Chapter 1: The Abduction
The fence line at the northeast corner was always a bastard to repair. Jake Benson wiped sweat from his forehead and squinted at the sagging wire. Late afternoon sun beat down on his shoulders, turning his neck red.
"Hand me the pliers," he said.
Celab Beaumont tossed them from the truck bed. Twenty-one years old, built solid from fourteen months of ranch work, he'd become as much a Benson as anyone who shared the name. "This the last post?"
"Should be. Then we can get back for dinner before—"
The first man came from behind the truck. The second from the tree line.
Jake saw movement in his peripheral vision and started to turn, but a rifle butt caught him across the jaw. He went down hard, tasting copper. Celab shouted and lunged, but a fist drove into his solar plexus, doubling him over.
"Don't you fucking move!"
Jake tried to get up, rage flooding through him, but a boot planted between his shoulder blades and shoved him flat into the dirt. His arms were wrenched behind his back. Rough hemp rope bit into his wrists, wrapped tight, cinched tighter.
"Strip them. Waist up. Empty the pockets."
Hands grabbed Jake's shirt, yanked it over his head. His belt buckle clinked as they pulled his wallet, phone, keys. Beside him, Celab grunted as they did the same, his cousin's Saint Christopher medal hitting the ground with a soft thud.
"The hell do you want?" Jake snarled, twisting against the ropes. "You know whose land you're on?"
A hand grabbed his hair and slammed his face into the dirt. "Shut up."
They hauled both of them to their feet and shoved them toward their own truck—the Benson ranch F-250 they'd driven out that morning.
"Get in the bed. Now."
One of the kidnappers climbed into the driver's seat, Jake's keys in his hand. Another kept a rifle trained on them while the third threw Jake and Celab into the truck bed like sacks of feed. A tarp got pulled over them, cutting out the light.
The engine—their engine—roared to life.
Jake's wrists burned where the rope cut in. His jaw throbbed. Beside him in the darkness, he could hear Celab's breathing, fast and shallow.
"You okay?" Jake whispered.
"Yeah. You?"
"I'm gonna kill them."
The truck bounced over rough terrain, heading away from the ranch, away from everything they knew. Jake tested the ropes. Tight. Professional. Whoever these men were, they'd done this before.
Or they were desperate enough not to care if they died trying.
Chapter 2: The Discovery
Colt Beaumont—everyone called him Louisiana—checked his watch for the third time. Six-thirty. Jake and Celab should've been back an hour ago.
He stood in the ranch yard, squinting toward the northeast pasture. The sun was dropping, painting the sky orange and purple, and the dinner bell had already rung. Inside, he could hear the clatter of plates and the murmur of voices. Tom Benson didn't like people being late for dinner.
"They probably just got held up," Billy said, coming out onto the porch. "You know how Jake is. Finds one more thing that needs fixing."
"Maybe." Louisiana shifted his weight. Seventeen years old, lean and wiry, he'd been on the ranch almost a year now—came for a week-long visit after his junior year, fell in love with the place, graduated high school in Baton Rouge, and never left. His aunt and uncle, Robert and Caroline Beaumont, had brought him into the consortium family, and the Bensons treated him like one of their own. But he knew his cousin Celab. Celab was punctual. "I'm gonna go check."
"Want company?"
"Nah. Be back in twenty."
He took one of the ATVs, opening it up across the pasture. The northeast corner was a good four miles out, right up against the Nelson property line. The evening air felt good on his face, cooling the sweat from the day's work.
When he crested the last rise, he saw it immediately: no truck.
Louisiana killed the engine and climbed off. The fence line ran straight and true, the posts they'd been working on finished. Tools lay scattered in the dirt—wire cutters, a post-hole digger, Jake's work gloves.
But no Jake. No Celab. No F-250.
"Jake?" he called out. "Celab?"
Nothing but the wind through the grass.
Louisiana walked the site slowly, his gut tightening. Something was wrong. The tools were just dropped, not packed up. Jake's gloves were lying separate, like they'd been pulled off in a hurry—or pulled off by someone else.
He circled wider, looking for tracks. The grass was trampled near where the truck had been parked. Multiple boot prints, heavier than just two men. Three sets? Four? Hard to tell in the dusty ground.
Then he saw it: rope.
Short pieces of hemp rope, cut and discarded in the dirt. He picked one up. The ends were frayed where someone had sawed through it with a knife. His stomach dropped. This wasn't an accident. This wasn't Jake being stubborn about one more post.
Louisiana kept searching. He found more disturbed ground behind where the truck had been—like someone had been forced down. A scuff mark. A deeper boot print, the kind you make when you're putting weight on someone.
He found Celab's Saint Christopher medal half-buried in the dirt.
