled it across the room. It smashed against the wall with a crack that made everyone jump. "I'm gonna kill them! I'm gonna fucking kill them!"
"Jake—" Tom started.
"Don't!" Jake shouted, his face red. "Don't tell me to calm down! They've got Celab tied up like an animal!"
Billy grabbed his brother by the shoulders, his own face twisted with fury. "Jake. We're gonna get him. But you need to keep it together."
Jake shoved him off, breathing hard, but he didn't throw anything else. He just stood there, fists clenched, shaking with rage.
Pops stood slowly, his face like stone. He picked up his glass and hurled it against the fireplace. It shattered with a violent crash.
"Pops!" Sarah said, startled.
"Fuck 'em," Pops said quietly. His voice was cold and deadly. "Fuck every last one of them."
Wade turned to the wiz kids. "Can you trace it?"
Jr. was already working, his fingers flying over the keyboard. Billy Renzo and Ryan Mattern were doing the same, pulling up data, running traces.
"It was sent via encrypted messaging app," Billy Renzo said. "Give us a minute."
"They bounced it through a VPN," Daniel Rodriguez added. "We're working on breaking through."
Robert stepped forward, his hands shaking as he held his iPad. "Whatever you need. Whatever it takes. Just find him."
"We will," Jr. said, his voice tight.
Ray looked at Wade. "They said don't call the cops. But you're already here."
"Doesn't matter," Wade said. "They probably expected it. What matters now is we don't spook them. We play it smart."
Tom Benson put a hand on Robert's shoulder. "We're paying. Whatever they want, we're paying."
"Damn right we are," Robert said hoarsely.
Pops walked over to Wade. "But we're not just paying and hoping they let him go, are we?"
Wade met his eyes. "No. We're finding them. And when we do..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
Jr. looked back at the frozen image of Celab on his screen—bound, gagged, but still defiant.
Hold on, brother. We're coming.
In the abandoned house, Celab kept working the ropes.
His wrists were bleeding now, slick with sweat and blood. But the rope was starting to give. Just a little. Just enough.
Keep going. Don't stop.
His shoulders screamed. His legs were numb. But he didn't stop.
Because if there was one thing he'd learned in fourteen months with the Bensons, it was this:
You don't give up on family.
And family doesn't give up on you.
Chapter 4: The Wiz Kids Mobilize
The dining room had transformed into a command center.
Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez sat hunched over their laptops, screens glowing in the afternoon light. Lines of code scrolled. Maps loaded. Satellite feeds refreshed. The air was thick with tension and the smell of coffee that had been brewing for hours.
Wade Nelson stood behind them, watching over their shoulders. Tom and Josh flanked him on either side. Robert paced near the window, unable to sit still, his iPad clutched in white-knuckled hands.
"Talk to me," Wade said. "What've we got?"
Billy Renzo didn't look up from his screen. "The video was sent through an encrypted messaging app called ShadowLink. It's designed to hide the sender's location by bouncing the signal through multiple VPN servers across different countries."
"Can you break through it?" Wade asked.
"We're working on it," Daniel Rodriguez said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "We've got a trace running now, but it's going to take time. They routed it through servers in Canada, Mexico, and Germany before it hit us."
"How much time?" Tom asked.
"Could be minutes. Could be hours," Ryan Mattern said. "Depends on how many layers they put on it."
Jr. pulled up a map on his screen. "Even if we can't trace the video directly, we've got other options. The drones are ready to deploy. If we can narrow down a search area, we can cover a lot of ground fast."
"What kind of search area are we talking about?" Josh asked.
"Based on the time Celab was taken and the terrain around the north supply barn, they couldn't have gotten more than fifty miles away before they'd need to stop and secure him," Jr. said, zooming out on the map. "That gives us a radius of about fifty miles centered on the barn."
Wade studied the map. "That's still a hell of a lot of ground to cover."
"Not if we're strategic about it," Ryan Mattern said. "We focus on abandoned structures—old houses, barns, industrial buildings. Places where they could hold someone without being noticed."
Billy Renzo pulled up another screen. "I'm cross-referencing county records for abandoned properties within that fifty-mile radius. We've got... Jesus, over two hundred potential locations."
"Narrow it down," Wade said. "Look for properties with road access but far enough from main highways that they wouldn't be easily spotted. No neighbors within a half-mile."
"On it," Billy Renzo said.
Robert stopped pacing and turned to face the group. "What about his phone? His radio? Can we track those?"
Jr. shook his head. "They're probably turned off. If they were on, we'd already have a signal. But if they turn them on—even for a second—we'll know."
Robert's face fell. "So we just wait?"
"We work every angle," Wade said firmly. "The boys are tracing the video. We're mapping potential locations. And if Celab can get to his radio or phone, we'll have him."
"He's smart," Tom said quietly. "If there's a way, he'll find it."
Pops stood from his chair in the corner, cigar still smoldering between his teeth. "Billy. Jake. Get the rifles. Long guns, scopes, the works. If we're going in, we're going in prepared."
"Yes, sir," they said in unison and headed back to the gun room.
