Chapter 1: The Frat House
Billy and Jake Benson slept in at the frat house. They had a meeting for their brother Ray at noon, so it was a rare opportunity to catch a few extra hours. The house was empty when the alarm woke them up at 10 AM—everyone else already out working the ranch or off handling consortium business.
They showered and dressed for the Texas heat. Billy pulled on a white tank top, Jake a grey one. Both of them could already feel the brutal temperature rising outside, and they were grateful to still be indoors with the AC running.
"Ray's gonna chew us out if we're late," Jake muttered, rubbing his eyes.
"We got two hours. Relax," Billy shot back, grinning.
They opened the door to head downstairs.
Four men were waiting.
Guns drawn. Eyes hard.
Billy froze. Jake cursed under his breath, his powerful arms instinctively folding across his gut.
Before either of them could react, two of the men rushed Billy. They spun him around hard, slamming him face-first against the doorframe.
What the hell—
His arms were wrenched behind his back. Pain shot through his shoulders as they twisted his wrists together. Rope scraped across his skin—rough, thick, unforgiving. They started at his wrists, wrapping tight, cinching hard. Billy tried to pull his hands apart, tested the rope. Nothing. His fingers flexed uselessly.
Calm down. Think.
But there was no time to think. They moved up his forearms, looping the rope again and again, yanking his arms closer together behind him. Not touching—but pulled. Strained. His shoulders burned with the unnatural angle.
"Billy!" Jake's voice, strangled with rage.
Billy twisted his head, saw Jake standing there, fists clenched, a gun shoved into his ribs. Their eyes met for a split second.
Don't do anything stupid, Jake.
The men kept working. They wrapped his biceps next, circling the rope around and around, lashing his upper arms together. Every coil tightened the tension in his shoulders. His chest felt compressed, his breathing shallow. He tried to shift his weight, pull against the ropes. They didn't budge.
This is bad. This is really bad.
Then the gag. A rag shoved into his mouth, tied off tight behind his head. He grunted, tried to spit it out, but the knot held. His jaw ached instantly.
"Your turn," one of the men said, grabbing Jake.
Jake exploded. He swung hard, clipped one of them in the jaw, but two more grabbed him from behind. They slammed him against the wall, twisted his arms back.
Fight. Keep fighting.
But the rope was already biting into Jake's wrists. He felt the first loop tighten, then another, then another. His hands were locked together, useless. His mind raced.
How do we get out of this? Where's Jr.? Where's Tom?
They moved to his forearms. Jake gritted his teeth, felt the rope pulling his arms closer, the strain building in his shoulders. He was strong—stronger than most—but the angle was all wrong. He couldn't get leverage. Couldn't twist free.
Billy's watching. Stay calm. Figure this out.
But there was nothing to figure out. The rope kept coming. His biceps next, wrapped tight, pulled taut. His chest heaved as his shoulders were forced back. He could feel the knots digging in, the circulation slowing.
The gag came next. Jake tried to turn his head, but a hand clamped his jaw, forced it open. The rag went in, the knot cinched tight. He growled through the fabric, eyes burning with fury.
Both brothers stood there, bound and gagged, chests rising and falling hard. Their eyes locked.
We're in this together. We'll get out.
Then one of the men pulled out a cloth, soaked in something sharp and chemical.
Chloroform.
Billy's eyes went wide as the cloth clamped over his nose and mouth. He jerked his head back, tried to hold his breath, but his lungs were already screaming. The fumes burned. His vision blurred at the edges.
No. No. Stay awake. Fight it.
But his legs were weakening. The world tilted. His knees buckled.
Jake—
Darkness.
Jake saw his brother collapse and roared through the gag, thrashing against the ropes. But the cloth was already coming for him. He twisted, tried to pull away, but hands grabbed his head, held him still. The chemical smell flooded his nose, his mouth, his lungs.
Stay up. Stay—
His vision tunneled. His body went slack.
He hit the floor beside Billy.
The men stood over them, breathing hard.
"Get 'em in the truck," one of them said. "We just hit the jackpot."
