Chapter 1: The Abduction
The storage shed sat in the northeast corner of the Benson Ranch, a massive metal structure that housed equipment, feed supplies, and enough spare parts to keep three thousand acres running. Billy Benson wiped the sweat from his forehead with his forearm and squinted at the electrical panel. The breaker had blown twice this week, and he wasn't about to let it happen a third time during calving season.
He'd told Jake he'd be back in two hours. That was ninety minutes ago.
The white pickup truck rolled up so quietly on the dirt road that Billy didn't hear it over the hum of his work. He was reaching for the wire strippers when the shed door banged open.
"Alright cowboy, put your arms behind your back, you're going to be tied up!"
Billy spun around. Three men, faces covered with bandanas, two holding rifles. His hand went instinctively toward his belt, but he'd left his sidearm in the truck.
Stupid. Fucking stupid.
"Go ahead you motherfuckers, tie me up, but you're dead." His voice came out steadier than he felt. His heart hammered against his ribs.
"Fuck you. Gag him!"
They moved fast. One of them knocked his black cowboy hat off his head, and before Billy could throw a punch, rough hands shoved a knotted bandanna between his teeth and tied it brutally tight behind his head. He tried to bite down, but the knot forced his jaw open.
The hemp rope was thick—quarter-inch, the kind used for securing loads. They wrenched his arms behind his back and wrapped the rope around his crossed wrists six times, then frapped it twice in the middle, cinching it so tight it ripped the hair off his skin. Billy grunted against the gag, his eyes watering.
"Get his elbows."
"No—" The word died behind the gag as they pushed his sleeves up to his shoulders and folded them back, baring his arms. The rope went around his elbows, and they yanked hard, forcing his forearms together. Pain shot through his shoulders as the joints strained. He couldn't stop the grunts that came with each pull, each knot.
They weren't finished.
The rope circled his upper torso a dozen times, pinning his bare upper arms to his sides, then frapped between his body and biceps. His arms became useless appendages, blood already pooling in his hands. He could feel them swelling.
Another bandanna came down over his eyes, plunging him into darkness.
They dumped him in the truck bed like a sack of feed. More rope around his ankles, then his thighs, binding his legs together. The truck engine roared to life.
Kidnapped. Jesus Christ, I'm being kidnapped.
The ride was long—thirty minutes, maybe more. Every bump sent jolts of pain through his shoulders. Billy's mind raced. The consortium. They knew about the consortium. This was about money. Had to be.
When the truck finally stopped, they dragged him out and carried him into a building. It smelled like rot and old wood. An abandoned house, maybe. They dropped him on a bare floor.
"Tie him good," one of them said. "Real good."
They removed the ankle ropes, and for one wild second Billy thought about kicking, but then they bent his legs back and tied his ankles to the ropes around his neck. The position was medieval—if he straightened his legs even slightly, he'd strangle himself.
Then came the smell.
Gasoline.
Cold liquid soaked through his shirt, his jeans, pooled on the floor beneath him. The fumes burned his nostrils even through the gag. Billy's breath came in short, panicked bursts through his nose.
"Listen up, cowboy." One of them crouched close. Billy could feel the man's breath on his face. "We're asking your family for a million dollars. They got twenty-four hours. We're gonna send them pictures of you all trussed up like this, covered in gas. If they don't pay..." He struck a match. Billy heard it flare to life. "If they don't pay, we come back and drop this match on your ass. You'll burn for a good five minutes before you die. Maybe longer."
The match went out with a quick breath.
"Twenty-four hours."
Footsteps. The door slamming. An engine starting, then fading into the distance.
Silence.
Billy lay in the darkness, blindfolded, gagged, his arms purple and numb from the ropes cutting off circulation. The gasoline fumes made him dizzy. His throat was raw from breathing through his nose.
Burning alive. They're going to set me on fire while I'm tied up.
The image flooded his mind—flames crawling across the gasoline-soaked floor, catching his clothes, his skin blistering and peeling while he couldn't even scream through the gag, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but burn.
No. Hell no.
Fury rose up through the fear. He wasn't dying like this. Not tied up like an animal waiting for slaughter.
Billy tested the ropes around his wrists. Soaked with gasoline, but still tight as hell. His fingers were so numb he could barely feel them. He tried moving his arms—nothing. The ropes around his torso had him locked down.
The ankle-to-neck rope was the worst. Every time he tried to shift position, it pulled against his throat.
But gasoline was slippery.
And rope, when wet, sometimes stretched.
Billy forced himself to breathe slowly through his nose, fighting down the panic. He had to think. Had to work the problem like he'd work a stuck bolt or a tangled fence line.
He had twenty-four hours.
Maybe less.
He got to work.
Chapter 3: Captive
The darkness behind the blindfold was absolute.
Billy lay on the bare wooden floor, gasoline fumes burning his nostrils with every breath. His arms were useless—purple, swollen, completely numb from the ropes cutting off circulation. The gag forced his jaw open, the knot pressing against his tongue. And the rope connecting his ankles to his neck kept him locked in this medieval position.
Every time he tried to straighten his legs even slightly, the rope pulled tight against his throat.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But all he could think about was fire.
The image played in his mind on a loop: flames racing across the gasoline-soaked floor, catching his clothes, his skin blistering and peeling. He'd be conscious for it. All of it. Unable to scream through the gag, unable to move, just burning alive while tied up like a hog ready for slaughter.
No. Hell no.
Fury cut through the fear like a knife.
Billy forced himself to slow his breathing, to think. He'd gotten out of plenty of bad situations before—stuck equipment, tangled fence wire, a truck that rolled into a ditch. This was just another problem. A rope problem.
He tested the wrist bindings first. The hemp was soaked with gasoline, and his wrists were slick with it. But the ropes were still tight as hell—six wraps around his crossed wrists, then two frapping loops cinching it all together. His fingers were so numb he could barely feel them.
Work the problem.
He tried rotating his wrists, feeling for any give. Nothing. The bastards had tied it perfectly, the frapping keeping everything locked in place.
Okay. Different approach.
The elbow rope. That was the real killer—they'd forced his forearms together behind his back, and the rope around his elbows kept his arms in that agonizing position. If he could loosen that, maybe he could get some circulation back, get some feeling in his hands.
Billy twisted his shoulders, trying to work his elbows apart. Pain shot through his joints. The rope held firm.
Fuck.
The chest ropes were wrapped a dozen times around his torso, pinning his upper arms to his sides. No way he was getting those loose without his hands free.
Which left the neck rope.
The most dangerous one.
Billy tested it carefully, feeling the tension. If he straightened his legs even a little, it pulled against his windpipe. But if the rope was wet with gasoline...
Rope stretches when it's wet. Sometimes.
He took a slow breath through his nose and straightened his legs just slightly. The rope immediately bit into his throat, cutting off his air. Billy held it for three seconds—counting in his head—then bent his legs back.
He gasped through his nose, dizzy from the effort.
But the rope had moved. Just a fraction. Maybe a quarter inch.
Again.
