Chapter 1
The Texas sun hammered down like a punishment. By noon, the temperature had pushed past 98, and there wasn't a breath of wind across the southern pasture of the Benson Ranch. The air shimmered over the fence line where Celab and his cousin Colt had been working since dawn.
"Jesus Christ, this wire's hotter than Satan's ballsack," Celab muttered, jerking his gloved hand back from the fence post.
Colt—Louisiana, as Pops had nicknamed him the day he arrived from Baton Rouge—laughed from where he crouched by the wire spool. The kid was shirtless, his brown skin slick with sweat and dust, and he'd tied a bandana around his head to keep the salt out of his eyes. "That's what you get for touching it bare-handed, genius."
"I got gloves on!"
"Thin-ass gloves," Colt said, grinning. "What'd you do, steal those from the kitchen?"
Celab flipped him off and went back to hammering the staple into the post. They'd been assigned the south fence line—just the two of them—while the rest of the consortium families were scattered across the massive ranch operation. Billy and Jake were moving cattle on the north range. Josh and Ray were in town meeting with feed suppliers. Tom and the Beaumonts were checking water wells on the western section. Jr. had spent the day in the barn doing maintenance on the equipment.
The Benson Ranch, along with the five other consortium families, covered nearly a third of Kings County. On a day like this, you could work a full shift and never see another soul.
Celab and Colt worked in synchronized rhythm—stretching wire, positioning posts, securing staples. They'd been doing this together for over a year now, ever since the Beaumonts joined the consortium and Celab moved into the frat house. Colt had followed six months later, fresh out of high school in Baton Rouge, and now slept on a mattress wedged between the two bunk beds that Celab shared with Billy, Jake, and Jr.
Around one-thirty, Celab straightened up and wiped the sweat from his face. "How much more we got?"
Colt squinted at the fence line. "Maybe half a section. Another thirty minutes, tops."
"Good. I'm about to melt into this goddamn dirt."
"You and me both."
They finished just after two, their hands raw even through the gloves, their shirts—or in Colt's case, the lack of one—soaked through with sweat. Celab had stripped his off an hour ago, and his dirty white tank top hung from his back pocket. They loaded the tools into the bed of the truck and headed back toward the Ranch house, kicking up a plume of dust on the dirt road.
"Shower, beer, then maybe we can help Jr. with whatever he's doing in the barn," Celab said.
"Long as there's cold beer involved," Colt said. "I could drink the whole cooler."
They parked the truck by the barn and walked up to the Ranch house—a sprawling two-story structure that had grown over generations, rooms added like limbs on a tree. The frat house was on the second floor, tucked in the east corner next to what they now called the command center. Pops had cleared out the old storage room six months ago when Jr. and the wiz kids upgraded the consortium's communication and surveillance systems. Now it was packed with monitors, satellite phones, encrypted radios, drones, and enough tech to run a small military operation.
Celab and Colt climbed the stairs, their boots heavy on the wood. The hallway was dim and cool compared to the furnace outside, and the faint hum of air conditioning was a blessing.
That's when Celab noticed the door.
The command center door was wide open.
"Hold up," he said, stopping.
Colt looked. "Jr. never leaves that unlocked."
"Never," Celab agreed.
The lock was busted—splintered wood around the frame, the deadbolt hanging loose. Through the doorway, Celab could see overturned chairs, cables pulled loose, empty spaces on the desk where consoles used to be.
"Shit," Colt breathed.
Celab stepped forward. "We need to—"
Three men came out fast.
Celab didn't even have time to shout before he saw the guns. Colt started to backpedal, but one of the men was already on him, swinging something hard—a pistol grip, maybe, or a baton. Celab felt the crack against the side of his head, a white-hot flash of pain, and then the floor rushed up to meet him.
Celab woke up in the dark.
His head throbbed, a dull ache that pulsed with every heartbeat. His mouth was dry, tasting like copper and dirt. He tried to move his arms and realized he couldn't.