Chapter 2: The Command Center
Tom Benson wiped the sweat from his forehead and squinted up at the barn roof. The Texas sun was already brutal at 10:30 AM, and they still had another hour of work before the meeting with Ray.
"Hand me that bracket, Jr.," Tom said, reaching down from the ladder.
Billy Junior passed it up, then checked his phone again. He'd called his uncles twice already. No answer.
"They're probably still in the shower," Celeb said, holding the ladder steady. "You know how those two are."
"Yeah, sleeping in like a couple of lazy asses," Louisiana drawled from where he was sorting tools near the workbench. "Bet they didn't even set the alarm."
"They set it," Jr. said. "Billy texted me last night. Said they'd be up by ten."
"Well, it's past ten now," Louisiana said, grinning. "Maybe Jake hit snooze."
Jr. frowned. "They said they'd be up by ten. Ray's gonna be pissed if they're late."
Tom hammered the bracket into place. "They'll be there. Relax."
Jr. tried calling again. Straight to voicemail.
"That's weird," Jr. muttered. "Billy always answers."
Celeb pulled out his phone, tried too. Nothing.
"Now that is weird," Celeb said.
Louisiana stopped sorting and looked up. "Both of 'em?"
Tom's phone buzzed.
He pulled it out, glanced at the screen.
Unknown number.
He opened the message.
The photo loaded.
Tom's world stopped.
Billy and Jake. Bound. Arms lashed behind them, faces bruised, eyes half-open and dazed. Hanging by their ankles from a ceiling beam. Gags in their mouths.
The message underneath: $500K. Cash. No cops. Instructions coming.
Tom's phone slipped from his hand, hit the dirt.
"Dad?" Jr. bent down, picked it up, looked at the screen.
His face went white.
"Dad—Dad—what is—"
Tom couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. His youngest sons. His boys. Strung up like animals.
Jr. was already moving. He yanked his satellite phone off his belt, hit the red button—the 911 emergency.
A mechanical voice echoed across the encrypted network: "911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. BILLY JUNIOR BENSON."
Within seconds, the network lit up. Every consortium member. Every wiz kid. Every encrypted device in Kings County.
Tom snapped back. "Jr.—"
But Jr. was already sprinting toward the house, Celeb and Louisiana right behind him. Tom grabbed his phone and ran after them, his heart pounding, his mind racing.
Who took them? Where are they? Are they alive?
Jr. burst through the front door, took the stairs three at a time, Celeb and Louisiana on his heels. They hit the second floor and ran straight for the frat house.
The door was still open.
Jr. stepped inside and froze.
Cut ropes on the floor. Thick, coarse rope—sliced clean through. The same kind that was wrapped around his uncles in that photo.
His chest tightened. His fists clenched.
"They were right here," Jr. whispered. "They were right here."
Celeb put a hand on his shoulder. "Jr., we gotta—"
Jr. exploded. He spun around and slammed his fist into the wall. Once. Twice. The drywall cracked, then caved. His knuckles split, blood smearing the white paint.
"Jr.! Stop!" Celeb grabbed him, tried to pull him back, but Jr. wrenched free, hit the wall again.
"They took them! They were right here and they—"
"Billy Junior."
The voice was calm. Steady. But it carried weight.
Jr. froze.
Pops stood in the doorway, his weathered face hard as stone. He stepped into the room, his boots heavy on the floorboards, and looked at the broken wall, then at Jr.'s bleeding knuckles, then at the ropes on the floor.
He picked up one of the cut pieces, ran his fingers over the frayed ends.
"You done?" Pops asked quietly.
Jr.'s chest heaved. His hands were shaking. "They took them, Pops. They took them."
"I know." Pops's voice was low, dangerous. "And we're gonna get 'em back."
He looked Jr. straight in the eye.
"But you gotta keep your head. You hear me? You lose your head, you lose your uncles. Now get yourself together and get down to the Command Center. We got work to do."
Jr. swallowed hard, nodded. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning, but he steadied himself.
Pops clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Good. Now move."