He straightened his legs. The rope choked him. He held it, counting—one, two, three, four—then released. His vision swam with dark spots even behind the blindfold.
Again.
Straighten. Choke. Hold. Five seconds this time. Release.
Again.
His throat was raw, his lungs screaming for air. But the rope was definitely loosening. The gasoline was working in his favor—making everything slippery, making the hemp stretch.
Again.
Straighten. Choke. Hold. Six seconds. His chest burned. Release.
Billy lay there gasping, his heart hammering. But when he straightened his legs this time, the rope didn't choke him quite as hard. There was maybe an inch of slack now.
Keep going.
He repeated the process—straighten, hold, release—over and over. Each time he held it a little longer, pushed the rope a little further. The gasoline fumes made him dizzy, and his throat felt like raw meat, but he kept going.
After what felt like an hour but was probably only ten minutes, he could straighten his legs halfway without strangling himself.
Progress.
Now for the hard part.
Billy twisted onto his side, ignoring the pain in his shoulders. With his legs partially straightened, he could feel the knot at his ankles. It was behind him, just barely within reach if he could get his numb fingers to cooperate.
He tried to move his fingers. They felt like sausages—fat, useless, barely responsive. But after a minute of concentration, he managed to curl one finger. Then another.
Come on. Come on.
He reached back toward his ankles, his shoulders screaming in protest. His fingers brushed rope. He couldn't feel it properly—everything was numb—but he could sense the texture.
He found the knot. Or what he thought was the knot.
With fingers that barely worked, Billy started picking at it. He couldn't see what he was doing. Could barely feel it. But he knew knots—he'd been tying them since he was five years old. This felt like a square knot, maybe with an extra half-hitch for security.
He worked his finger under one loop. Pulled. Nothing.
Wrong loop.
He tried another spot. Worked his finger in deeper. Pulled.
The rope shifted.
There.
Billy kept working, using his numb fingers to loosen one loop at a time. Gasoline dripped down his wrists, making everything slippery. His shoulders felt like they were being torn out of their sockets from the angle, but he kept going.
One loop loose. Then another.
The ankle rope suddenly went slack.
Billy's legs straightened, and the pressure on his neck disappeared. He gasped in relief, sucking air through his nose.
Okay. Okay. Now the wrists.
But his hands were still completely numb, still tied behind his back. He couldn't reach the knots on his own wrists.
Billy rolled onto his stomach, then pushed himself up onto his knees. The blindfold was still on, the gag still forcing his jaw open. But at least he could move his legs now.
He stood up shakily, gasoline-soaked clothes clinging to his skin. The room spun—he couldn't see, could barely balance—but he was on his feet.
Find something sharp. Anything.
Billy shuffled forward, arms still bound uselessly behind him. His boot hit something—a wall. He turned and started moving along it, feeling with his shoulder. Old wood, gaps between the boards.
There. A nail head sticking out, rusty and sharp.
Billy turned around and backed up to it, positioning the rope against the nail. He started sawing, moving his body up and down to drag the rope across the sharp edge.
The gasoline made the rope slippery, but it also made it weaker. After thirty seconds of sawing, he felt something give. One strand snapped. Then another.
Come on. Come on.
Billy sawed harder, ignoring the burning in his arms. More strands snapped. The rope around his wrists was fraying, coming apart.
Suddenly his hands were free.
Billy stumbled forward, nearly falling. His arms hung uselessly at his sides—still numb, still swollen. But they were free.
He reached up with clumsy fingers and ripped the blindfold off.
Dim light filtered through gaps in the boarded windows. An abandoned house, just like he'd thought. Bare wooden floors, rotting walls, no furniture. And gasoline everywhere—on him, on the floor, the smell overwhelming.
Billy grabbed the gag and pulled it down around his neck, spitting out the knot. His jaw ached from being forced open so long.
He looked at his arms. Purple from the elbows down, rope burns where the hemp had torn away hair and skin. His wrists were raw and bleeding. But he was free.
Move. Get out of here.
Billy stumbled toward the door. It wasn't locked—why would it be? They'd left him bound and helpless.
He shoved it open and burst out into daylight.
Trees. Dense woods in every direction. No road visible. No buildings. Just forest.
And he was soaked in gasoline.
Get it off. Get it off NOW.
If they came back and struck that match, he'd go up like a torch even out here.
Billy ran toward the sound of water—somewhere to his left, he could hear a stream. He crashed through the underbrush, gasoline-soaked clothes rubbing against the raw skin on his arms.
There. A narrow creek, maybe three feet wide.
Billy dropped to his knees beside it and started tearing off his shirt. It came off in gasoline-soaked tatters. His jeans next—he kicked off his boots, peeled off the denim, stripped down to his boxer shorts.
He threw everything in a pile on the bank, then dunked his arms in the cold water. The shock of it made him gasp, but he scrubbed at his skin, washing away the gasoline, the blood, the rope fibers embedded in his flesh.
His arms were a mess—purple bruises, rope burns, patches where the skin had been torn completely off. But the feeling was starting to come back. Pins and needles, then burning pain.
Billy cupped water in his hands and splashed his face, his neck, anywhere the gasoline had touched. The fumes were finally clearing from his nostrils.
He stood up, dripping wet, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and boots. His clothes lay in a reeking pile on the bank—useless now, too saturated with gasoline to wear.
Billy looked around. Dense forest. No idea which direction led to civilization. No phone. No weapon. Just his boots and his shorts.
And somewhere out there, the men who'd kidnapped him were probably realizing by now that he'd escaped.
Move. Figure out direction later. Just move.
Billy started walking, barefoot and nearly naked, deeper into the woods.
Behind him, the abandoned shack sat empty, ropes scattered on the gasoline-soaked floor.
He'd gotten out.
Now he just had to survive long enough to be found.
Chapter 4: Into the Woods
Billy moved through the forest in his boots and boxer shorts, every step sending jolts of pain through his raw, rope-burned arms. The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy, but he was already shivering from being soaked in the creek.
Keep moving. Put distance between you and that shack.
He had no idea which direction he was heading. The forest was dense—oak, pine, thick underbrush. Could be anywhere in Kings County. Could be outside Kings County for all he knew.
His arms throbbed with every heartbeat. The purple bruising extended from his elbows to his fingertips, and the rope burns were angry red welts where the hemp had stripped away skin and hair. Blood seeped from the worst spots on his wrists.
Water. Need to find water again. Stay hydrated.
But more than that, he needed to find a road. A house. Anything.
Billy climbed a small rise, hoping for a vantage point. Just more trees. He cupped his hands around his mouth.
"HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"
His voice echoed through the forest and died. Nothing. No response. No distant engine sounds, no dogs barking, nothing.
Okay. Think. The sun's to the west. It's maybe three, four in the afternoon. I've been walking southeast, I think.
His thoughts were already getting fuzzy. The adrenaline from the escape was wearing off, and exhaustion was crashing over him like a wave.
He kept walking.
After maybe an hour—or was it two?—the sky started to darken. But not from sunset. Clouds were rolling in from the west, thick and black.
Shit. Storm coming.