Rope. Tight around his wrists. His forearms were bound together, his elbows cinched close behind his back. His shoulders screamed in protest. He could feel more rope around his biceps, pulling him backward, and when he tried to shift, he realized he was tied to something—someone.
"Colt?" he rasped.
A groan answered him. "Yeah. I'm here."
"You alright?"
"No. You?"
"No."
Celab blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness. They were in a barn—he could smell hay and old wood, and there was a faint sliver of moonlight coming through a gap in the walls. Cold air bit at his bare skin. He realized he was still shirtless, and Colt was the same.
"They tied us back to back," Colt said, his voice tight with pain.
Celab tested the ropes. His wrists were lashed together behind him, and yeah, his back was pressed against Colt's. Their biceps were tied to each other's. And his ankles—Jesus, his ankles were bent backward, tied to something at neck level. Colt's neck, he realized. They were hogtied together, a human knot in the middle of a freezing barn.
"What the hell happened?" Colt muttered.
"Command center," Celab said, the memory coming back in fragments. "Three guys. Guns."
"They took us."
"Yeah."
Silence. Then Colt said, "You think they got the equipment?"
"Looked like it. Three consoles were gone when I looked in."
Another silence, longer this time. Celab's wrists burned where the rope dug in, and his shoulders felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets. He tried to wiggle his fingers and found he still could, which was something.
"We gotta get out of here," Colt said.
"Yeah," Celab agreed. "We do."
But in the cold, dark barn, tied up tighter than a calf at branding, neither of them had any idea how.
Chapter 2
Billy Jr. wiped the grease from his hands and stepped back to admire his work. The tractor's engine purred smooth now, no more of that rattling knock that had been driving him crazy for the past week. He'd spent most of the day in the barn, elbow-deep in machinery, and his back ached from hunching over the engine block.
He glanced at his phone. 3:47 PM.
Anna had texted him twice asking if he wanted to come over later, and the other three wiz kids—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—had been blowing up the group chat about the new drone calibration they wanted to test. Jr. typed back a quick response, then headed for the barn door.
The afternoon heat hit him like a wall. Even at almost four o'clock, the Texas sun showed no mercy. He could see the dust trail from somebody's truck way out on the north range—probably his uncles Billy and Jake bringing the cattle back in.
Jr. crossed the yard toward the Ranch house, his boots kicking up little clouds of dust. He needed a shower, some cold water, and maybe to grab one of the beers from the frat house stash before dinner. His grandmother Sarah would be starting pot roast soon, and if he showed up at the table looking like a grease monkey, she'd have words for him.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor, the familiar creak of the wood beneath his feet. The hallway was blessedly cool, the AC humming quietly.
That's when he saw it.
The command center door was wide open, hanging at an odd angle.
Jr. stopped cold. The deadbolt was busted, wood splintered around the frame like someone had kicked it in. His stomach dropped.
"What the hell?"
He stepped forward carefully, his hand instinctively reaching for his phone. Through the doorway, he could see chaos—chairs overturned, cables ripped loose and dangling, three empty spaces on the desk where the main consoles used to be. Papers scattered across the floor. The surveillance monitor was dark, unplugged.
And on the floor, near the door: two radios. Celab's and Colt's. Jr. recognized them immediately—they each had their names scratched into the back casing.
His heart kicked into high gear.
"Celab? Louisiana?" he called out, his voice tight.
Nothing.
Jr. knelt down and picked up one of the radios. There were scuff marks on the floor, like someone had been dragged. And near the doorframe—Jesus—a few short pieces of rope, cut ends frayed.
"Shit. Shit."
He pulled out his phone and hit the emergency button—the one that activated the 911 system they'd installed six months ago. The automated voice kicked in immediately, broadcasting across every encrypted radio and satellite phone in the consortium network.
"911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior Benson."