Jake stopped at the doorway and looked back at the wiz kids. "Jr., you boys armed?"
Jr. looked up from his laptop. "What?"
"Sidearms," Jake said. "You got 'em?"
Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez exchanged glances.
"Uh, no," Billy Renzo said.
Jake looked at his brother. "Billy, grab four more."
"On it," Billy said.
A few minutes later, Billy and Jake returned with the rifle cases and four holstered handguns. Billy walked over to the wiz kids and set the holsters on the table.
"You boys know how to use these?" Billy asked.
"Yeah," Jr. said, picking up one of the holsters. "Pops made sure of that."
"Good," Jake said. "Because if we're going in to get Celab, everybody's armed. No exceptions."
Ryan Mattern clipped the holster to his belt. "Thanks."
"Don't thank us," Billy said. "Just keep working. Find him."
The wiz kids went back to their screens, now armed, their determination even more focused.
Caroline appeared in the doorway, her face pale and tear-streaked. Sarah and Mary were still with her, their arms around her shoulders.
"Is he alive?" Caroline whispered. "Please tell me he's alive."
"He's alive," Wade said. "And we're going to bring him home."
Caroline nodded, but fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Rebecca stepped forward and guided her back toward the living room.
Jr. stared at the map on his screen, his jaw set, the weight of the sidearm now on his hip.
Come on, Celab. Give us something. Anything.
Outside, Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez worked quickly to prep the drones. They had six of them lined up on the driveway—sleek, high-tech machines with thermal imaging and night vision capabilities.
"We're holding them on standby until we get a better search area," Ryan said, checking the controls on his tablet.
"The second we get coordinates, we launch," Daniel confirmed.
Inside, Billy Renzo pulled up another screen. "I've narrowed the abandoned properties down to seventy-three high-probability locations. Uploading them to the network now."
Every iPad in the house pinged simultaneously. A map appeared with seventy-three red dots scattered across a fifty-mile radius.
Tom studied his iPad. "That's still a lot of ground."
"It's the best we can do without more intel," Billy Renzo said. "If we had a phone signal, a radio transmission, anything—we could narrow it down fast."
Wade's radio crackled. "Wilson to Wade, you copy?"
Wade grabbed his radio. "Go ahead, Wilson."
"We've finished processing the scene at the north supply barn. Tire tracks head east-northeast. We're following them now, but they hit the main road about three miles out. Lost the trail after that."
"Keep working it," Wade said. "Check with local gas stations, traffic cameras, anything that might have caught them."
"Roger that."
Wade turned back to the group. "We're building the picture piece by piece. Sooner or later, they're going to make a mistake."
Tom looked at Josh. "Start assembling the convoy. I want everyone ready to move the second we get a location."
Josh nodded and grabbed his radio. "Josh to all units. Full mobilization. Everyone to the ranch house. Bring vehicles and be ready to move."
The radio network crackled to life with responses.
"Copy that."
"On our way."
"What do you need?"
Jake and Billy finished distributing the rifles to the men who had started gathering in the driveway. AR-15s, hunting rifles, shotguns—the consortium was arming itself.
"Nobody fires unless Tom or I give the order," Wade said loudly, addressing the growing crowd. "We're getting Celab back alive. That's priority one."
"And priority two?" Jake asked, his voice hard.
Tom's expression darkened. "Priority two is making sure these bastards never do this again."
Pops walked over and picked up one of the rifles, checking the action with practiced ease. "Damn right."
Ray hung up his phone and looked at the group. "Bank says the money's ready. They're waiting for pickup authorization."
"Tell them to hold," Wade said. "We don't make any moves until we have more intel."
"Understood," Ray said, and stepped back to make the call.
Jr. kept his eyes on his screen, watching the trace programs run, monitoring the radio frequencies, waiting for any sign. His hand unconsciously touched the grip of the sidearm now holstered at his hip.
Come on, Celab. You can do this. Get to that radio.
Robert stood at the window, staring out at the driveway as more vehicles began to arrive. The consortium was gathering. An army of ranchers, fathers, brothers—all armed and ready to bring one of their own home.
"We're going to find him," Tom said quietly, standing next to Robert. "I promise you that."
Robert nodded, his jaw tight. "And when we do, those bastards are going to wish they'd never been born."
The room fell into a tense silence, everyone working, everyone waiting.
Waiting for Celab to make his move.
Chapter 5: The Signal
The hours crawled by like days.
Jr. sat at the dining room table, his eyes burning from staring at the laptop screen. Billy Renzo and Ryan Mattern were still running traces, their fingers flying across keyboards. Daniel Rodriguez monitored the radio frequencies, headphones on, listening for any signal.
The sun was starting to sink toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the room.
"Anything?" Wade asked for the hundredth time.
"Still working on it," Billy Renzo said, his voice tight with frustration. "These bastards knew what they were doing with the encryption."
Robert hadn't stopped pacing. His iPad was clutched in his hands, his knuckles white. Tom sat at the table, jaw set, watching the clock. Josh stood by the window, radio in hand. Ray was on the phone with the bank again, making sure the money stayed ready.