Billy looked around for shelter. A rock overhang, a fallen tree, anything. But the forest offered nothing except trees and brush.
The first drops of rain hit twenty minutes later.
Within five minutes, it became a deluge.
Cold rain hammered down through the canopy, soaking Billy instantly. He was already wet from the creek, but this was different—this was relentless, freezing, driven by wind that cut through the trees.
Billy stumbled forward, arms wrapped around his bare chest. His boots squelched with every step. The rain was so heavy he could barely see ten feet ahead.
Shelter. Find shelter.
But there was nothing. Just trees and rain and darkness.
The temperature was dropping. Billy could feel it—his body starting to shake uncontrollably, his teeth chattering so hard his jaw ached.
Hypothermia. Jesus Christ, I'm getting hypothermia.
He tried to keep moving, but his legs felt like lead. Every step was an effort. The shivering got worse, violent spasms that made it hard to walk straight.
Billy's thoughts started to drift.
Jake. Jake's gonna be looking for me. Jr. too. They've got the drones, the thermal imaging. They'll find me.
But how? He was in the middle of nowhere, wearing only boxer shorts. No phone. No way to signal.
Edna. God, Edna's gonna be so worried.
He pictured her face, the way she laughed, the way she'd punch his shoulder when he said something stupid. He'd promised to take her to that dance next week. Had to survive. Had to get back to her.
Billy stumbled over a root and went down hard, catching himself on his hands. Pain exploded through his rope-burned wrists. He lay there in the mud for a moment, rain pounding on his bare back.
Get up. Get up, you dumb bastard.
He pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet. Everything hurt. His arms, his throat from the choking, his shoulders from being wrenched back for so long.
The rain kept falling.
Billy lost track of time. Minutes? Hours? The forest was a blur of rain and darkness. He couldn't stop shivering. His hands were numb again, but this time from cold instead of ropes.
Keep moving. If you stop, you die.
But his body was shutting down. The shivering was getting weaker—not because he was warming up, but because his body was running out of energy to shiver.
That's bad. That's really bad.
Billy knew hypothermia. He'd seen it in calves born during cold snaps, in ranch hands who'd gotten caught out in winter storms. When the shivering stopped, you were close to the end.
No. Not like this. Not after I got away from those bastards.
He forced himself to keep walking, but his legs barely responded. His thoughts were fragmenting, scattered.
Fire. Need a fire. But everything's wet. Can't start a fire.
Jake, where are you? Come find me, brother.
Pops is gonna be so pissed. Gonna load up every gun we got and hunt those fuckers down.
So cold. Why is it so cold?
Billy's foot caught on something and he went down again, this time face-first into the mud. He tried to push himself up, but his arms wouldn't cooperate.
Get up. Come on. GET UP.
But he couldn't. His body had nothing left.
Billy rolled onto his back, rain hammering his face. The sky was black, no stars visible through the clouds and rain. His whole body was shaking, but weakly now, like an engine running out of gas.
I'm sorry, Jake. I tried.
Edna, I'm so sorry.
His eyes started to close.
No. Stay awake. If you fall asleep, you don't wake up.
But he was so tired. So cold. And the darkness was pulling at him, warm and inviting compared to the freezing rain.
Billy's last conscious thought was of the ranch—sunrise over the east pasture, the smell of coffee and bacon from the kitchen, Jake laughing at some dumb joke, Jr. showing off his latest drone footage.
Home.
Then the darkness took him.
Billy lay in the mud, rain pouring over his nearly naked body. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. His lips were blue. His skin was pale, almost gray.
But he was still breathing.
Somewhere miles away, four sixteen-year-olds hunched over computer screens, watching thermal imaging feeds from drones circling through the storm.
And the clock was ticking.
Chapter 5: The Search
In the command center, Billy Renzo leaned so close to his monitor his nose almost touched the screen. "I've got the truck on three different cameras. White Chevy, late 2000s model. Plates are muddy but—wait, enhancing now."
Ryan Mattern pulled up satellite imagery on his screen. "Overlay the timestamps. Show me every camera angle within a ten-mile radius for that two-hour window."
Daniel Rodriguez had his hands on the drone controller. "Drone One is up. Switching to thermal."
Jr. stood behind them, hands gripping the back of Billy Renzo's chair. Louisiana was on the satellite phone, coordinating with the other consortium families.
"Okay, listen up," Jr. said. "We're distributing the iPads. All eighteen are synced to our network. Everyone gets real-time access to drone feeds, thermal imaging, and the encrypted frequency."
Louisiana started checking them off a list. "Robert and Caroline, two units. Wade's got three for him, Wilson, and Ryan. Mattern family, two. Rodriguez family, two. Renzo family, two. That's—"
"Eleven accounted for," Jr. said. "The rest stay here with us and get distributed to Dad, Uncle Ray, Uncle Jake, Pops, Celab, and anyone else heading out."
Billy Renzo's fingers froze over his keyboard. "Got it. Partial plate. BKX-7. Texas plates. Running it now through the DMV database."
"How long?" Jr. asked.
"Three minutes, maybe less."
In the main room, Pops stood at the head of the table, a tactical map of Kings County spread out before him. His cigar had burned down to a stub. He jabbed a finger at the northeast quadrant.
"They grabbed him here. Thirty-minute drive, Jr. said. That puts them in this radius." His finger traced a circle. "Abandoned houses, old barns, anywhere you could stash someone."
Tom stood beside him. "That's still a lot of ground to cover."
"Then we divide it up," Josh said. He was suited up—tactical vest, rifle slung over his shoulder. "Six teams. Each takes a sector."
Jake paced like a caged animal. "I'm not waiting. I'm going now."
"Jake." Celab's voice was firm. "We go smart or we go nowhere. Give the boys five more minutes."
Ray was on his phone, but not for ransom negotiations. "I've got three hunting buddies with ATVs standing by. They can cover rough terrain faster than trucks."
Wade marked the map with a red pen. "I've got deputies checking every abandoned property on record. But most of these old places aren't on any official list."
"Pops would know," Tom said. "Dad, you've been here seventy-six years. Where would you hide someone?"
Pops squinted at the map, then tapped three locations. "Old Garrison place, been empty since '98. Henderson barn, collapsed roof but the foundation's solid. And the Whitmore property—family moved to Dallas ten years ago, house is still standing."
Wilson Nelson copied down the locations. "I'll get deputies to those first."
Jr. burst out of the command center, an iPad in each hand. "We've got hits on the plate. Three registered owners with similar partials, all within fifty miles. Wade, sending you the list now."
Wade's phone buzzed. He scanned the names. "I know two of these. Small-time troublemakers. The third..." His face darkened. "Daryl Hoskins. Did six years for armed robbery. Got out eight months ago."
"Where's he live?" Jake demanded.
"Last known address is—" Wade checked his phone. "Shit. Fifteen miles northeast of here."
Pops was already moving toward the armory. "That's our guy."
"We don't know that for sure," Tom said.
"The hell we don't." Pops emerged with a shotgun. "Sixty-three-year-old rancher doesn't have armed robbery on his record. It's the ex-con."