His hands were shaking when he pulled out the radio clipped to his belt. He pressed the emergency button and the mechanical voice broadcast immediately: "911 Emergency Louisiana. 911 Emergency Louisiana. 911 Emergency Louisiana."
All across Kings County, on eighteen encrypted satellite phones, that same alert was going out. Louisiana pressed the transmit button and spoke, his voice tight.
"This is Louisiana. Northeast corner, Nelson border. Jake and Celab are gone. Truck's gone. I got cut rope, scattered tools, signs of a struggle. They've been taken. I repeat—they've been taken."
He waited, his heart pounding in his ears.
The radio crackled. Then Pops' voice came through, sharp and clear despite the whiskey he'd probably been drinking. "Say again, son."
Louisiana swallowed hard. "Jake and Celab. Somebody took them. I'm at the work site. The truck's missing and there's rope cut all over the ground. Boot prints. Multiple men."
A pause. Then Pops again, all business now. "Stay put. We're coming to you."
"No sir," Louisiana said. "I'm heading back. You need to see this, but we need to get moving. I'll be there in ten."
He pocketed the medal, grabbed the pieces of rope, and climbed back on the ATV. He opened the throttle all the way, flying across the pasture as the sun sank lower.
By the time he hit the ranch yard, vehicles were already pulling in. The Nelsons' trucks. The Beaumonts' SUV. His aunt and uncle—Robert and Caroline—were climbing out, their faces tight with worry. Tom and Sarah Benson were on the porch. Pops was already outside, rifle in hand.
Louisiana killed the engine and jumped off, holding up the cut rope and the medal.
"They took them," he said. "Somebody took Jake and Celab."
Caroline's hand went to her mouth. Sarah grabbed Tom's arm.
Billy came running out, Billy Jr. right behind him. "What the hell happened?"
Louisiana told them everything—the abandoned tools, the boot prints, the rope, the missing truck. His voice stayed steady, but his hands were still shaking.
"Jr.," Louisiana said, turning to the sixteen-year-old. "Get the wiz kids. Get them to the command center. Now. We need to find that truck."
Billy Jr. didn't hesitate. He was already pulling out his phone, thumbs flying. "On it."
Behind them, Sheriff Wade Nelson climbed out of his patrol vehicle, his face grim. He'd gotten the emergency call too.
The consortium was gathering. And they were going to war.
Chapter 3: The Basement
The farmhouse was abandoned—or looked like it. Peeling paint, sagging porch, windows dark. The truck bounced down a rutted driveway and stopped behind the structure, hidden from the road.
"Out."
The tarp was yanked back. Rough hands grabbed Jake and Celab, hauled them from the truck bed. Jake's boots hit dirt and he tried to plant his feet, but they shoved him forward, still bound at the wrists.
"Move."
They were pushed through a back door, down a narrow hallway that stank of mildew and rotting wood, then down a set of wooden stairs into a basement. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows across concrete walls and a dirt floor.
"You first," one of the kidnappers said, grabbing Celab. "On the ground."
They shoved Celab down onto the concrete floor. He landed hard on his side, and they immediately rolled him onto his stomach.
Jake was slammed against the wall, a rifle barrel pressed into his chest. "You watch. And you stay quiet."
He had no choice. He watched as they untied Celab's wrists, only to immediately flip him onto his back and pull his arms straight down at his sides. They worked with brutal efficiency—thick hemp rope wrapping around Celab's torso just above his pecs, cinching it tight. Then across his gut. Another loop. Another pull. The rope bit into Celab's bare skin, binding his upper arms and biceps flush against his sides.
Celab grunted, trying to resist, trying to pull his arms free, but there were three of them holding him down. They frapped the ropes—winding between the wraps, pulling everything tighter, making it impossible to move his arms even an inch.
"That'll hold," one of them said, stepping back.
Celab lay on the floor, his chest heaving, his abs flexing as he fought to breathe against the constriction. His arms were useless, bound so tight his biceps bulged against the rope.
"Your turn."
They grabbed Jake, threw him down beside Celab. He tried to fight, but the rifle butt caught him in the lower back. His knees buckled. They flipped him onto his back, pulled his arms straight.
"Fuck you," Jake snarled.
A fist caught him in the kidney. He gasped, the fight going out of him for just a second—long enough for them to loop the rope around his chest. Above his pecs. Tight. Then across his gut. Around and around, each wrap crushing his arms tighter against his ribs. The frapping came next, cinching everything down until he couldn't move anything but his fingers.
Jake's breath came short and fast. The rope was crushing. His shoulders screamed. He could feel every wrap digging into his skin, and beside him, Celab was breathing just as hard.
"Now shut them up."
One of them grabbed a filthy rag from the corner—oil-stained and reeking. He shoved it into Jake's mouth, cramming it deep, packing it in until Jake gagged. Then came the duct tape, wrapped around his head twice, sealing his mouth shut. Jake tried to work his jaw, tried to push the rag out with his tongue, but it was wedged in tight.