Pops sat in his corner, glass of whisky in one hand, cigar in the other, his eyes hard and distant. He'd been in firefights in Vietnam. He knew what waiting felt like. And he hated it just as much now as he did then.
Jake and Billy were in the driveway with the convoy—twenty vehicles, forty armed men, all waiting for the word to move.
Jr.'s iPad pinged.
His blood went cold.
"We've got another video," he said quietly.
The room went silent.
Everyone moved closer. Robert's face drained of color. Tom stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
Jr. tapped the notification with a shaking hand.
The video loaded.
And it was worse. So much worse.
Celab was still hogtied on the mattress, but now his white undershirt sleeve had been pushed up, exposing his right shoulder. The rope around his torso had shifted, stained pinkish with blood from where it rubbed against his skin.
One of the kidnappers stepped into frame, holding something.
A branding iron.
The tip glowed red-hot.
"No," Robert whispered. "No, no, no—"
The kidnapper leaned down and pressed the iron against Celab's bare shoulder.
Even through the duct tape gag, Celab's scream was audible. His body convulsed against the ropes, his back arching, his hands clenched into fists. The smell of burning flesh had to be filling that room.
The branding iron pulled away, leaving an angry red mark seared into his skin.
Caroline's scream echoed from the living room. Sarah and Mary were trying to hold her, but she collapsed to her knees, sobbing.
The kidnapper's voice came through the video. "You've got twenty-four hours left. One million dollars. Or we finish the job."
The video ended.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the dam broke.
"FUCK!" Jake's roar came from outside. The sound of something metal being thrown, crashing against a vehicle.
Robert stumbled backward, his hand over his mouth, tears streaming down his face. "They're torturing him. They're torturing my boy—"
Tom grabbed him by the shoulders. "Robert. Listen to me. We're going to find him. We're going to get him back."
"They're burning him!" Robert's voice cracked. "They're—"
Pops stood, his face like thunder. He didn't say anything. He just walked to the fireplace, picked up the poker, and slammed it against the mantle so hard it left a dent in the wood.
"Pops!" Sarah started.
"Don't," Pops said, his voice deadly quiet. "Don't say a goddamn word to me right now, Sarah."
She closed her mouth.
Wade turned to the wiz kids. "Tell me you've got something. Anything."
"We're close," Billy Renzo said desperately. "We're breaking through the encryption, but we need more time—"
"We don't have time!" Robert shouted. "They're killing him!"
"He's alive," Wade said firmly. "And we're going to keep him that way."
Jr. stared at the frozen image on his screen—Celab's face twisted in agony, the fresh brand on his shoulder.
His hands were shaking. His jaw was clenched so tight it hurt.
Hold on, Celab. Just hold on.
Many miles away, in the abandoned house, Celab lay on the mattress, gasping for breath through his nose.
The pain was unlike anything he'd ever felt. His shoulder was on fire, throbbing with every heartbeat. He could smell his own burned flesh. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes.
The kidnappers had left the room again, laughing and congratulating each other.
"That'll get their attention," one of them said.
"Damn right it will."
The door slammed. The lock clicked.
Celab closed his eyes, trying to breathe through the pain.
Don't pass out. Don't pass out. Stay awake.
He thought about the frat house. About Jake making stupid jokes. About Billy stealing the last beer. About Jr. dealing cards with that serious look on his face. About Pops sitting on the bunk, cigar in hand, calling them all his boys.
They're coming. I know they're coming. I just have to hold on.
He tested the ropes again. His wrists were slick with blood and sweat. The rope had rubbed his skin raw, but that meant it was also looser. Just a little. Just enough.
He twisted his hands, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, ignoring the burning, ignoring everything except the rope.
Come on. Come on.
His right hand slipped.
Not free. But looser.
He kept working it, twisting, pulling, his teeth clenched behind the tape gag.
Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. He couldn't tell anymore.
And then—
His right hand came free.
Yes. Yes!
His arm was still pinned by the rope around his torso, but his hand was free. He immediately went to work on the knot at his ankles, his fingers fumbling, clumsy from being bound for so long.
The hogtie came loose.
His legs dropped to the mattress, and the relief was instant. He could move. He could bend forward now.
He reached for the rope around his torso, but his fingers were shaking too badly. The pain in his shoulder was making him dizzy.
Focus. Come on. Focus.
He looked at the table.
His radio. His phone. Right there. Just a few feet away.
He rolled off the mattress onto the floor with a thud, biting back a groan. His legs were numb from being bent backward for hours. He crawled toward the table, dragging himself across the dirty concrete floor.
Almost there. Almost.
He reached up, his hand closing around the radio.
Got it.
He pulled it down, his heart pounding. His hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped it.
Volume. Turn the volume down. They can't hear it.
He twisted the knob, muting it completely.
Then he found the 911 button.
And pressed it three times.
Back at the Benson ranch house, every radio and iPad in the consortium network suddenly came alive.
"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. CELAB BEAUMONT."
Jr. shot to his feet. "THAT'S HIM! That's Celab's radio!"
The room erupted.
"Where?" Wade demanded.