Jr. handed iPads to Josh, Ray, and Celab. "These are synced. You'll see everything we see. Drone feeds on the top left, thermal on the right, encrypted frequency for comms."
Louisiana came out with more iPads, distributing them to the Beaumonts, the other consortium families gathering in the driveway.
"Drone One has eyes on the Hoskins property," Billy Renzo called out from the command center. "No vehicles visible. Wait—I'm picking up heat signatures. Building to the east of the main house, maybe a shed or—"
The monitor flickered. Daniel Rodriguez swore. "Storm's getting worse. Losing signal."
"Get Drone Two up," Jr. said, running back into the command center. "And switch Drone One to lower altitude."
Outside, the rain had started. Not heavy yet, but the clouds were black and rolling in fast.
Jake grabbed an iPad from Louisiana and studied the screen. "Where's this Hoskins place?"
Wade pulled up a map on his phone. "County Road 47, about three miles past the old grain elevator."
"I'm going."
"Jake, wait—"
"I'm. Going." Jake's voice left no room for argument. He looked at Celab. "You coming?"
Celab grabbed his jacket. "Yeah. But we do this smart."
Josh stepped forward. "I'm going too. And we take at least two more trucks. If Billy escaped and he's on foot, we need to cover the area around that property."
Tom nodded. "Do it. But Josh—no cowboy shit. You find him, you call Wade first."
"Sure, Dad." The way Josh said it, nobody believed him.
Thirty minutes later, four drones circled above Kings County in the pouring rain. The command center was a war room—screens glowing, radio chatter constant, Jr. and his three friends coordinating search patterns like air traffic controllers.
"Drone Three has thermal contact near the Henderson barn," Ryan Mattern said. "Wait, negative. It's livestock."
"Drone Four, anything?" Jr. asked.
Daniel Rodriguez shook his head. "Rain's screwing with the thermal. Too much interference."
Louisiana had a county map on his screen, marking locations as teams checked them. "Jake's team is approaching the Hoskins property. Wilson and Ryan are at the Garrison place—clear so far. Robert and Caroline are checking the Whitmore property with Mr. Renzo and Mr. Rodriguez."
Billy Renzo suddenly sat up straight. "Wait. I've got something. Drone Two, thermal signature northwest of the Hoskins place. A building, partially collapsed, and—Jesus—I've got smoke."
"Smoke?" Jr. leaned in. "You mean fire?"
"Yeah. Building's on fire. Heavy smoke, flames visible even in this rain."
Jr. grabbed the radio. "All teams, this is command. We have a structure fire northwest of the Hoskins property, approximately two miles. Jake, you're closest."
Jake's voice came back, tight and urgent: "We're moving. ETA three minutes."
In the main room, Pops stood up. "Billy's in that building. Those bastards set it on fire."
Sarah Benson had her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Edna was sobbing openly now.
Tom grabbed his keys. "I'm going."
"Tom—"
"That's my son!" Tom's voice cracked. "I'm going."
Wade was already out the door, Wilson and Ryan right behind him. "Every unit, converge on that location. And somebody call the fire department."
Jake's truck skidded to a stop fifty yards from the burning shack. Even through the rain, the flames were visible—orange and hungry, consuming the old wooden structure.
Jake was out of the truck before it fully stopped, running toward the fire.
"BILLY! BILLY!"
Celab caught him, wrapped both arms around him. "Jake, you can't—"
"LET ME GO! HE'S IN THERE!"
"You'll die! Jake, you'll fucking die!"
Josh ran past them, getting as close as the heat would allow. The whole structure was engulfed. No way anyone inside could survive.
"BILLY!" Jake's voice was raw, broken. "BILLY!"
More trucks arrived. Wade, Wilson, Robert Beaumont, Tom right behind them. They all stood in the rain, watching the shack burn.
Tom's face was gray. "Please, God. Please."
Jr.'s voice crackled over the radio, urgent: "Dad, we've got the drone doing a perimeter search. If Uncle Billy escaped before the fire—"
"Do it," Tom said. "Search everything within a mile."
Ryan Mattern's voice came through: "Thermal's picking up something. Northwest of the fire, maybe two hundred yards. Could be an animal, but—"
"Check it," Jr. said.
Wilson and Ryan Nelson took off running into the woods, flashlights cutting through the rain.
Jake stood staring at the fire, Celab still holding him back. Rain poured down his face, mixing with tears he didn't bother to hide.
"He's not in there," Jake said. "He's not. He got out. He had to get out."
Wilson's voice crackled over the radio: "We found clothes. Jeans, shirt—soaked in gasoline. No boots, just the clothes."
A pause. Then Wilson again: "He stripped down. Had to get the gasoline off. That means he's out here somewhere. On foot."
The radio went silent for a beat.
Then Tom's voice, barely a whisper: "He's alive. He got out."
Jake grabbed his iPad, staring at the thermal overlay. "Then where the fuck is he?"
Jr.'s voice, steady and focused: "He's out here. In the woods. Still has his boots on, so he's mobile. We're going to find him. All drones, expand search pattern. He's on foot, probably injured. Look for heat signatures, any movement."
But the storm was getting worse. The rain was now a torrential downpour, and the thermal imaging was nearly useless.
Pops' voice came over the radio, gravelly and determined: "My grandson is out there in this storm, half-naked and hurt. We're not stopping until we find him. Every goddamn one of us is going into those woods. Now."
And they did.
Eighteen people, armed with iPads showing drone feeds, flashlights cutting through the darkness, spread out into the forest in the pouring rain.
Calling Billy's name into the storm.
Somewhere out there, unconscious in the mud, Billy couldn't hear them.
But they kept searching.
Chapter 6: Found
The search went on through the night.
Eighteen people spread through the woods in teams of three, flashlights cutting through the darkness, voices hoarse from calling Billy's name. The rain never stopped. It pounded down relentlessly, turning the forest floor to mud, washing away tracks, making every step treacherous.
In the command center, Jr. and his three friends worked in shifts. Someone always on the screens, always watching the thermal feeds, always coordinating search patterns.
But the storm was winning.
"Thermal's still garbage," Billy Renzo said at 2 AM, rubbing his eyes. "Too much rain interference. The drones can't pick up anything smaller than a deer."
"Keep looking," Jr. said. His voice was raw from radio calls. "He's out there."
Daniel Rodriguez adjusted Drone Three's flight path. "Covering grid section K-7 again. Nothing."
Louisiana marked another section on the map—searched, no contact. The red X's were multiplying. "We've covered maybe sixty percent of the search radius. But in this weather..."
He didn't finish the sentence. They all knew what he meant. In this weather, Billy could be twenty feet from a search team and they'd never see him.
Jake hadn't stopped moving in ten hours.
He crashed through the underbrush, Celab and Josh flanking him, all three soaked to the bone. Their flashlights swept back and forth.
"BILLY! BILLY, CAN YOU HEAR ME?"
Nothing. Just rain and wind and darkness.