Then Jr. pressed the button that opened the channel and spoke into his phone. "This is Jr. at the Ranch house. Command center's been broken into. Equipment's gone. Celab and Louisiana's radios are on the floor and there's signs of a struggle. I need everyone back here now."
Within thirty minutes, the Ranch house was swarming with people.
Tom and Josh arrived first, followed by Sheriff Wade Nelson and his sons Wilson and Ryan. Sarah came up from the kitchen, her face pale when she saw the busted door, and Rebecca right behind her. Ray showed up ten minutes later with Robert and Caroline Beaumont. Caroline's face was ashen, her hand gripping Robert's arm. Mary Nelson arrived with Edna, both women rushing up the stairs.
Pops climbed the stairs slower than the rest, his jaw set, a rocks glass of Jack Daniel's still in his hand.
Billy and Jake came thundering in last, sweaty and wild-eyed from riding hard back from the north range.
"What happened?" Billy demanded, shoving past Ryan Nelson to get a look at the command center.
"Someone broke in," Jr. said. "Took three consoles. Left Celab and Louisiana's radios on the floor."
Caroline's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God. Where are they?"
Jake's face went white. "Where are they, Jr.?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"I mean they're not here, Jake!" Jr. snapped. "I found the room like this twenty minutes ago."
Caroline started forward, but Robert caught her arm gently. "Let them work, honey."
Pops stepped forward, his voice gravelly and calm. "Easy, boys. Jr., you call the wiz kids?"
"They're on their way. Should be here in ten."
"Good." Pops took a sip of his whiskey and surveyed the wreckage. "Wade, you got people you can call?"
Sheriff Nelson nodded. "I'll get Wilson and Ryan on it. But if this just happened, they could be anywhere by now."
"Maybe not," Jr. said. "We've got surveillance cameras all over this place. If we can get the backup consoles up and running, we can pull the footage."
Tom clapped his grandson on the shoulder. "Do it."
The wiz kids arrived fifteen minutes later in Billy Renzo's truck—Billy, Ryan, and Daniel piling out with duffel bags full of equipment. They hauled three backup consoles up the stairs and went to work without a word, their hands moving fast, plugging in cables and booting up systems.
Jr. worked alongside them, his jaw tight. The room was crowded now—too many people standing around watching—but nobody wanted to leave. Sarah had her arm around Caroline's shoulders. Rebecca stood close to Josh, her nurse's training keeping her calm even as worry etched her face. Edna was pressed against the wall next to Billy, her face tight with fear.
It took another twenty minutes to get the system online.
"Okay," Jr. said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "Pulling up the hallway camera. Time stamp... around 2:15 PM."
The monitor flickered to life.
Everyone leaned in.
The footage showed Celab and Colt walking up the stairs, sweaty and shirtless, talking to each other. They stopped at the command center door, noticed it was open. Celab stepped forward—
Then three men came out fast.
Caroline gasped, and Sarah's grip on her shoulder tightened.
Jake sucked in a breath.
The men had guns. One of them swung something—a pistol, maybe—and Celab went down hard. Colt tried to backpedal, but another man grabbed him, hit him. Both cousins crumpled to the floor.
"Jesus," Billy whispered. Edna's hand found his.
"Those bastards," Caroline breathed, her voice shaking.
The men moved quickly after that. They dragged Celab and Colt inside the command center, out of the camera's view. Five minutes later, they reappeared, hauling the cousins—now bound hand and foot, unconscious—down the hallway. Two other men followed, carrying the stolen consoles.
Jr. switched to the exterior camera.
The footage showed a truck parked near the barn. The men loaded Celab and Colt into the bed like sacks of feed, tossed the equipment in after them, and climbed into the cab. The truck pulled away, kicking up dust.
"Can you get a plate?" Wade asked.
Jr. zoomed in, enhanced the image. "No. It's covered. But I've got the make and model. Looks like a Ford F-250, dark blue, maybe ten years old. Dent in the passenger door."
"That's something," Wade said.
Jake's phone buzzed.