Jr.'s fingers flew across the keyboard. "I'm pulling the GPS now—got it! Coordinates coming up—"
A red dot appeared on the map.
"Forty-seven miles northeast of the north supply barn!" Jr. said, his voice shaking with adrenaline. "Abandoned residential area!"
"That matches the property search," Billy Renzo said. "Pulling up structures in that area now—there! Old two-story house, no neighbors within a mile."
Wade grabbed his radio. "Get those drones in the air NOW. I want eyes on that location."
"Launching!" Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez sprinted outside.
Tom was already moving. "Josh, get the convoy ready. We roll as soon as we have visual confirmation."
"On it!" Josh ran outside to alert the drivers.
Pops stood, grabbed his rifle. "How long to get there?"
"Forty-seven miles," Jr. said. "Thirty minutes, maybe more on those roads."
"Then we better get moving," Pops said.
Outside, the six drones lifted into the air with a synchronized whir, their rotors cutting through the evening light. They banked northeast, heading at full speed toward the coordinates.
Jr. watched the drone feeds populate on his screen. Six different video windows opened, showing aerial views racing over the landscape.
"Drones are airborne," Ryan Mattern reported over the radio. "ETA to target: eight minutes."
Wade turned to the convoy leaders gathering in the driveway. "Nobody moves until we have visual confirmation. We need to know what we're walking into."
The men nodded, checking weapons, adjusting radios, ready but waiting.
Robert stood at the window, his hands shaking. "Eight minutes."
"Then we'll know," Tom said quietly.
Back in the abandoned house, Celab heard voices approaching.
The kidnappers were coming back.
He shoved the radio under the mattress and tried to work on the rope around his torso, but his fingers were too slow, too numb.
The door burst open.
"Alright, Benson, time to—what the fuck?"
One of the kidnappers rushed in, seeing Celab halfway free. "He's loose! The little bastard's getting loose!"
"Grab him!"
They seized him roughly, yanking him up. Celab tried to fight, but his legs wouldn't work, his body too exhausted, too damaged.
"You think you're smart?" the tall one snarled. "You think you're going somewhere?"
The shorter one grabbed Celab's other arm, forcing him back down on the mattress. "Let's make sure he gets the message."
He reached for the branding iron again.
"No—" Celab tried to speak through the gag, shaking his head violently.
They pushed up his left sleeve this time.
And pressed the branding iron against his other shoulder.
The pain exploded through Celab's body. He screamed against the gag, his vision going white. His back arched. His hands clenched into fists.
When they pulled the iron away, both shoulders were marked. Twin brands. The pain was overwhelming.
"There," the tall one said. "Now you match."
The shorter one pulled out Celab's wallet from his pocket, looking for something to wipe his hands on. He flipped it open.
And froze.
"What?" the tall one asked.
The shorter one pulled out the driver's license, his face going pale. "Oh shit. Oh shit."
"What?"
"His name's not Benson."
"What are you talking about?"
"Look!" He shoved the license at his partner. "Celab Beaumont. Not Benson. Beaumont!"
The tall one's eyes went wide. "The Beaumonts are in the consortium. We grabbed the wrong fucking kid!"
"We're dead. We're dead! Six families are going to be looking for us!"
"We gotta go. Now!"
"What about him?"
"Leave him! Just leave him! Let's go!"
They ran from the room, their footsteps pounding down the hallway.
Celab heard them scrambling, heard doors slamming, heard his truck starting up.
Then the sound of tires on gravel, speeding away.
He was alone.
Move. You have to move.
With the last of his strength, Celab worked the rope around his torso. His fingers were slippery with blood, but desperation gave him focus.
The rope loosened. Then fell away.
He ripped the tape off his mouth, gasping.
Get out. Get outside. They need to see you.
He tried to stand, but his legs buckled. He crawled instead, dragging himself toward the door. His shoulders screamed with every movement. His wrists left bloody smears on the floor.
He made it to the hallway. Then to the front door.
The door was unlocked. The kidnappers had run too fast to bother.
Celab pushed it open and collapsed on the front porch, the cool evening air hitting his face.
Outside. I'm outside.
His boots were gone. He was in his stocking feet, his white undershirt now stained with blood and sweat, both sleeves pushed up, both shoulders branded and raw.
He looked up at the sky.
And saw them.
Six drones, circling overhead like hawks.
At the Benson ranch house, Jr.'s screen lit up.
"WE HAVE VISUAL!" he shouted.
Everyone crowded around.
The drone feeds showed the abandoned house from six different angles. And there, on the front porch, was a figure.
Shirtless except for a blood-stained white undershirt. Both shoulders marked with burns. In stocking feet. Crawling, then collapsing on the porch steps.
"That's him!" Robert said, his voice breaking. "That's Celab!"
"He's outside," Wade said. "He got himself out."
"Zoom in," Tom ordered.
Jr. zoomed the lead drone closer. The image sharpened.
Celab was lying on the steps, his chest rising and falling. Both shoulders were visible—angry red brands on each one. His face was turned toward the sky, looking directly at the drones.
He raised one bloody hand.
A weak wave.
"He sees us," Jr. whispered.