Jr. turned and ran for the Command Center, Celeb and Louisiana right behind him.
Pops stood there for a moment, staring at the ropes in his hand. Then he looked at Tom, who was standing in the doorway, pale, shaking.
"Tom," Pops said quietly. "We're getting your boys back. But we gotta move smart."
Tom nodded, his throat tight. "Whatever it takes."
Pops dropped the ropes and headed for the door. "Then let's go to war."
Chapter 3: The Kidnappers
The pickup truck bounced along the dirt road, kicking up dust in the Texas heat. In the bed, covered by a tarp pulled tight and strapped down, Billy and Jake lay unconscious, their bound bodies pressed against the hot metal.
Inside the cab, four men sat in tense silence.
"We got 'em," Marcus said from behind the wheel, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "We actually got 'em."
"Two Bensons," Caleb muttered from the passenger seat. "Two of Tom Benson's boys."
In the back, Ethan and Cole exchanged a look.
"This wasn't the plan," Ethan said quietly.
"Plans change," Marcus shot back. "We came for tools, equipment, maybe some cash. We got something better."
"Better?" Cole leaned forward. "Marcus, we just kidnapped two people. That's federal."
"What were we supposed to do?" Marcus's voice cracked. "Leave 'em there? They saw our faces. We were done either way."
Silence fell over the cab.
They all knew he was right.
Six months ago, the four brothers had been soybean farmers. Third-generation. Their grandfather had built the farm from nothing, passed it to their father, who passed it to them. Two hundred acres. Good land. A decent life.
Then the tariffs hit.
China stopped buying. The market collapsed. Prices dropped so low they couldn't cover costs. They held on as long as they could—burned through savings, took out loans, sold equipment. But the debt kept growing, and the soybeans kept rotting in the silos.
The bank foreclosed in March.
They lost everything.
The Benson consortium, with their beef and corn, barely felt the hit. They absorbed the losses, diversified, kept running. Meanwhile, Marcus and his brothers were living in a rented trailer, scraping by on odd jobs, watching their entire legacy disappear.
"We were just gonna grab some tools," Caleb said quietly. "Sell 'em. Get enough to eat for a few weeks."
"And now we got two Bensons tied up in the back," Ethan said. "What do we do with them?"
Marcus's jaw tightened. "We make them pay."
"Pay?"
"They got money. That consortium's worth millions. We ask for half a million. Cash. No cops. They pay, we let the boys go, we disappear."
Cole shook his head. "You think Tom Benson's just gonna hand over half a million dollars?"
"For his sons?" Marcus glanced in the rearview mirror. "Yeah. I do."
The truck turned off the main road onto an overgrown driveway. Ahead, an old farmhouse sat abandoned, its paint peeling, windows boarded up. Their grandfather's place. No one had lived here in years.
Marcus pulled the truck around back, killed the engine.
"Let's move," he said.
They climbed out, walked to the bed of the truck, and untied the tarp. The heat that rolled out was suffocating. Billy and Jake lay motionless, their shirts soaked with sweat, their breathing shallow.
"They still out?" Ethan asked.
Caleb checked Billy's pulse. "Yeah. But they won't be for long."
"Good. Let's get 'em inside before they wake up."
They dragged the brothers out of the truck bed, carried them through the back door into the old house. The interior was dusty, empty except for a few broken chairs and a wooden beam running across the ceiling.
"That'll work," Marcus said, pointing at the beam.
They laid Billy and Jake on the floor, then grabbed more rope from the truck. Working quickly, they tied thick loops around each brother's ankles, then threw the rope over the beam and hauled them up.
Billy and Jake hung upside down, their heads a few feet off the floor, arms still bound behind them, faces flushed from the blood rushing to their heads.
Marcus pulled out his phone, snapped a photo.
"Send it," Caleb said.
Marcus typed out the message: $500K. Cash. No cops. Instructions coming.
He hit send.
"Now we wait," he said.
Ethan stared at the two unconscious men hanging from the beam.
"What if they don't pay?"
Marcus didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
Chapter 6: Strung Up
Billy woke to pain.