He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and went completely still.
"Jake?" Billy said.
Jake's hand was shaking. Slowly, he turned the phone around so everyone could see.
The image on the screen made Sarah and Caroline both cry out.
It was Celab and Colt, tied up in what looked like a barn. They were back to back, ropes binding their wrists, arms, and ankles in a brutal hogtie. Both of them were shirtless, their faces tight with pain. The photo was clear enough to see the fear in their eyes.
Below the image was a single line of text:
$50,000. Instructions coming soon.
The room went dead silent except for Caroline's sharp intake of breath. Robert pulled her close.
Then Pops spoke, his voice low and dangerous. "Fifty thousand dollars."
"That's it?" Ray said, incredulous. "Those consoles alone are worth more than that."
"They're amateurs," Tom said quietly.
Wade nodded. "Has to be. Professionals would've asked for ten times that. And they wouldn't have left surveillance footage."
Jake was still staring at the phone, his jaw clenched so tight Billy thought his teeth might crack.
"We're getting them back," Jake said.
"Damn right we are," Pops said. He drained his whiskey and set the glass down on the desk with a hard clink. "Jr., can you track that truck?"
"Maybe," Jr. said. "If I can get the drones in the air, use thermal imaging—"
"Do it," Tom said. "Wade, Robert, you're with me. Josh, Ray, Billy, Jake—grab your gear. We're going after them."
"I'm coming too," Caroline said, her voice steel.
"Caroline—" Robert started.
"Those are my boys," she said. "I'm coming."
Sarah stepped forward. "We'll stay here and coordinate. Rebecca, you should get your medical kit ready, just in case."
Rebecca nodded, already moving. "I'll be ready."
Billy put his hand on Jake's shoulder. "We'll find them."
Jake didn't answer. He just kept staring at the photo, his knuckles white around his phone.
And in the background, Jr. was already launching the drones.
Chapter 3
The cold had seeped into Celab's bones. He didn't know how long they'd been in the barn—an hour? Two? Time blurred when you were trussed up like a rodeo calf in the dark.
"You still with me, Louisiana?" he said.
"Yeah," Colt grunted. "Barely."
Celab tested the ropes again. His wrists were bound tight behind his back, forearms lashed together, elbows cinched close. Their backs were pressed together, biceps tied to each other. And his ankles—Jesus, his ankles were bent backward and tied to Colt's neck in some kind of brutal hogtie configuration.
But here's the thing: whoever tied them wasn't very good at it.
"These knots are shit," Celab said.
"Yeah?" Colt's voice was tight with pain. "Feel pretty damn tight to me."
"Tight, yeah. But not tight enough." Celab wiggled his fingers. He could still move them, still get some circulation. That was the first mistake. "If Pops tied us up, we'd be screwed. But these guys? Amateurs."
"So what do we do?"
"Work the ropes. See if we can get some slack."
They started moving—carefully, methodically. Celab twisted his wrists back and forth, feeling for any give in the rope. The hemp bit into his skin, burning with each movement, but he kept at it. Behind him, Colt was doing the same.
"There's gotta be a weak point," Celab muttered through gritted teeth. "These assholes didn't know what they were doing."
"Easy for you to say. My neck's about to snap off."
"Sorry. Just... hold still for a second."
Celab changed tactics. Instead of pulling against the rope, he started working his thumb, trying to create space between his wrist and the binding. It was slow, painful work. His shoulders screamed from being wrenched backward for so long, and the rope had rubbed his wrists raw.
Minutes stretched on. Maybe ten. Maybe twenty. Celab lost track.
"Wait," he said suddenly. "I got something. There's slack on my left side."
"Keep going."
Celab twisted harder, ignoring the burning pain. His left hand was smaller than his right—always had been—and if he could just compress his thumb enough...
The rope shifted. Just a fraction of an inch, but it was something.
"Come on, come on," he breathed.