"Wait," Billy Renzo said, looking at another screen. "I've got movement. Vehicle leaving the property—it's his truck! The kidnappers are running!"
Wade grabbed his radio. "Wilson, Ryan, we have suspects fleeing in the victim's truck. I'm sending you their heading now."
"Roger that," Wilson's voice crackled back.
"Drone two, follow that truck," Ryan Mattern said into his controller.
One of the drone feeds peeled away, banking hard to follow the pickup truck speeding down the dirt road.
Wade grabbed his radio. "All units, MOVE NOW! Victim is outside the structure, injured but alive. Suspects are fleeing in his vehicle—we're tracking them."
The convoy engines roared to life.
"Everybody in!" Tom shouted. "Let's go!"
The wiz kids scattered to different vehicles. Jr. jumped into Wade's lead truck with his laptop. Billy Renzo climbed into Josh's truck. Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez split between two other vehicles, each with their drone controllers and tablets.
Robert climbed into Wade's truck next to Jr. Tom and Pops got into the vehicle right behind them.
The convoy tore out of the driveway, twenty vehicles leaving a massive cloud of dust in their wake.
Jr. had his laptop balanced on his knees, watching both drone feeds. "Wade, I've got GPS coordinates locked. Celab's position is stable—he's not moving much but he's breathing. The truck is heading west on County Road 47, speed approximately sixty miles per hour."
"How far to Celab?" Wade asked, pushing the accelerator to the floor.
Jr. checked the GPS. "Forty-seven miles. At this speed... twenty-two minutes."
"Make it fifteen," Wade said grimly.
Over the radio network, Ryan Mattern's voice crackled. "Drone two has the truck in sight. Two occupants visible. They're driving erratically—looks like they're panicking."
"Good," Jake's voice came over the radio. "They should be scared."
Jr. kept his eyes on both screens. On one, Celab lay motionless on the porch, the drone circling overhead like a guardian angel. On the other, the truck bounced and swerved down the dirt road.
"Celab's still not moving much," Jr. reported. "But I can see his chest—he's breathing."
Robert leaned over to look at the screen, his face pale. "Both shoulders. They branded both shoulders."
"We see it," Wade said, his voice tight with controlled fury.
Jr. switched to the radio frequency. "Jr. to all units. I'm uploading both GPS locations to your iPads now. Target location—Celab's position—and suspect vehicle location."
Every iPad in the convoy pinged.
"I've got it," Josh's voice came through.
"Same here," Billy confirmed.
"Drone two, this is Wade. Do not lose that truck."
"We won't," Ryan Mattern responded. "They're staying on County Road 47. If they maintain this heading, they'll hit the state highway in about eight miles."
"Wilson, Ryan," Wade said into his radio. "Suspects heading your direction on County Road 47. Set up a roadblock at the state highway intersection."
"Copy that. Setting up now."
Jr. watched the drone feed of the truck. "They're slowing down. Looks like they see something ahead."
"That's my boys," Wade said with grim satisfaction.
On the drone feed, the truck suddenly skidded to a stop. Then it threw into reverse.
"They're turning around!" Jr. said. "Heading back east now!"
"Right into us," Tom's voice came over the radio.
"Perfect," Pops said.
Jr. toggled between the feeds. "Celab's still stable. No movement. Truck is now heading directly toward our position."
Wade keyed his radio. "All units, suspects are heading toward us. When we intercept, box them in. Nobody fires unless I give the order."
"Copy that."
"Roger."
The convoy screamed down the dirt road, dust billowing behind them.
Jr. watched the GPS. "They're three miles out from Celab's location. We're twelve miles out. Intercept in... six minutes."
"How's Celab?" Robert asked, his voice shaking.
Jr. looked at the drone feed. Celab hadn't moved, but his chest was still rising and falling. "Still breathing. Still alive."
"Hang on, son," Robert whispered. "We're almost there."
The convoy raced through the growing darkness, headlights cutting through the dust, every man armed and ready.
Jr. kept his eyes on both screens—one brother on a porch, barely moving.
And two men in a truck, about to face the consequences of taking one of their own.
Chapter 6: The Rescue
The headlights of the convoy cut through the darkness like searchlights.
Jr. had both screens open on his laptop, watching the GPS coordinates converge. "Two miles to intercept. One and a half. One mile—"
"There!" Wade pointed.
The truck's headlights appeared on the road ahead, heading straight toward them.
Wade hit the brakes and spun the wheel, blocking the road. Behind him, the rest of the convoy fanned out, forming a wall of vehicles across the dirt road.
The kidnappers' truck skidded to a stop, dust billowing around it.
"Trapped," Tom said with satisfaction from the vehicle behind Wade.
Wade grabbed his radio. "All units, weapons ready but hold fire. Let's do this clean."
The convoy doors opened in unison. Forty armed men stepped out, rifles and shotguns raised, surrounding the truck.
Wade's voice boomed across the darkness. "Out of the vehicle! Hands where I can see them! NOW!"
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the truck doors opened slowly. The two kidnappers stepped out, hands raised, their faces pale in the headlights.