His head pounded. His shoulders screamed. Blood rushed to his skull, pulsing behind his eyes. He tried to move, and that's when he realized—
Upside down.
He was hanging. Ankles tied. Arms still bound behind him. The gag tight in his mouth.
Where—
His vision focused. Dusty floorboards a few feet below his face. An old ceiling beam above. Sunlight filtering through boarded windows.
Then he heard it. A muffled groan.
Jake.
Billy twisted his head, saw his brother hanging beside him. Maybe six feet away. Jake's eyes were open, wild, confused. Their eyes locked.
You okay?
Jake grunted through the gag, nodded slightly. His face was red, flushed from the blood pooling in his head.
Where the hell are we?
Billy tested the ropes around his ankles. Tight. No give. He tried pulling his arms apart behind him. Still bound. Still useless.
Think. Stay calm.
He looked at Jake again, tried to communicate with his eyes. Jake seemed to understand. He nodded toward the corner of the room.
Four men. Sitting. Watching.
The kidnappers.
Billy's chest tightened. His mind raced.
How long have we been out? Does anyone know where we are? Are they looking for us?
Jake started swinging slightly, testing his range of motion. His body twisted, his bound arms straining. He swung again, harder, and Billy understood.
He's trying to get closer.
Billy started swinging too. Small movements at first, then bigger. Their bodies swayed, pendulums in the dusty air. Inch by inch, they got closer.
"Hey!" One of the men stood up. Marcus. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Billy and Jake ignored him, kept swinging. Three feet apart now. Two feet.
Marcus crossed the room fast, grabbed Billy by the shoulder, stopped him mid-swing. "I said stop."
Billy glared at him, growled through the gag.
"You think you're going somewhere?" Marcus shoved Billy hard, sending him spinning. "You're not going anywhere until your daddy pays up."
Jake thrashed, tried to swing toward Marcus, his muffled shouts furious.
"Oh, you got something to say?" Marcus grabbed Jake, yanked him to a stop. "Shut the hell up."
Caleb stood up from the corner. "Marcus, maybe we should—"
"Should what? Let 'em swing around and plan something?" Marcus's voice was sharp, angry. "These are Bensons. They're not helpless."
"They're tied up and hanging upside down," Ethan said quietly.
"And they're still trying shit." Marcus looked at his brothers. "Move 'em apart. More space."
Cole and Ethan got up, grabbed the ropes, and adjusted the beams. They pulled Jake farther away—now ten feet separated the brothers.
Billy's heart sank. Jake looked at him, his eyes full of rage and helplessness.
Marcus stepped between them. "You two want to play games? Fine. Let's play."
He walked up to Billy, grabbed the neck of his white tank top with both hands. Billy's eyes went wide.
No.
Marcus pulled. The fabric resisted, then started to tear. Slowly. The ripping sound filled the room as Marcus tore the tank top straight down the center, exposing Billy's chest and stomach. He pushed the torn halves to the sides, leaving Billy's torso completely bare.
No. No no no.
Marcus pulled his fist back and drove it into Billy's gut.
The air exploded from Billy's lungs. Pain radiated through his stomach, his ribs. He tried to curl up, but he couldn't—he was hanging, helpless, exposed.
Marcus hit him again. And again.
Billy's vision blurred. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream. The gag muffled everything.
"Stop!" Caleb shouted. "Marcus, that's enough!"
But Marcus wasn't listening. He hit Billy one more time, then turned to Jake.
Jake thrashed wildly, his eyes burning with fury. He tried to swing away, but Marcus grabbed him, held him still.
Marcus gripped the neck of Jake's grey tank top and tore it down the center, the fabric ripping slowly, deliberately. He pushed the torn sides away, exposing Jake's muscular torso.
"You want some too?"
Jake growled through the gag, tried to headbutt him, but Marcus stepped back and drove his fist into Jake's stomach.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Jake's body convulsed. His face went from red to purple. His chest heaved, but he couldn't get air.
"Enough!" Ethan grabbed Marcus's arm. "You're gonna kill them!"