At 4 AM, Tom stood in the kitchen making his fourth pot of coffee. Sarah sat at the table, hands wrapped around a mug she hadn't touched in an hour. Edna was curled up on the couch, eyes red from crying, Mary Nelson's arm around her.
Pops sat in his chair, rifle still across his lap, cigar long since gone out. He hadn't moved in two hours.
"He's a tough kid," Pops said quietly. "Tougher than any of us give him credit for. If anyone can survive a night in this storm..."
"He's wearing boxer shorts and boots, Dad," Tom said. His voice cracked. "It's forty degrees out there. The rain—"
"I know." Pops' voice was hard. "So we keep looking."
Wade came in from the command center, his face grim. "Fire department confirms the shack is out. We've got investigators heading there at first light to see if we can pull any evidence. But in this rain..."
"Evidence doesn't matter," Pops said. "Finding Billy matters. We can deal with those cocksuckers later."
At 6 AM, the rain finally started to ease.
Not stop—just ease from a deluge to a steady downpour.
Jr.'s voice crackled over the radio: "All teams, we're at twelve hours of continuous searching. I need everyone to rotate back, get warm, get food. We'll resume with fresh teams in one hour."
Jake keyed his radio. "Negative. We're staying out."
"Jake, you've been out there all night. You need to—"
"I'm not leaving him out here alone."
Tom's voice cut in: "Jake, come back. That's an order."
Jake looked at Celab and Josh. Both of them were dead on their feet, lips blue from cold. He knew he looked the same.
"Fine," Jake said finally. "We're heading back."
They turned and started trudging back toward the access road, flashlights cutting through the pre-dawn darkness. The forest was starting to lighten—dawn breaking through the clouds.
They walked in silence for five minutes. Jake's boots squelched in the mud. His hands were numb. His whole body ached.
Billy's out here somewhere. Cold. Hurt. Maybe dying.
Jake stopped walking.
"What?" Celab asked.
Jake turned, staring back into the woods. Northwest. They'd covered that sector twice already, but it was rough terrain, lots of places a person could be hidden.
"One more try," Jake said.
"Jake—"
"Just one more. One more sweep before we go back." Jake's voice cracked. "Please. I can't leave without trying one more time."
Josh and Celab exchanged a look. Both of them were exhausted, freezing, ready to collapse.
But this was Billy.
"Okay," Josh said. "One more. But we give it fifteen minutes, then we're heading back whether we find anything or not. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
Jake changed direction, heading northwest. Celab and Josh followed.
"We already covered this area," Celab said.
"I know. But the rain—maybe we missed something. Maybe he moved." Jake's flashlight swept back and forth. "BILLY! BILLY, CAN YOU HEAR ME?"
Nothing but rain and wind.
They pushed through thick underbrush. Jake's jacket caught on branches. His boots slipped in the mud.
"BILLY!"
Still nothing.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
"Jake," Josh said quietly. "We've been through here. He's not—"
"Just a little further." Jake kept moving. "Just to that clearing up ahead, then we'll turn back."
They climbed a small rise. The forest opened up slightly.
And then Jake's flashlight swept across something.
A shape. In the mud. Human-sized.
Jake's heart stopped.
"LOOK!" He broke into a sprint. "THERE! BILLY!"
He crashed through the last of the underbrush and dropped to his knees.
Billy.
Lying face-up in the mud, rain pouring over him. His skin was gray, lips blue. Wearing nothing but boxer shorts and boots.
"BILLY!" Jake grabbed his brother's face with both hands. "Billy, come on, wake up. WAKE UP!"
No response. Billy's skin was ice cold.
Celab was there in seconds, pressing two fingers to Billy's neck. For a horrible moment, his face went blank.
Then: "He's got a pulse. Faint, but it's there."
"Jesus Christ," Josh breathed. "You found him. Jake, you found him."
"He's freezing," Celab said, already stripping off his jacket. "We need to get him warm. Now."
Jake wrapped his jacket around Billy's chest, then pulled his brother into his arms, trying to transfer body heat. Billy's skin was ice cold. His lips were nearly purple. "Come on, Billy. Don't you fucking die on me. Don't you dare."
Josh keyed his radio, his voice urgent: "Command, this is Josh. We found him. We found Billy. He's alive but unconscious. Severe hypothermia. We need medical NOW."
Jr.'s voice came back immediately, tight with relief and fear: "Copy that. What's your location?"
"Grid—" Josh checked his iPad. "Grid M-4. We're about two miles northwest of the burn site."
"Tom's calling the hospital now. Ambulance is en route. Twenty minutes out. Can you get him to the access road?"
"We're moving," Josh said. He grabbed Billy's legs while Jake held his upper body. "Let's go."
They carried him through the forest, moving as fast as they dared. Billy's head lolled against Jake's chest. His breathing was shallow, barely visible.
"Stay with me, brother," Jake whispered. "You hear me? You don't get to check out yet. We got too much shit to do. That fence in the south pasture, remember? You said you'd help me fix it. And Edna—Jesus, Billy, Edna's waiting for you. You gotta wake up."
No response.
In the command center, Ryan Mattern was staring at his screen. "Jr., I've got a thermal signature in M-4. That's—"
"That's where they found him," Jr. said. His voice was shaking. "That's Billy. Get all drones to that location. Guide them to the access road."
"On it."
They reached the access road just as the ambulance arrived, lights cutting through the dawn. Behind it, Tom's truck, then Wade's, then half a dozen more vehicles.
The paramedics swarmed. Blankets, IV lines, oxygen mask. One of them kept saying numbers that made no sense to Jake—core temperature, blood pressure, oxygen saturation.
"Is he gonna make it?" Jake demanded. "Tell me he's gonna make it."
The lead paramedic, a woman in her forties, looked up. "He's alive. That's what matters right now. We're taking him to Kings County. You family?"
"I'm his brother."
"Then you can ride with us. But we're leaving now."
Jake climbed into the ambulance. Tom was right behind him. "I'm his father."
"Both of you, let's go."
The doors slammed shut and the ambulance roared to life, sirens wailing.
In the back, Jake sat holding Billy's hand. It was ice cold, the fingers swollen and purple from the old rope burns mixed with the hypothermia. The paramedics worked frantically—warming blankets, heated IV fluids, constant monitoring.
Billy's eyes stayed closed. His breathing stayed shallow.
"Come on," Jake whispered. "You escaped those bastards. You worked the ropes, you got free, you made it out. Don't quit now, Billy. Please don't quit."
Tom sat on the other side, one hand on Billy's shoulder, the other covering his mouth. His eyes were wet.
The ambulance hit a bump and Billy's head rolled to the side.
And then—
His eyes fluttered.
"Billy?" Jake leaned in close. "Billy, can you hear me?"
Billy's eyes opened just a crack. Unfocused, confused. His lips moved, but no sound came out behind the oxygen mask.
"Don't try to talk," the paramedic said. "You're safe. You're going to the hospital. Just rest."
But Billy's hand tightened—barely, just a fraction—around Jake's fingers.
Jake felt tears running down his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I got you, brother. I got you."