"On your knees!" Wade commanded. "Hands behind your heads!"
They complied, dropping to their knees on the dirt road.
Wilson and Ryan Nelson moved in quickly, weapons trained on the suspects. Wilson pulled out handcuffs.
"You have the right to remain silent," Wilson said as he cuffed the tall one. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..."
Ryan cuffed the shorter one, reading him his rights as well.
Jake stepped forward, his rifle still raised, his face twisted with rage. "You branded him. You branded him twice."
"Jake," Wade said sharply. "Stand down."
Jake didn't move. Billy put a hand on his brother's shoulder.
"They're not worth it," Billy said quietly. "Let the law handle them."
Jake lowered his rifle slowly, but the fury in his eyes didn't diminish.
Pops walked up to the two kidnappers, his rifle slung over his shoulder, cigar glowing in the darkness. He looked at them for a long moment.
Then he spat on the ground at their feet.
"You're lucky we got laws," Pops said, his voice cold as ice. "Otherwise, I'd handle this the old-fashioned way."
Wilson and Ryan loaded the kidnappers into the patrol vehicle. The doors slammed shut with finality.
"They're secured," Wilson reported. "We'll take them in."
Wade nodded. "Good. Now let's go get Celab."
The convoy reformed and continued northeast toward the abandoned house.
Jr. kept his eyes on the drone feed. "Celab hasn't moved. Still on the porch."
"How far?" Robert asked.
"Three miles. Two minutes."
The convoy pushed harder, engines roaring.
And then the abandoned house appeared in the headlights.
Wade brought the lead vehicle to a stop in front. Everyone piled out.
Celab was exactly where the drone had shown him—collapsed on the front porch steps, in his stocking feet, his white undershirt stained with blood and sweat, both shoulders showing angry red brands.
"Celab!" Robert ran forward and dropped to his knees beside his son.
Celab's eyes were half-open, his face pale. When he saw his father, he managed a weak smile.
"Hey, Dad," Celab whispered, his voice hoarse.
"Oh, thank God," Robert said, tears streaming down his face. "Thank God."
Rebecca was already there with her medical kit, kneeling beside him. "Celab, I'm going to check you over, okay?"
He nodded weakly.
She examined the brands on his shoulders, the rope burns on his wrists and ankles, checked his vitals. "He's in shock. Dehydrated. These burns need immediate treatment. We need to get him to the hospital now."
"Can he move?" Wade asked.
"We'll help him," Rebecca said.
Tom and Josh moved forward. Together with Robert, they carefully lifted Celab to his feet. He hissed in pain but didn't complain.
Jr. appeared at his side. "I got you, man."
"Jr.," Celab said, managing another weak smile. "You... found me."
"Of course we did, you idiot," Jr. said, his voice thick with emotion. "You think we'd leave you?"
Jake and Billy were on his other side, supporting him.
"Nice pajamas," Jake said, trying to joke despite the anger still simmering in his eyes.
"Shut up," Celab said, but there was affection in his voice.
They carried him to one of the trucks. Caroline was waiting, having insisted on staying with the convoy. When she saw him, she broke down completely.
"Mom," Celab said. "I'm okay."
"You're not okay," she said through her tears, gently touching his face. "But you will be."
Pops walked over, his rifle still slung over his shoulder. He looked at Celab for a long moment, his weathered face unreadable.
Then he reached out and ruffled Celab's hair, just like he always did in the frat house.
"Good boy," Pops said gruffly. "Knew you had it in you."
Celab's eyes welled up. "Thanks, Pops."
They loaded him into one of the trucks, Rebecca riding with him to monitor his condition. Robert and Caroline climbed in as well.
Wade turned to the rest of the convoy. "Let's head home. Mission accomplished."
The convoy turned around and headed back toward the ranch, Celab safe in the middle vehicle, surrounded by family.
All of them.
Kings County Hospital was lit up when they arrived.
Rebecca had called ahead, and the emergency room staff was waiting. They wheeled Celab inside on a gurney, Rebecca giving rapid-fire instructions to the doctors.
"Second and third-degree burns on both shoulders. Rope burns on wrists and ankles. Dehydration. Possible shock. He needs IV fluids, burn treatment, and observation."
The consortium filled the waiting room—forty people crammed into chairs and lining the walls. Tom, Josh, Wade, Pops, Jake, Billy, Jr., and all the others. Robert and Caroline stayed as close to the ER doors as they were allowed.
Hours passed. Coffee was obtained. Some men dozed off in their chairs. Others paced. Pops sat with an unlit cigar in his mouth—hospital rules—looking like he wanted to bite through it.
Finally, around eleven PM, a doctor emerged.
"Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont?"
Robert and Caroline shot to their feet. Everyone else stood as well.
"He's going to be fine," the doctor said, and the entire room seemed to exhale as one. "The burns are serious, but they're treatable. We've cleaned and dressed them, started him on IV antibiotics and fluids. The good news is there's no sign of infection, and he's responding well to treatment."
Caroline covered her face with her hands, sobbing with relief. Robert wrapped his arms around her.
"Can we see him?" Robert asked.