Marcus shoved him off. "They'll be fine. Just teaching them a lesson."
He stepped back, breathing hard, looking at the two brothers hanging there—shirts torn open, torsos already bruising red and purple, faces flushed and wet with sweat.
Marcus pulled out his phone.
"What are you doing?" Cole asked.
"Sending proof." Marcus aimed the camera at Billy, snapped a photo of his battered, exposed torso, the bruises already darkening. Then he moved to Jake, took another.
"Maybe this'll motivate daddy to move faster," Marcus muttered, typing out a message.
He hit send.
"You two behave," Marcus said, looking at the brothers. "Or it gets worse."
He walked back to the corner and sat down.
Billy and Jake hung there, gasping through their gags, eyes locked on each other.
We're getting out of this. I don't know how. But we are.
Jake's eyes said the same thing.
Together.
Back at the ranch, Tom's phone buzzed.
He pulled it out, looked at the screen.
Two new photos.
His hands shook as he opened them.
Billy. Jake. Shirts torn open, torsos covered in bruises—red, purple, already swelling. Their faces red and strained, gags still tight.
The message underneath: We're waiting. You have 2 hours.
Tom's knees buckled. Ray caught him.
"Jesus Christ," Ray whispered, looking at the photos.
Pops grabbed the phone, his face going hard as stone.
"Those bastards," Pops growled. "Those goddamn bastards."
In the living room, Sarah's phone buzzed too. She opened it, saw the photos, and screamed.
The women rushed to her side.
"Oh God," Mary whispered. "Oh God, those poor boys."
Sarah was sobbing, shaking. "They're hurting them. They're hurting them."
Upstairs in the Command Center, Jr.'s iPad lit up with the photos. He stared at the screen, his uncles' battered bodies, and his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Those sons of bitches," Jr. said, his voice shaking with rage. "We find them. Now."
Chapter 7: The Rescue
The convoy rolled out in silence.
Six trucks, blacked out, moving fast down the back roads of Kings County. Wade's cruiser led the way, Wilson and Ryan flanking in their patrol vehicles. Behind them, Tom, Pops, Josh, Robert Beaumont, and the other consortium fathers, all armed to the teeth.
In the lead truck, Jr. sat in the passenger seat next to his father Josh, his iPad glowing in the dark. Billy Renzo was in the back seat, coordinating the drone feeds. Louisiana and Daniel Rodriguez were in the truck behind them, Ryan Mattern in the third vehicle—all of them armed with Glocks, watching the screens, feeding intel to the squad.
"Drone Two's got eyes on the farmhouse," Billy Renzo said through the radio. "Two heat signatures still inside. Stationary. That's them."
"Copy that," Wade's voice came through. "ETA three minutes."
Jr.'s jaw was tight, his knuckles white gripping the iPad. On the screen, the thermal feed showed two bodies hanging from a beam. Billy and Jake.
Hold on. We're coming.
In the living room back at the ranch, the women sat huddled around Sarah. Every one of them had an iPad now, watching the drone feeds, listening to the radio chatter.
"They're almost there," Mary whispered, squeezing Sarah's hand.
Sarah couldn't speak. Her eyes were glued to the screen, tears streaming down her face.
"Please, God," Rebecca whispered. "Please bring them home."
The convoy slowed half a mile out. Wade's voice crackled over the radio.
"Kill the lights. We go in quiet."
The trucks went dark. The men climbed out, moving fast and low. Wade, Wilson, and Ryan took point. Pops, Tom, Josh, and the others fanned out behind them.
Jr. and the wiz kids stayed with the trucks, but they were armed, ready, watching the feeds.
"Drone Three, give me a perimeter scan," Jr. said quietly into his radio.
"Perimeter's clear," Ryan Mattern's voice came back. "No vehicles. No movement outside. Just the four inside."
"Copy," Wade said. He looked at Pops. "On my signal."
Pops nodded, his face hard as stone. Tom was beside him, his rifle gripped tight, his eyes burning.
Wade raised his fist. Three fingers. Two. One.
Wilson lobbed the flash bomb through a broken window.