Billy's eyes closed again, but his hand stayed wrapped around Jake's.
Kings County Hospital was ready for them.
Dr. Sarah Chen, the ER chief, met them at the ambulance bay with a full trauma team. They transferred Billy to a gurney and wheeled him inside at a run.
"Severe hypothermia, multiple lacerations, possible nerve damage from ligature marks," one of the paramedics rattled off. "Core temp is 89 degrees and rising. He was conscious briefly in transit."
"Get him to Trauma Two," Dr. Chen ordered. "And somebody page Rebecca Benson—she's one of our nurses, and this is her brother-in-law."
The doors swung shut, leaving Jake and Tom standing in the hallway.
Behind them, the rest of the family poured in—Pops, Josh, Ray, Sarah, Edna, Wade, Mary. The waiting room filled up fast with Bensons and Nelsons and Beaumonts.
Celab appeared with Jr., Louisiana, and the three other wiz kids. All of them soaked, muddy, exhausted.
"Is he—" Jr. started.
"Alive," Tom said. "He's alive."
Jr. nodded once, then sat down hard in a chair. Billy Renzo sat next to him, then Ryan Mattern, then Daniel Rodriguez. Louisiana leaned against the wall, eyes closed.
They'd done it. They'd found him.
Now they just had to wait to see if it was in time.
Three hours later, Dr. Chen emerged.
The waiting room erupted to its feet.
"He's stable," she said, and the collective exhale was audible. "Core temperature is back to normal. We're treating him for severe hypothermia, dehydration, and multiple soft tissue injuries. The rope burns on his wrists and arms are significant—we're watching for infection. But he's going to make it."
Sarah Benson burst into tears. Tom wrapped his arms around her.
Jake just stood there, swaying slightly. Celab caught his arm.
"Can we see him?" Pops asked.
"Two at a time. He's sedated right now, but he should wake up in a few hours." Dr. Chen looked at Jake. "You're the brother who rode with him?"
Jake nodded.
"He kept saying your name. In the ambulance, while we were working on him. You might want to be there when he wakes up."
"I'm not leaving," Jake said.
"Didn't figure you would."
Billy woke up slowly, consciousness returning in pieces.
Warmth. That was the first thing. He was warm.
Then sounds—beeping monitors, low voices, footsteps.
Then pain—his arms throbbed, his throat was raw, everything hurt.
He opened his eyes.
Hospital room. White walls, fluorescent lights. An IV in his arm. Blankets piled on top of him.
And Jake, slumped in a chair beside the bed, asleep.
Billy tried to speak, but his voice came out as a croak. "Jake."
Jake's eyes snapped open. "Billy. Jesus Christ, Billy." He grabbed his brother's hand. "You're awake. How do you feel?"
"Like shit," Billy whispered. His throat felt like sandpaper. "What happened?"
"What happened? You got kidnapped, tied up, escaped, and then decided to go for a midnight stroll in a thunderstorm wearing your underwear. That's what happened."
Billy managed a weak smile. "Sounds about right."
"You scared the hell out of us, you know that?"
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize, you idiot." Jake's voice broke. "I almost didn't find you. We were heading back. I asked for one more try. Just one more sweep. And there you were."
Billy's eyes filled with tears. "You found me."
"Of course I did. You're my brother." Jake squeezed his hand. "I'll always find you."
The door opened and Tom walked in. When he saw Billy awake, his face crumpled.
"Hey, Dad," Billy said. His voice was barely a whisper.
Tom couldn't speak for a moment. He just stood there, tears running down his face. Then: "How you feeling, son?"
"Been better. But I'm alive."
"Yeah. Yeah, you are."
Behind Tom, the doorway filled with faces—Sarah, Josh, Ray, Jr., Celab, Edna. All of them smiling, crying, relieved.
Billy looked at all of them, then back at Jake.
"Thank you," he said.
Jake just nodded, unable to speak.
Billy's eyes closed again, exhaustion pulling him back under. But he was smiling.
He was home.
Chapter 7: The Hunt
Billy spent three days in the hospital.
The first day, he slept mostly, waking only for brief moments—doctors checking vitals, nurses changing IV bags, Jake always in the chair beside his bed. The rope burns on his wrists and arms were bandaged, antibiotics pumping through his system to fight infection.
The second day, he was awake more. Edna came and sat with him, holding his hand, not saying much. Pops visited, bringing his flask of brandy and a cigar he wasn't allowed to light. "You're tougher than woodpecker lips, boy," Pops said. "Those bastards picked the wrong Benson to fuck with."
By the third day, Billy was sitting up, eating solid food, asking when he could go home.
"Tomorrow," Dr. Chen said. "But you're on strict bed rest for a week. Those rope burns need to heal, and your body's been through hell."
"I'll rest at home," Billy said.
She smiled. "I figured you'd say that."
While Billy recovered, the wiz kids went to work.
The command center never shut down. Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, and Louisiana worked in rotating shifts, pulling surveillance footage, tracking license plates, cross-referencing databases.
"Got it," Billy Renzo said on the second day, leaning back in his chair. "White Chevy pickup, Texas plates BKX-743. Registered to Daryl Hoskins, just like Wade thought."
Jr. leaned over his shoulder. "Where is he now?"
"Working on it." Billy Renzo pulled up cell tower data. "Hoskins' phone last pinged three hours ago. Location is—" He zoomed in on the map. "Shit. A trailer park off Highway 52, about twenty miles east of here."
Ryan Mattern pulled up satellite imagery. "I've got eyes on it. Small trailer park, maybe ten units. The white pickup is parked outside unit seven."
"Are they still there?" Jr. asked.
Daniel Rodriguez launched a drone. "Give me five minutes and I'll tell you."
Louisiana was already on the satellite phone. "Tom, we've got them."
In the hospital waiting room, Tom took the call and his face went hard. He walked to where Pops sat with Josh, Jake, Ray, and Celab.
"The boys found them," Tom said quietly. "Trailer park off Highway 52. The truck's there now."
Pops stood up slowly. He was seventy-six years old, but in that moment he looked like the Vietnam vet he'd been fifty years ago. "Good. Let's go have a conversation with these cocksuckers."
Jake was on his feet immediately. "I'm coming."
"Jake—" Tom started.
"Don't." Jake's voice was ice. "Those bastards tied up my brother and threatened to burn him alive. I'm coming."
Tom looked at his son for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay. But we do this smart. No guns going off unless absolutely necessary. We handle this quiet."
"Agreed," Pops said. He looked at Celab and Josh. "You boys coming?"
"Wouldn't miss it," Celab said.
Ray stood up. "I'm in too."
Robert Beaumont had been sitting quietly in the corner. "Room for one more?"
Tom nodded. "The more the merrier. But this is family business. What happens out there stays between us."
"Understood."
Tom pulled out his phone and called Wade. "Wade, we've got a location on the kidnappers. Trailer park off Highway 52."
There was a pause. Then Wade's voice, carefully neutral: "Is that so. Well, I've got a mountain of paperwork here at the office. Gonna take me and the boys a few hours to get through it all. You let me know when you're done with your... investigation... and I'll follow up on any anonymous tips that might come my way."