"Yes. And actually," the doctor said, glancing at his chart, "he's insisting he wants to go home tonight. Normally I'd keep him overnight for observation, but..." He looked at Rebecca. "You're an RN, correct?"
"Yes," Rebecca said.
"And you can monitor him at home? Check the dressings, watch for signs of infection, make sure he takes his medications?"
"Absolutely," Rebecca said.
The doctor nodded. "Then I'm willing to discharge him tonight with strict instructions. He needs rest, proper wound care, antibiotics, and a follow-up in three days. No strenuous activity for at least a week."
"Done," Robert said.
"We'll take care of him," Tom added.
"Alright then. Let me get the discharge papers ready."
Thirty minutes later, Celab emerged from the ER in a wheelchair—hospital policy—with both shoulders heavily bandaged, wearing a clean t-shirt someone had grabbed from the ranch, and looking exhausted but alert. An IV bag was still attached to his arm, but they'd switched it to a portable setup he could take with him.
The consortium crowded around him.
"Ready to go home?" Tom asked.
"More than ready," Celab said, his voice still hoarse but stronger than before.
They loaded him carefully into one of the trucks, Robert and Caroline on either side of him, Rebecca monitoring his IV.
The convoy—smaller now, but still a dozen vehicles—headed back to the Benson ranch.
When they pulled into the driveway, every light in the ranch house was on.
Sarah was waiting on the porch with Mary Nelson, Rebecca's mom Edna, and Anna Mattern. They'd been cooking for hours.
"Welcome home, Celab," Sarah said, pulling him into a careful hug that avoided his shoulders.
"Thanks, Sarah," Celab said.
She pulled back and looked at him with tears in her eyes. "You're family. Don't you ever forget that."
"I won't," Celab said, his own voice cracking.
Inside, the dining room had been transformed into a feast. The large oak table was completely covered with platters of sandwiches—roast beef piled high, turkey and swiss, ham and cheddar, Italian subs. There had to be at least forty sandwiches. Bowls of chips. Pickles. Potato salad. And coolers filled with ice and beer.
Pops was already at the head of the table with his bottle of whisky and his tumbler, cigar lit and glowing.
"Now this," Pops said, pouring himself a generous measure, "is a proper homecoming."
The room filled quickly. Tom, Josh, Wade, Wilson, Ryan, Ray, Jake, Billy, Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez—everyone who'd been part of the rescue. They grabbed plates and started loading up sandwiches, the table groaning under the weight of it all.
Celab sat in a chair that Sarah had padded with extra cushions. Rebecca adjusted his portable IV stand next to him and put a sandwich on a plate in front of him.
"Eat," she said. "Doctor's orders."
"Yes, ma'am," Celab said with a weak smile.
He picked up the sandwich and took a bite. It was the best thing he'd ever tasted.
Around him, the consortium was devouring the food. Jake was on his third sandwich. Billy Renzo was working on his second. Tom and Josh were passing around bottles of beer.
Pops raised his tumbler. "A toast," he said, and the room quieted. Everyone grabbed their drinks—beer, whisky, water, whatever was closest.
"To Celab," Pops said, his voice gruff. "Who proved that you don't need to be born a Benson to have the grit of one. And to family—blood or chosen—who never leaves one of their own behind."
"To Celab," everyone echoed, raising their drinks.
"To family," Tom added.
They drank, and the room erupted in cheers.
Celab raised his water bottle—Rebecca had forbidden alcohol with the antibiotics—and felt his eyes well up. He blinked rapidly, trying not to cry in front of everyone.
Jr. sat down next to him with a plate piled high. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Celab said, his voice thick. "Just... yeah."
"Eat," Jr. said. "You're gonna need your strength if you want to keep up with us."
"I'll manage," Celab said.
They ate and drank and told stories. Jake recounted the moment they found the GPS signal from Celab's radio, embellishing it slightly to make himself sound more heroic. Billy corrected him. Jr. talked about watching the drone feeds, seeing Celab on the porch. Wade described the look on the kidnappers' faces when they realized they were surrounded.
Pops just smoked his cigar and sipped his whisky, watching it all with satisfaction.
Hours passed. The sandwiches disappeared—all forty of them. The coolers emptied. Finally, people started to filter out, heading home with promises to check in tomorrow.
The Renzos left. Then the Matterns. The Rodriguezes. Wade and his family. Ray.
Soon it was just the core group. Tom, Sarah, Pops, Josh, Rebecca, Jake, Billy, Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, Robert, Caroline, and Celab.
"Alright," Rebecca said, checking her watch. "It's past midnight. Celab needs rest."
"I'm fine," Celab protested, but he was clearly exhausted.
"You're not fine," Caroline said gently. "But you will be. Upstairs. Now."
Celab sighed but nodded. Jake and Billy immediately flanked him.
"We got you," Billy said.
Billy Renzo looked at Jr. "You got room up there for us?"
Jr. grinned. "Yeah. Floor space. But yeah."
"Works for us," Ryan Mattern said. "We're too tired to drive home anyway."
"Can you make it up the stairs?" Rebecca asked Celab, concerned.
"I can do it," Celab said.