The explosion was blinding. Deafening.
"Go! Go! Go!"
The squad stormed the farmhouse. Doors kicked in. Boots pounding. Guns raised.
Inside, the four kidnappers were on the ground, stunned, clutching their ears. Marcus tried to reach for a gun, but Wilson was on him in a second, slamming him face-first into the floor.
"Don't even think about it," Wilson growled, yanking Marcus's arms behind his back.
Ryan Nelson grabbed Caleb, zip-tied his wrists. Ethan and Cole didn't even fight—they were on their knees, hands up, terrified.
"Clear!" Wade shouted.
Tom burst into the room and froze.
Billy and Jake. Hanging upside down, shirts torn open, torsos covered in bruises, gags still tight in their mouths. Their eyes were half-open, dazed, exhausted.
"Billy! Jake!" Tom ran to them, his voice breaking.
Pops was right behind him. "Get 'em down! Now!"
Josh and Robert grabbed the ropes, started lowering them carefully. Tom caught Billy, held him steady as his feet touched the ground. Pops caught Jake.
"Easy, boys. Easy. We got you."
Billy's legs buckled. Tom held him up, started working the gag loose. Jake collapsed against Pops, his chest heaving.
"You're okay. You're safe now. We got you," Tom said, his voice shaking.
The gag came off. Billy gasped, coughed, his throat raw.
"Dad—"
"Shh. Don't talk. Just breathe."
Pops cut the ropes around Jake's wrists, his forearms, his biceps. The rope fell away, and Jake groaned, his arms finally free. Pops did the same for Billy.
Billy and Jake stumbled to their feet, rubbing their wrists, wincing at the rope burns. Their eyes locked on the four kidnappers—now bound, on their knees, terrified.
Marcus looked up at them, his face pale.
"Please—we didn't mean—"
Billy took two steps forward and kicked him in the ribs.
Hard.
Marcus gasped, doubled over.
Jake moved next, his eyes blazing with fury. He kicked Caleb in the gut.
"That's for hitting me, you son of a bitch."
Billy kicked Marcus again. "And that's for my brother."
"Alright, that's enough," Wade said, stepping between them. "They're going to jail. Let the law handle it now."
Billy and Jake were breathing hard, their chests heaving, but they stepped back.
Wade looked at Wilson and Ryan. "Get these bastards in the cruiser. Read 'em their rights."
"Yes, sir."
The deputies hauled the four kidnappers out of the farmhouse.
Pops put his hand on Billy's shoulder. "You boys alright?"
Billy nodded, his throat tight. "Yeah. We're good."
Jake looked at Tom. "How'd you find us?"
Tom smiled, his eyes wet. "Your radios. Jr. pinged them."
Billy laughed, wincing at the pain in his ribs. "That kid's a damn genius."
"Yeah, he is," Tom said.
Outside, Jr. was pacing by the trucks, his iPad still in his hand. The moment he saw Billy and Jake stumble out of the farmhouse, he broke into a run.
"Billy! Jake!"
The brothers turned, saw him coming. Billy grinned.
"Hey, Jr."
Jr. stopped in front of them, his eyes wet. "You guys okay?"
"We're alive," Jake said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Thanks to you."
"You found us," Billy said. "You and the boys. Hell of a job."
Jr. nodded, his jaw tight. "Nobody messes with this family."
"Damn right," Billy said.
Pops pulled out his phone and called Sarah.
"We got 'em," he said when she answered. "They're safe. We're bringing them home."
Sarah's sob of relief came through the phone. "Oh, thank God. Thank God."
"Listen, Sarah," Pops said, grinning around his cigar. "You think you could call the ladies? See if they got any leftovers? These boys are gonna need to eat when we get back."
Sarah laughed through her tears. "Leftovers? Pops, between all of us, we could feed an army."
"Good. Then round 'em up. We're celebrating tonight."
"I'll call everyone right now."
Pops hung up and looked at the men. "Alright, let's get these boys home."
Back at the ranch, Sarah hung up the phone, her hands shaking with joy and relief. She turned to the women gathered in the living room.