He pulled, twisted, felt the rope scrape across his knuckles. Then—suddenly—his left hand slipped through.
"Got it!" he gasped. "My hand's free!"
"Thank Christ," Colt said. "Now get the rest of us out of this."
With one hand free, Celab could reach the knots binding his other wrist. His fingers were clumsy from the cold and the restricted blood flow, but he worked the rope loose, feeling for the tail end. These idiots had used basic square knots—the kind you learned in Boy Scouts. Nothing fancy. Nothing secure.
The second knot gave way, and both his hands were free.
"Okay," Celab said, shaking out his hands, trying to get feeling back. "Now the forearms."
That took another few minutes—the rope around their forearms and elbows was tighter, wrapped multiple times. But without the wrist restraints, Celab could maneuver better. He found the end of the rope, unwound it once, twice, three times, and suddenly his arms were free.
His shoulders screamed as he brought them forward for the first time in hours. He rolled them, wincing.
"Jesus, that hurts," he muttered.
"You and me both. Now get my ankles off my neck before I pass out."
Celab bent forward carefully. The rope connecting his ankles to Colt's neck was pulled tight—too tight. He worked his fingers between the rope and Colt's skin, feeling for the knot.
"Easy," Colt said, his voice strained. "That's my windpipe."
"I know, I know. Almost got it."
The knot was behind Colt's neck, hard to reach. Celab had to twist around, ignoring the pain in his back and legs, until he could get both hands on it. He picked at the knot, loosening one loop, then another.
Finally, it gave.
The tension released all at once, and Celab's legs dropped forward. He gasped as blood rushed back into his feet, pins and needles shooting up his calves.
"Oh God, that hurts," he said.
"Better than being bent backward," Colt said. "Now get me loose."
Celab turned around—they were still tied bicep-to-bicep—and started working on Colt's wrist bindings. These were even sloppier than his own. Within a few minutes, Colt's hands were free, and they made quick work of the rest.
When the last rope fell away, they both just sat there for a moment, breathing hard, rubbing their wrists and ankles.
"How long you think that took?" Colt asked.
"I don't know. Thirty minutes? Forty?"
"Felt like hours."
"Yeah." Celab stood up slowly, testing his legs. They were shaky but functional. "We gotta get out of here before they come back."
"Yeah." Colt got to his feet, wobbling slightly. "But first—" He patted his pockets. "They take your phone?"
"Yeah. You?"
Colt felt around in his jeans. Then his face lit up. "Holy shit. They left it."
"Are you serious?"
"Dead serious." Colt pulled the phone from his back pocket, the screen glowing in the darkness. "Battery's at thirty percent."
"Call the Ranch. Now."
Back at the Ranch house, the command center hummed with activity. Jr. and the wiz kids had three drones in the air, their thermal cameras scanning County Road 47 and the surrounding properties. Wade was on his radio coordinating with Wilson and Ryan, who were checking known abandoned properties in the area.
Caroline Beaumont stood by the window, her arms wrapped around herself. Sarah came up beside her with two mugs of coffee.
"They'll be alright," Sarah said quietly. "Those boys are tougher than they look."
"I know," Caroline said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But seeing that picture—"
"I know, honey." Sarah squeezed her shoulder.
Rebecca was at the table with a medical kit spread out, doing inventory. Mary Nelson sat beside her, cell phone in hand, ready to relay information. Edna paced near the door.
"We've got a hit," Jr. called out suddenly. "Thermal signature matching the truck. Old Simmons farm, fifteen miles northeast off County Road 47."
Tom was already moving. "Wade, Robert, let's go. Josh, Ray, you're with us."
Billy and Jake were at the door before Tom finished speaking.
Robert paused to kiss Caroline's cheek. "We'll bring them home."
"You better," she said, her eyes fierce despite the tears threatening to spill.
The men thundered down the stairs. Truck engines roared to life. Billy and Jake mounted their horses.
Pops appeared in the doorway, fresh whiskey in hand. "You ladies hold down the fort. I'm going with them."