They helped him up slowly, Rebecca following with the IV stand. Jr. ran ahead to open the door to the frat house. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez followed behind.
When they got Celab inside, Jr. had already prepped his bunk—fresh sheets, extra pillows propped up so he could sleep semi-upright without putting pressure on his shoulders.
"You guys are the best," Celab said.
"Yeah, yeah," Jake said. "Just get in bed before you fall over."
They helped Celab ease onto his bunk. He winced as he settled in, the bandages on his shoulders bulky and awkward, but he finally found a position that didn't hurt too much.
Rebecca hung the IV bag on a hook Jr. had rigged to the bunk frame. "This will finish dripping overnight. I'll be back in the morning to check your dressings."
"Thanks, Rebecca," Celab said.
"Get some sleep," she said. She looked at the other boys. "All of you."
"Yes, ma'am," they chorused.
She shook her head with a smile and headed back downstairs.
Jr. climbed up to his top bunk. Jake and Billy took their bunks as well. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez grabbed sleeping bags from the closet and spread them out on the floor between the bunks.
For a few minutes, they just lay there in the darkness, the moonlight filtering through the window.
"So," Jake said finally. "Hell of a day."
"Understatement," Billy Renzo said from the floor.
"You guys were incredible," Celab said quietly. "The drones, the tracking, all of it. You found me."
"That's what we do," Jr. said. "Wiz kids for life."
"Damn right," Ryan Mattern said.
There was a soft knock on the door, and it creaked open. Pops shuffled in, cigar in one hand, and in the other—a six-pack of beer.
"Don't tell Sarah," Pops said, his voice low and conspiratorial.
Jr. grinned. "Check under the floorboard."
Billy swung down from his bunk and lifted the loose floorboard by the window. Another six-pack was already hidden there.
"Bless this house," Jake said solemnly.
Pops set his six-pack down next to it. "Now you got plenty." He looked at Celab. "You're on antibiotics. No beer for you."
"I know," Celab said.
"But..." Pops reached into his jacket and pulled out a single beer. He walked over and pressed it into Celab's hand. "One. For what you went through. Keep it secret. And don't tell your mother or Rebecca or I'll deny everything."
Celab looked at the cold bottle in his hand, then up at Pops. "Thanks, Pops."
"You earned it, boy." Pops ruffled his hair one more time. "You're one of mine now. Officially. No takebacks."
Celab's voice cracked. "Yes, sir."
Pops looked around at all of them—Jr., Jake, Billy, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, and Celab. His boys. All of them.
"Now get some sleep." He pointed at Jake and Billy. "You two got chores in the morning."
"What did we do?" Jake protested.
"You exist," Pops said. "That's enough."
He took a drag from his cigar, gave them one last look, and shuffled back out, closing the door behind him.
The boys waited until his footsteps faded down the hall.
Then Billy pulled out the beers from under the floorboard and started passing them around. Everyone got one—except Celab, who already had his secret bottle from Pops.
They popped the caps off quietly, the soft hiss and clink like a small ceremony.
Jake raised his bottle. "To Celab. Who's apparently too stubborn to die."
"To Celab," they all echoed quietly.
Celab raised his bottle with his good arm, careful not to jostle his shoulders. "To family."
"To family," they said.
They drank in the moonlight, the quiet companionship settling over the room like a blanket.
"You know," Billy Renzo said after a while, "when Jr. saw that GPS signal from your radio, I thought he was gonna jump through the screen."
"I almost did," Jr. admitted.
"And when the drone showed you on that porch," Ryan Mattern said, "waving up at us... man."
"I knew you guys would come," Celab said softly. "I just had to hold on long enough."
"You did more than hold on," Daniel Rodriguez said. "You got yourself free. You got to that radio. You saved yourself."
"We just showed up to give you a ride home," Jake said.
Celab took a sip of his beer—just a small one, knowing he probably shouldn't have any at all. But it was the best beer he'd ever tasted.
"I kept thinking about this place," Celab said. "About you guys. About Pops bringing us beer. About playing cards and talking shit. I thought... if I can just get back to the frat house, everything will be okay."
"And here you are," Jr. said quietly.
"Here I am," Celab agreed.
They finished their beers slowly, talking in low voices about the rescue, about the drones, about the look on the kidnappers' faces when they were surrounded. Eventually, the bottles were empty and the talking faded.
Jr. collected the bottles and hid them back under the floorboard—evidence to be disposed of in the morning.
"Night, assholes," Jr. said, climbing back into his bunk.
"Night," they mumbled back.
Within minutes, the room was filled with the sound of slow, steady breathing—from the bunks and from the sleeping bags on the floor.
Celab lay in his bunk, staring at the ceiling in the moonlight. His shoulders throbbed. His wrists ached. The IV drip was slightly annoying. But he was home.
He was safe.
In the frat house, with his brothers—all of them.
Where he belonged.
Outside, a coyote howled in the distance, just like it had the night before.
But this time, Celab wasn't afraid.
This time, he knew that no matter what happened, he had a family that would move heaven and earth to bring him home.
And that was worth everything.
THE END