"They're safe. They're coming home."
The room erupted. Mary grabbed Sarah and hugged her tight. Rebecca and Caroline were crying. Edna and Anna were holding each other, laughing and sobbing at the same time.
"Alright, ladies," Sarah said, wiping her eyes. "Pops wants us to pull together whatever food we've got. We're having a celebration dinner."
Mary was already pulling out her phone. "I'll call home. We've got a whole ham from this morning."
"We've got that brisket Robert smoked yesterday," Caroline said, grabbing her keys. "I'll run home and get it."
"I made a pot roast last night," Mrs. Renzo said. "There's plenty left."
"We've got cornbread and beans," Mrs. Mattern added.
"Potato salad," Mrs. Rodriguez said. "And coleslaw."
Within minutes, the women were scattering—some rushing to their homes, others coordinating in the kitchen. Trucks pulled out of the driveway, headed to grab food. Phones were ringing. Lists were being made.
Sarah stood in the middle of it all, coordinating like a general.
"Edna, when they get back, set up the tables outside. Anna, grab the extra chairs from the barn. Rebecca, get the coolers ready—we'll need ice."
The women moved with purpose, their voices rising in laughter and relief. The nightmare was over. The boys were home.
And tonight, they would feast.
Chapter 8: Celebration
By the time the convoy rolled back into the ranch, the sun was setting and the smell of barbecue filled the air.
The women had worked fast. Tables were set up outside under the big oak trees, covered with checkered tablecloths. Coolers full of beer and sweet tea sat at the ends. And the food—Jesus, the food.
Smoked brisket. Honey-glazed ham. Pot roast. Ribs. Cornbread. Potato salad. Coleslaw. Baked beans. Mac and cheese. Pies cooling on the side table.
"Holy hell," Jake muttered as they pulled up. "They really did bring out everything."
Billy grinned, even though his ribs ached. "Told you. Ranch women don't mess around."
Sarah was the first one out the door. She ran to the truck, pulled Billy and Jake into her arms again, holding them tight.
"My boys," she whispered. "Thank God."
"We're okay, Mama," Billy said softly. "We're home."
Tom came up beside her, put his hand on Jake's shoulder. "You two hungry?"
Jake laughed. "Starving."
"Then let's eat."
The families gathered around the tables. Pops stood at the head, a beer in one hand, a cigar in the other.
"Alright, you sons of bitches," Pops said, his voice carrying over the crowd. "Before we dig in, I want to say something."
Everyone quieted down.
"Today could've gone real bad. But it didn't. Because this family—this consortium—looks out for each other. We don't back down. We don't leave our own behind. And when somebody messes with us, we come together and we hit back hard."
The men raised their beers. "Damn right."
"So here's to Billy and Jake," Pops said, raising his beer higher. "Tough as nails. And to Jr. and the wiz kids, who found 'em. And to every man here who rode out with me tonight. We got our boys back. Now let's eat."
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Plates were loaded. Beer bottles opened. The food disappeared fast. Billy and Jake sat at the center of it all, still bruised and exhausted, but grinning, soaking it in.
"How you feeling?" Celeb asked, sitting down next to Billy with a plate piled high.
"Like I got my ass kicked," Billy said, wincing as he shifted. "But I'm alive."
"Could've been worse," Jake said, popping open a beer. "Could've been those bastards."
Celeb laughed. "You two got some good kicks in before Wade stopped you."
"Not enough," Billy muttered.
The night went on. Stories were told. Laughter rose. Jr. and the wiz kids were getting slaps on the back from everyone, their egos swelling with every compliment.
"You boys did damn good work today," Robert Beaumont said, shaking Jr.'s hand. "That tech setup saved lives."
"Just doing our job," Jr. said, grinning.
"Your job?" Louisiana laughed. "Hell, Jr., you're sixteen. You just coordinated a tactical rescue like you were running SWAT."
"Damn right I did," Jr. said, taking a swig of his beer.
Billy Renzo leaned back in his chair. "We're a hell of a team."
"Best in the county," Ryan Mattern added.