They did the same to Celab. Rag stuffed deep, tape wrapped tight. His eyes met Jake's for a second—angry, defiant, but scared.
Two ropes hung from an exposed beam overhead, ending in loops. The kidnappers grabbed Jake first, forced the loop around his ankles and pulled it tight.
"Haul him up."
They pulled on the rope. Jake slid across the concrete, then suddenly he was rising—lifted by his feet, the world flipping upside down. His bound arms, trapped against his sides, gave him no way to break the spin or stabilize himself. He hung there, swaying, the blood rushing to his head.
Beside him, they looped the rope around Celab's ankles. His friend's eyes went wide as they hauled on the other end, lifting him up, swinging as they tied off the rope.
The man with the graying beard stepped into view, phone in hand. The flash went off. Once. Twice.
"Good," he said. "Let them see what we've got."
The younger guy—dead eyes, maybe thirty—picked up a baseball bat from the corner. He tested the weight, took a practice swing.
"Here's how this works," the bearded man said. "Every time you swing, you send a message. You boys are gonna help us make that message real clear."
The bat swung.
It caught Jake square in the gut. The air exploded from his lungs. His body jerked, swinging violently on the rope. Pain radiated through his abs like fire. He tried to scream, but the gag choked it off. Just a muffled sound, desperate and helpless.
The younger guy stepped to Celab. Swung again.
Celab's body swung hard, spinning slightly. His face went red—partly from the blood pooling in his head, partly from the impact. A harsh grunt escaped around the gag.
"That's one," the bearded man said. He raised the phone. Flash. Flash. "Keep going."
The bat came again. Jake's turn. The same spot—right in the center of his abs. The pain doubled. His vision blurred. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Just pain and the sensation of swinging, helpless.
Celab got the next one. Then Jake again.
They took turns, methodical, like it was a game. Each swing sent them spinning and swaying. Each impact drove deeper into their guts. Jake lost count. Five swings? Ten? His abs were on fire, each new hit worse than the last.
Between swings, the photos kept coming. Close-ups of their torsos—shirtless, sweating, marked with angry red welts that were already darkening to purple and black. Their abs, normally flat and hard from ranch work, were swelling. Black and blue spreading across their skin like ink.
The younger guy was breathing hard now, sweat dripping down his face. He took one more swing at Jake—a vicious shot that made Jake's whole body convulse—then stepped back.
"That's good," the bearded man said, reviewing the photos on his phone. "Real good. They'll get the message."
He nodded to the others. "Leave them. Let them hang for a while. Think about what's coming if their families don't cooperate."
They headed for the stairs. The basement door slammed shut. A lock clicked.
Jake and Celab hung in the dim light, swaying slightly, their bodies screaming. Gagged. Bound. Battered. The only sound was their harsh breathing through their noses and the creak of the ropes as they turned slowly in the darkness.
Chapter 4: Mobilization
The Benson ranch house had never held this many people at once. Every room buzzed with tension, voices overlapping, boots pounding on hardwood floors.
Billy Jr. was already moving. He pulled out his satellite phone, thumbs flying across the screen in the group chat with the wiz kids.
EMERGENCY. Command center. NOW.
Three replies came back in seconds.
Billy Renzo: OMW
Ryan Mattern: 2 min
Daniel Rodriguez: Rolling
The sound of vehicles crunching gravel announced their arrival. Three trucks roared into the yard—the Renzo family, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez jumped out before the engines died, each carrying laptop bags.
"Command center's open," Jr. said. "Let's move."
The four sixteen-year-olds disappeared into the house, their boots thundering up the stairs to the room next to the frat house. Within two minutes, the lights in the command center blazed to life. Laptops opened. Screens glowed. The consortium's fifty-thousand-dollar investment in surveillance and tracking equipment was about to earn its keep.
Downstairs, the adults gathered on the porch. The consortium families—six ranching operations that controlled a third of Kings County. Tom Benson and his wife Sarah. Billy Benson. Josh, the general manager, his face tight. Pops, leaning on his rifle, already nursing a whiskey. Robert and Caroline Beaumont, Caroline's hands clasped so tight her knuckles were white. Wade Nelson and his wife Mary. Their sons Wilson and Ryan, both deputies, pulling up in patrol vehicles.
"We got three priorities," Wade said, his sheriff's badge catching the porch light. "One: locate that truck. Two: identify who took them. Three: tactical response when we find them."
"The wiz kids can handle one," Louisiana said. He was still holding Celab's Saint Christopher medal, turning it over in his palm.
"I can work on two," Josh said. "There's been talk. Ranch operations going under because of the tariffs. Argentina beef flooding the market. Some outfits are desperate."