"Pops—" Sarah started.
"Don't 'Pops' me, woman. Those are my boys out there." He was down the stairs before she could argue.
In the command center, Jr.'s phone rang. He snatched it up. "Louisiana?"
Everyone in the room froze.
"Yeah, it's me," Colt's voice came through, and Jr. hit the speaker button immediately. "We're okay. We got free."
Caroline's hand flew to her mouth, tears spilling over. Sarah grabbed her in a tight hug.
"Where the hell are you?" Jr. asked.
"Some barn. We don't know exactly—"
"Hold on." Jr.'s fingers flew across the keyboard. "I'm tracking your signal now. Got it. Old Simmons property off County Road 47. The guys are already on their way to you."
"How long?" Celab's voice came through now.
"Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes."
"Good. Because we're not planning to just sit here."
Rebecca leaned toward the phone. "Celab, Colt—are either of you hurt?"
"We're fine, Mrs. Benson," Celab said. "Just pissed off."
Pops' voice crackled through the radio from his truck. "That's my boys. What're you thinking?"
"We're thinking these assholes need to learn a lesson, Pops," Celab said. "And there's a gun rack on the wall here."
"Celab—" Caroline started, but the line had already gone dead.
She looked at Sarah, her eyes wide. "Did he just—"
"Yep," Sarah said, a small smile tugging at her lips despite everything. "Robert's gonna have a heart attack."
Celab and Colt moved quickly across the barn. The gun rack was mounted on the wall near the door—two hunting rifles and a shotgun. Celab grabbed one of the rifles, checked the chamber. Loaded.
Colt took the shotgun. "You think they're in the house?"
"Only one way to find out."
They crept to the barn door and peered out. The moonlight illuminated a sagging farmhouse about fifty yards away. Light flickered in one of the windows—probably a TV or a lantern. And parked near the porch: the blue Ford F-250.
"There," Celab whispered.
They heard voices—young, arguing. One of them laughed, high-pitched and nervous.
"Definitely kids," Colt muttered.
Celab nodded. "Let's go."
They crossed the yard low and fast, keeping to the shadows. When they reached the porch, Celab pressed his back against the wall and listened. Three voices, maybe four. One of them was saying something about selling the consoles in Dallas.
Celab looked at Colt. Colt nodded.
Then Celab kicked the door open.
"Freeze!"
The scene inside was almost comical. Three boys—none of them older than sixteen or seventeen—sat around a card table with the stolen consoles piled in the corner. They all jumped, eyes wide, hands going up instinctively.
"Don't move!" Colt shouted, leveling the shotgun.
One of the boys started to reach for something—a pistol on the table—but Celab stepped forward and slammed the rifle butt into his hand. The kid yelped and jerked back.
"Bad idea," Celab said.
"Who the hell are you?" one of the other boys stammered.
"We're the guys you kidnapped, dipshit," Colt said. "Now sit down and shut up."
They sat.
Celab grabbed a length of rope from the corner—ironically, probably the same rope they'd been tied with—and started binding the boys' hands behind their backs. Colt kept the shotgun trained on them, his jaw tight.
"Y'all are in a world of hurt," Colt said.
"We didn't mean—" one of the boys started.
"Shut up," Celab said, cinching the knots extra tight. "You didn't mean to break into our command center? Didn't mean to steal fifty grand worth of equipment? Didn't mean to knock us out and hogtie us in a freezing barn?"
The kid's mouth snapped shut.
By the time headlights appeared in the distance, the three amateur kidnappers were tied up on the floor, and Celab and Colt were sitting on the porch with the rifles across their laps.
Sheriff Wade Nelson's truck pulled up first, followed by Tom's, then Robert's. Josh, Ray, Billy, and Jake came in Josh's truck, and Pops brought up the rear. Billy and Jake had their horses in the trailer.
Jake vaulted out of the truck before it fully stopped. "You guys alright?"