"Appreciate it, Wade."
"Tom." Wade's voice was serious. "Don't kill them. I can't look the other way on murder."
"We won't."
"And Tom? Make them hurt."
"Count on it."
Thirty minutes later, three trucks rolled quietly down Highway 52. No sirens, no lights. Just six men with a very specific purpose.
Jr.'s voice came through on the encrypted frequency: "You're two miles out. The drone shows two heat signatures inside the trailer. The pickup is still parked outside. No movement in the last twenty minutes."
"Copy that," Tom said. "Keep eyes on. Let us know if anyone tries to leave."
"Will do."
They parked a quarter mile away and approached on foot. The trailer park was rundown—rusted units, overgrown grass, a few junk cars scattered around. Unit seven was at the far end, a faded blue single-wide with the white Chevy parked in front.
Tom signaled for everyone to spread out. Jake and Celab circled around back. Josh and Robert took the sides. Tom and Pops walked straight to the front door.
Pops knocked. Hard.
"Open up, shitheads. We want to talk."
Silence from inside.
Pops knocked again, harder. "I said open the goddamn door. We know you're in there."
The door cracked open. A man in his forties, unshaven, reeking of beer. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm the grandfather of the boy you kidnapped, you worthless piece of shit." Pops shoved the door open and walked in, Tom right behind him.
The man stumbled back. "I don't know what you're talking about—"
"Shut your cockholster." Pops grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him against the wall. "You and your buddies grabbed my grandson from our ranch two days ago. Tied him up, soaked him in gasoline, threatened to burn him alive."
"I didn't—we didn't—"
A second man emerged from the back bedroom, reaching for something in his waistband.
Jake was faster. He came through the back door and had the man on the ground in seconds, the pistol kicked across the floor. "Looking for this?"
The man struggled. Jake put a knee on his spine. "Stop moving or I'll break your fucking back."
Celab secured the gun. Josh and Robert came in through the sides, blocking any escape.
Tom picked up the pistol, checked it, then tucked it in his belt. "Where's the third one?"
"What third one?" Daryl Hoskins said. His voice was shaking.
"Don't play stupid," Tom said. "There were three of you. We've got surveillance footage."
"He—he took off. After we realized the kid got loose. Said he wasn't sticking around for when you found us."
"Smart man," Pops said. He released Hoskins and shoved him toward the couch. "Sit your ass down."
Jake hauled the second man up and threw him onto the couch next to Hoskins. Both of them were breathing hard, eyes darting toward the door.
"You're not going anywhere," Tom said quietly. "Not until we have a little chat."
Pops walked to the kitchen and came back with a length of rope. "Well, look at this. Quarter-inch hemp. Same kind you used on my grandson." He tossed it to Jake. "Tie them up. Just like they tied Billy."
Jake's face was stone. He grabbed the first man's arms and wrenched them behind his back. The man yelped. "That hurts!"
"Good," Jake said. He wrapped the rope around the man's wrists, pulling it tight. Six wraps, two frapping loops, just like the kidnappers had done to Billy. "My brother spent four hours working his way out of these knots while soaked in gasoline. Let's see how you like it."
"Please, we didn't mean—"
"Shut up." Jake moved to Hoskins and did the same. Tight. Unforgiving. The rope bit into skin, cutting off circulation.
Pops walked around them slowly, cigar clenched in his teeth. "You know what you fuckers did wrong? You went after family. My family. Did you really think we were just gonna pay you a million dollars and let you walk away?"
"We weren't going to hurt him," Hoskins stammered. "We just needed the money—"
"BULLSHIT!" Pops roared. The sound filled the small trailer. "You soaked him in gasoline and told him you'd burn him alive! You tied him so tight his arms went purple! He could barely use his hands for two days because of what you did!"
He leaned in close, his face inches from Hoskins'. "You want to know what my grandson did? He escaped. Worked the ropes until he got free, then ran into the goddamn woods wearing nothing but his underwear. We found him twelve hours later, half-dead from hypothermia, lying in the mud in a thunderstorm."
Pops straightened up and took a long drag on his cigar. "So now we're gonna have a little payback. Family style."
Tom looked at Josh. "You want first crack?"
Josh stepped forward. He didn't say anything. Just pulled back and punched Hoskins in the face. Hard. The man's head snapped back, blood spraying from his nose.
"That's for my brother."
Jake went next. Two punches to the second man's ribs, then one to his jaw. The man gasped, struggling against the ropes.
"That's for Billy having to work himself free while you were planning to burn him."
Celab stepped up. One solid punch to Hoskins' gut. The man doubled over, gagging.
"That's for the twelve hours we spent searching for him in the rain."
Robert Beaumont was quieter. He just grabbed Hoskins by the hair and slammed his head back against the wall. Once. Twice. Three times.
"That's for terrorizing a twenty-one-year-old kid."
Ray was methodical. Punches to the ribs, the stomach, avoiding the face except for one solid hit that split Hoskins' lip.
"That's for making my mother cry."
Tom stood back, watching. Then he stepped forward and crouched in front of both men. They were bleeding, gasping, eyes wide with fear.
"We could kill you," Tom said quietly. "Take you out to the back forty and bury you where nobody would ever find you. And you know what? Nobody would say a damn word. Not the sheriff, not the deputies, not anyone in this county."
"Please," Hoskins whispered through broken teeth. "Please don't—"
"But we're not going to do that," Tom continued. "Because my son is alive. Because we found him in time. So instead, you're going to sit here, tied up, and wait for the sheriff to arrive. And when he asks what happened to your faces, you're going to tell him you resisted arrest. Understood?"
Both men nodded frantically.
"Good." Tom stood up. "And if you ever—EVER—come near my family again, there won't be a sheriff. There won't be an arrest. There will just be a hole in the ground and nobody asking questions. We clear?"
"Yes. Yes sir. We're clear."
Pops leaned down and blew cigar smoke in Hoskins' face. "You picked the wrong goddamn family to fuck with, boy. Now sit there and think about your life choices."
Tom pulled out his phone. "Wade. Got an anonymous tip for you. Trailer park off Highway 52, unit seven. You might want to check it out. Found some individuals who match the description of those kidnappers you're looking for."
"Is that right?" Wade's voice was calm. "Well, I just finished my paperwork. Wilson, Ryan, and I will head that way now. ETA about thirty minutes."
"Appreciate it."
Tom hung up and looked at his crew. "Let's go."
They walked out, leaving the two men tied up and bleeding on the couch.
Thirty minutes later, Wade Nelson pulled up to unit seven with Wilson and Ryan. They found Daryl Hoskins and his accomplice exactly where the anonymous tip said they'd be—tied up, faces battered, blood on the floor.
"Well, well," Wade said, walking in slowly. "Looks like you boys had a rough night."
"They attacked us!" Hoskins said through swollen lips. "The Bensons—they came here and—"
"What Bensons?" Wade said, his voice flat. "I don't know what you're talking about. Wilson, what time did we get this anonymous tip?"