Pops walked over, puffing on his cigar. "You boys feeling pretty proud of yourselves?"
"Yes, sir," Jr. said.
"Good. You earned it." Pops paused, his eyes glinting. "But let me ask you something. You think you're tough enough to do what Billy and Jake did today?"
Jr. frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, tied up. Arms behind your back. Hanging upside down. You think you could handle that?"
Louisiana scoffed. "Hell, Pops, we could break out of that easy."
Pops raised an eyebrow. "That so?"
"Yeah," Jr. said, leaning forward. "We're not saying it wouldn't suck, but if we were tied up, we'd get out."
Billy, Jake, and Celeb looked at each other and grinned.
"Oh really?" Billy said, standing up slowly, wincing at his sore ribs.
"You think you could break free?" Jake added, cracking his knuckles.
"Absolutely," Louisiana said confidently. "Hell, I bet we could."
Pops pulled out his wallet, slapped a hundred-dollar bill on the table. "Alright. Hundred bucks says you can't."
Jr.'s eyes lit up. "You're on."
"Wait, wait," Billy said, holding up a hand. "If we're doing this, we do it right. Not hanging upside down—that's too much. But hogtied. Arms and legs. You break free, you win the hundred."
"Deal," Jr. said immediately.
Louisiana nodded. "Easy money."
"Alright then," Celeb said, standing up. "Let's do this."
Billy, Jake, and Celeb grabbed rope from the barn—thick, rough ranch rope. The crowd gathered around, laughing, placing side bets.
"This is gonna be good," Pops said, grinning.
Jr. and Louisiana stood in the middle of the yard, cocky and grinning.
"You boys ready?" Billy asked.
"Born ready," Jr. said.
"Alright. Hands behind your back."
Jr. and Louisiana put their hands behind them. Billy, Jake, and Celeb got to work.
They started with the wrists—tight, overlapping loops, cinched hard. Then the forearms. Then up to the biceps, lashing their arms together just like the kidnappers had done.
"Jesus, that's tight," Jr. muttered.
"You want loose?" Billy said. "That's not how this works."
Next came the legs. They tied their ankles together, then their calves, then bent their legs back and connected the ankle ropes to the ropes around their arms.
Hogtied.
Jr. and Louisiana lay on the ground, faces in the dirt, arms and legs pulled back and bound tight.
"Alright," Jake said, stepping back. "Clock starts now."
Jr. immediately started thrashing, trying to twist his wrists free. Louisiana arched his back, tried to get leverage.
Nothing.
The ropes didn't budge.
"Come on, Jr.!" Billy Renzo shouted from the sidelines. "You got this!"
"Shut up!" Jr. grunted, pulling harder.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
The crowd was howling with laughter now.
"Not so easy, is it?" Celeb called out.
"Goddamn it!" Louisiana cursed, his face red from the strain. "This is bullshit!"
"You said you could break free," Jake said, taking a swig of his beer. "So break free."
Jr. tried again, twisting, pulling, arching his back. His wrists were burning. His shoulders ached. The ropes held.
"Alright, alright," Jr. gasped. "We give up. Untie us."
"Give up?" Billy said, grinning. "Aw, but you were doing so good."
"Billy, come on. Untie us."
"Nah," Jake said, sitting down in a chair. "I think we'll let you sit there for a bit. Think about your choices."
"What?!" Louisiana shouted. "You can't leave us like this!"
"Sure we can," Celeb said, grabbing another beer. "You made the bet."
The crowd erupted in laughter. Pops walked over, picked up the hundred-dollar bill, and tucked it back in his wallet.
"Guess that stays with me," Pops said, grinning.
Jr. and Louisiana lay there in the dirt, hogtied, cursing under their breath, watching the party go on around them.
"This is bullshit," Jr. muttered.
"Shoulda kept your mouth shut," Louisiana said.
Billy raised his beer. "To Jr. and Louisiana. The toughest kids in Kings County. Until they got tied up."
The crowd roared with laughter. Jr. and Louisiana glared from the ground, helpless and humiliated.
And the party went on.