"We're fine," Celab said, standing up. "But those three inside? Not so much."
Robert crossed the porch in three strides and pulled Celab into a fierce hug. "Don't ever scare your mother like that again."
"Yes sir," Celab said, his voice muffled against Robert's shoulder.
Wade walked past them into the house, took one look at the bound boys on the floor, and shook his head. "Well, I'll be damned."
Billy came up on the porch, grinning. "You hogtied them?"
"Seemed appropriate," Colt said.
Pops came up onto the porch last, his whiskey glass still in hand. He looked at Celab and Colt, then at the rifles, then at the three boys tied up inside. A slow grin spread across his weathered face.
"That's my boys," he said, raising his glass. "That's my goddamn boys."
Tom clapped Celab on the shoulder. "Your mother's waiting by the phone. You better call her before she has a stroke."
Celab pulled out Colt's phone and dialed. Caroline answered before the first ring finished.
"We're okay, Mama," he said. "We're coming home."
Through the phone, they could hear Caroline crying—and Sarah and Rebecca and Mary cheering in the background.
Chapter 4
By the time the convoy rolled back into the Benson Ranch, it was past eleven at night. The kitchen lights were blazing, and the smell of pot roast drifted across the yard.
Sarah stood on the porch, arms crossed, waiting. Caroline was beside her, and the moment Robert's truck stopped, she was off the porch and pulling Celab into a fierce hug.
"Don't you ever—" she started, her voice breaking.
"I know, Mama. I'm sorry."
Colt got the same treatment, Caroline holding both cousins at arm's length to look them over. "Are you hurt? Did they—"
"We're fine," Celab said. "Promise."
Rebecca came out next, her nurse's eyes scanning them both. "Let me see your wrists."
"Mrs. Benson, we're okay—"
"Wrists. Now."
They held out their arms. The rope burns were angry and red, but nothing serious. Rebecca nodded, satisfied. "I'll get some ointment after dinner."
"Dinner?" Colt said hopefully.
Sarah smiled. "You think I'd let my boys come home without feeding them? Get inside. All of you."
The dining room table was packed. Tom and Sarah at the ends, Pops with his whiskey at his usual spot, Josh and Rebecca, Ray, Robert and Caroline, Billy and Jake, Celab and Colt, Jr. and his girlfriend Anna, who'd shown up while they were gone. Edna sat next to Billy, holding his hand under the table.
The pot roast was perfect—tender meat, potatoes, carrots, all of it swimming in Sarah's gravy. For a while, nobody talked, just ate.
Then Jake set down his fork and grinned at Celab. "So. How long'd it take you to get out of those ropes?"
Celab shrugged. "I don't know. Thirty minutes? Forty?"
"Forty minutes?" Billy laughed. "That's it?"
"They were amateurs," Colt said. "Knots were shit."
"Still," Jake said. "Forty minutes hogtied. That's not bad."
"Not bad?" Celab shot back. "I'd like to see you do better."
"I could do better."
"Bullshit."
Billy leaned forward. "I could get out in twenty."
"Twenty?" Celab said. "No way."
"Way."
Jr. spoke up from the end of the table. "I bet I could do it in fifteen."
The wiz kids—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—who'd been invited to stay for dinner, all started talking at once.
"Fifteen? That's nothing—"
"I could do ten—"
"Y'all are full of it—"
Pops set down his glass with a hard clink. The table went quiet.
"You boys talking a lot of shit," he said mildly.
Jake grinned. "Just saying, Pops. Those kidnappers didn't know what they were doing. A real hogtie? That's different."
"You think so?"
"Yeah."
Pops took a long sip of his Jack Daniel's, his eyes sweeping across the boys at the table. "Alright. Here's the deal. Hundred-dollar bet. First one out wins."
The boys all sat up straighter.
"But," Pops continued, "I tie the knots. Vietnam style. The way I learned in the jungle when we had to secure VC prisoners with nothing but paracord and spite."