"About thirty minutes ago, Dad."
"And where were the Bensons at that time?"
Wilson checked his phone. "According to their last known locations, Tom Benson was at the hospital with his son. Jake Benson was there too. Josh was at home with his wife. Should I go on?"
"Nah." Wade looked down at Hoskins. "Sounds like you boys are making up stories. Ryan, read them their rights. Daryl Hoskins, you're under arrest for kidnapping, extortion, and assault."
"But they beat us up!"
"Looks to me like you resisted arrest," Wade said calmly. "That's what I'm writing in my report. Unless you want to press charges against someone who apparently has an alibi?"
Hoskins stared at him, then slowly shook his head.
"That's what I thought. Now shut up before I add assaulting an officer to your list."
Wilson and Ryan hauled them up and out to the squad car. Wade took one last look around the trailer, then walked out.
He pulled out his phone and sent a text to Tom: Package secured. No complications.
Tom's response came back immediately: Appreciated.
Wade smiled and got in his truck.
Justice, Kings County style.
Chapter 8: Homecoming
The Benson ranch house was packed.
All six consortium families filled the main room and spilled out onto the porch—Bensons, Nelsons, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes. Tables groaned under the weight of food: Sarah's brisket, Mary Nelson's potato salad, Caroline Beaumont's pecan pie, casseroles and cornbread and enough barbecue to feed an army.
Pops sat in his chair like a king on his throne, his "liquor stand" fully operational—brandy, whiskey, beer, and a fresh box of cigars. He had a tumbler in one hand and a lit stogie in the other, smoke curling toward the ceiling.
"About goddamn time," Pops said when Tom's truck pulled up. "Thought that hospital was gonna keep him forever."
Billy walked in under his own power, arms still bandaged but color back in his face. The room erupted—cheers, applause, Edna running to wrap her arms around him carefully.
"Easy," Billy said, wincing. "Still a little tender."
"I don't care," Edna said, tears streaming down her face. "You're home."
Jake clapped his brother on the shoulder. "Welcome back, you dumb bastard."
"Good to be back."
Pops raised his tumbler. "To my grandson—tougher than a two-dollar steak and meaner than a junkyard dog. Those cocksuckers thought they could break him, but all they did was piss him off."
"Pops!" Sarah said. "Language!"
"Ah, hell, Sarah. The boy just escaped a kidnapping. I think we can let a few colorful words slide."
Everyone laughed. Billy made his way to Pops' chair and the old man pulled him down for a rough hug.
"You scared ten years off my life, boy," Pops said quietly. "Don't do it again."
"I'll try not to."
"Good. Now get yourself a plate. You look like a scarecrow."
In the corner, the four wiz kids—Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—sat with Louisiana, iPads still nearby, reviewing footage like they were watching game film.
"I still can't believe the thermal worked," Ryan Mattern said. "That storm was a nightmare."
"The storm clearing at dawn was the key," Billy Renzo said. "Another hour earlier and we never would've picked up the signature."
Jr. looked up at his uncle Billy, who was loading a plate with brisket. "Uncle Billy, you know you walked right past a search team at one point? You were maybe fifty yards away, but the rain and trees blocked everything."
Billy shook his head. "I don't remember much after I hit the water. Just cold and trying to keep moving."
"You moved three miles from the shack," Daniel Rodriguez said. "In boxer shorts and boots, in a thunderstorm. That's insane."
"That's Billy," Jake said, sitting down with his own plate. "Too stubborn to die."
"Speaking of stubborn," Josh said, grinning at Jake. "Tell them about your 'one more try' speech."
Jake shrugged. "Wasn't a speech. Just couldn't leave without checking one more time."
"You were about to collapse," Celab said. "We all were. But you insisted."
"And thank God you did," Tom said. He had his arm around Sarah, both of them looking at Billy like they still couldn't believe he was alive.
Billy walked over to Jake and sat down next to him. "Dad told me. Said you were thirty seconds from leaving."
"Yeah, well." Jake looked away. "You're my brother. Had to try."
"I owe you."
"You don't owe me shit. Just—" Jake's voice caught. "Just don't get kidnapped again, okay?"
"Deal."
Ray raised a beer. "To the wiz kids. Without that tech setup, we'd still be searching."
"Hear, hear!" Robert Beaumont said.
Jr. ducked his head, embarrassed. "We just coordinated. Uncle Jake found him."
"You coordinated eighteen search teams, four drones, and thermal imaging in the middle of a damn thunderstorm," Tom said. "Don't sell yourself short."
Louisiana grinned. "Plus we tracked those assholes to their trailer. That was pretty sweet."
"Language, Louisiana," Caroline Beaumont said, but she was smiling.
"Sorry, Aunt Caroline."
Pops snorted. "The boy's right, though. Watching those surveillance feeds come together—these kids are scary good with technology. Back in my day, we just had maps and bad attitudes."
"Still works," Wade said, leaning against the doorframe. Wilson and Ryan flanked him. "Those kidnappers are in county lockup. DA's filing charges tomorrow—kidnapping, extortion, assault, arson. They're looking at twenty years minimum."
"Good," Pops said. "Though I'd have preferred we handle it the old-fashioned way."
Wade smiled. "Pops, I have no idea what you're talking about. I got an anonymous tip and arrested two individuals who were already tied up and beaten. Must've been resisting each other."
"Must've been," Tom agreed.
Billy sat on the couch, Edna curled up next to him, a plate of food balanced on his lap. His arms still throbbed, and he was exhausted, but he was home. Safe. Surrounded by family.
Jake dropped down on his other side. "So. Wanna tell us how you actually got out of those ropes?"
Billy took a bite of brisket. "Gasoline made them slippery. Stretched the neck rope by choking myself over and over until I could reach the ankle knot."
"Jesus," Josh said.
"Then sawed the wrist ropes on a nail in the wall."
"You sawed through rope with a nail?" Jr. said. "That's badass."
"That's desperation," Billy corrected. "I kept thinking about them coming back with that match."
The room went quiet for a moment.
Then Pops raised his tumbler again. "To Billy. Who proved that you can tie up a Benson, soak him in gasoline, and threaten to burn him alive—but you sure as shit can't keep him down."
"HEAR, HEAR!"
Everyone drank. Billy smiled, feeling the warmth of family around him—louder and more chaotic than any hospital, but exactly where he needed to be.
Jake nudged him. "Next time you need to fix electrical in a remote shed, I'm coming with you."
"Next time I'm bringing my sidearm."
"Even better."
Pops lit a fresh cigar and surveyed his kingdom—three generations of Bensons, plus the extended consortium family that had become just as much blood as anyone born into it.
"Not bad," Pops said. "Not bad at all."
Billy took another bite of brisket and looked around the room. His mother laughing with Mary Nelson. His father deep in conversation with Wade and Robert. Josh and Ray arguing about cattle prices. Jr. and the wiz kids still reviewing footage. Celab and Louisiana raiding the dessert table.
And Jake right beside him, where he'd always been.
Home.