Billy and Jake exchanged glances. Jr. looked at the wiz kids. Celab and Colt, still sore from their earlier ordeal, hesitated.
"We in?" Billy said.
"Hell yeah," Jake said.
"I'm in," Jr. said.
The wiz kids nodded. Celab looked at Colt, who shrugged. "Why not? We already did it once today."
Pops grinned. It was not a comforting grin. "Alright then. Barn. Twenty minutes. Bring your pride, boys, 'cause you're about to lose it."
Sarah sighed. "Lord help us."
The barn was cold, lit by a single overhead bulb. Pops had the boys line up—Billy, Jake, Celab, Colt, Jr., and the three wiz kids. Eight in total.
Tom, Josh, and Ray brought out folding chairs and a cooler of beer. Pops refilled his whiskey glass from the bottle he'd brought out.
"Alright," Pops said, walking down the line like a drill sergeant inspecting troops. "Here's how this works. I tie you up one at a time. You don't move until I say go. First one out wins the hundred. Everyone clear?"
"Yes sir," they chorused.
"Good. Billy. You're first."
Billy stepped forward, cocky grin on his face. "Let's do this, old man."
"Old man," Pops muttered. "We'll see who's old."
He pulled out a length of rope—military-grade paracord, not the cheap hemp the kidnappers had used. He had Billy put his hands behind his back, then went to work.
Billy's grin faded fast.
Pops didn't just tie his wrists. He lashed them together, then wrapped the rope around his forearms, pulling them close. Then he cinched Billy's elbows together—tight—and ran another length of rope around his biceps. He had Billy sit down, bent his legs back, and hogtied his ankles to his neck with a knot so complex it looked like a piece of art.
"Jesus," Billy breathed.
"That's just you," Pops said. "Don't go anywhere."
One by one, Pops worked his way down the line. Jake. Celab. Colt. Jr. Billy Renzo. Ryan Mattern. Daniel Rodriguez. Each one got the same treatment—wrists, forearms, elbows, biceps, ankles to neck. Professional. Tight. Unforgiving.
By the time Pops finished, all eight boys were lined up on the barn floor, hogtied and barely able to move.
Pops stepped back, surveyed his work, and took a long drink. "Beautiful. Goddamn beautiful."
Tom raised his beer. "You still got it, Dad."
"Damn right I do."
Josh settled into his chair. "So. How long you think before one of them gets loose?"
"Two hours," Ray said. "Maybe three."
"I'll take the over," Tom said.
Pops sat down, glass in hand, and grinned at the row of struggling boys. "Alright, boys. Clock starts now. Go."
Immediately, the barn filled with grunts and curses.
"What the hell—"
"I can't move my arms—"
"Pops, what did you—"
"How is this even—"
Pops took another sip. "That, boys, is a real hogtie. Enjoy."
Billy was twisting, trying to get leverage on his wrists. Jake was doing the same, his face red with effort. Celab and Colt were working together, backs pressed close, trying to communicate. Jr. and the wiz kids were all problem-solving out loud, talking through the knots.
Ten minutes passed.
Nobody was close.
"You know," Pops said conversationally, "in 'Nam, we'd leave VC tied like this for days. They'd still be there when we came back."
"Pops—" Jake grunted.
"What's that? Can't hear you, son. You got something in your mouth? Oh wait, that's just your pride."
Tom laughed. Josh raised his beer. "To Dad. Still got it."
"Damn right."
Twenty minutes.
Billy had managed to get his wrists loose enough to wiggle his fingers, but that was it. Jake was stuck. Celab and Colt were making progress, but slow. Jr. had figured out the ankle knot but couldn't reach it.
Thirty minutes.
Ray leaned back in his chair. "I don't think any of them are getting out tonight."
"Nope," Tom agreed.
Pops just grinned, swirling his whiskey.
And the boys kept squirming, cursing, and slowly—very slowly—realizing they'd bitten off way more than they could chew.