"Desperate enough for this?" Tom asked.
"Maybe," Josh said grimly. "I'll start making calls."
Upstairs, a window opened. Jr. leaned out. "Pops! We got the GPS. Truck's registered to the ranch—coordinates are coming through now."
"Where?" Wade called up.
"Tracking it now. Still moving—heading west on County Road 12."
Wade turned to his sons. "Wilson, Ryan—we set up a tracking perimeter. Stay back, don't spook them. We need to see where they're going."
Inside the house, Caroline stood near the kitchen with Sarah and Mary. "They could be hurt," Caroline said quietly. "They could be—"
"They're alive," Robert said, though his voice was strained. "They want something. Money, probably. Which means they'll keep them alive."
"Until they don't get what they want," Sarah whispered.
Pops drained his whiskey glass. "Wade, I respect your badge. But when we find these sons of bitches—"
Tom's phone buzzed. Then Wade's. Then Robert's.
All at once, every phone in the house lit up with notifications.
Jr.'s voice came from upstairs, sharp and urgent. "We got incoming! Unknown number, mass text to all consortium phones!"
Wade pulled out his phone. His face went hard.
The message was simple:
WE HAVE YOUR BOYS. $10 MILLION OR WE BANKRUPT THE CONSORTIUM. YOU HAVE 24 HOURS. INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW.
Below the text: two photos.
Jake, strung up by his ankles, hanging upside down. Arms bound tight to his sides with rope wrapped around his torso. Tape across his mouth. His face was red from the blood pooling in his head, but he was alive. Conscious. His abs were visible, taut and unmarked.
Celab, hanging beside him. Same position. Same bindings. Same desperate defiance in his eyes.
Caroline made a sound—something between a gasp and a sob. Sarah grabbed Tom's arm.
"Jesus Christ," Billy breathed.
Pops' hand tightened on his rifle. "Twenty-four hours my ass."
"They're alive," Wade said, his voice steady despite the rage in his eyes. "That's what matters. They're alive and we're gonna—"
The phones buzzed again.
Jr.'s voice from upstairs: "Second message incoming!"
Wade looked down at his screen. His jaw clenched.
New photos. Same basement. Same ropes. Same two young men hanging upside down.
But different.
Jake's abs were black and blue now. Deep purple bruises spreading across his stomach. Swollen. Battered. His body was twisted slightly, like he'd been swinging.
Celab's torso showed the same damage. Dark contusions marking where something—a bat, maybe, or fists—had hammered into him repeatedly.
The timestamp on the photos: one hour after the first set.
"They're beating them," Caroline said, her voice breaking. "They're—"
"Pops!" Jr. yelled from upstairs. "GPS just stopped moving! The truck's stationary—abandoned farmhouse, twenty-eight miles west. Sending coordinates to everyone's devices now."
Every iPad in the command center lit up simultaneously. The adults' phones pinged with the location data.
Wade was already moving. "Wilson, Ryan—with me. We move now but we move smart. If they see us coming, those boys are dead."
"I'm going," Pops said.
"We're all going," Tom said.
Robert looked at Caroline, then at Wade. "We get them back. Whatever it takes."
Louisiana pocketed the Saint Christopher medal and headed for the trucks. Billy was right behind him.
The consortium was mobilizing. And somewhere in that farmhouse, Jake and Celab were running out of time.
Chapter 5: The Chase
"Get those drones airborne!" Jr. shouted into the command center.
Billy Renzo's fingers flew across his laptop. "Launching now. Two minutes to target area."
On the screens, four drone feeds came to life—thermal imaging overlaid with GPS coordinates. The wiz kids had practiced this drill a dozen times, but never for real. Never with lives on the line.
"Distributing iPad feeds to all devices," Daniel Rodriguez said, tapping rapidly. "Everyone should have eyes now."
Downstairs, every adult's iPad lit up simultaneously. Tom, Wade, Pops, Robert—all of them watching the aerial views as the drones streaked toward the coordinates.
Jr. grabbed his laptop and his radio. "Ryan, Daniel—grab your gear. We're going with the convoy."
The three other wiz kids didn't hesitate. They packed up their laptops, portable battery packs, and satellite equipment. This wasn't a drill anymore.
"Drones approaching target," Billy Renzo called out. "Half mile out."
Wade was already at his patrol vehicle. "Billy Renzo, you're riding with me. I need you on that GPS for the truck."
Billy Renzo grabbed his laptop bag and climbed into Wade's passenger seat, his screen already locked onto the Benson truck's signal.
"Got it, Sheriff," Billy Renzo said. "Truck's still stationary. Twenty-eight miles west."
The convoy formed up in the yard. Wade's patrol vehicle. Wilson and Ryan in their deputy vehicles behind him.
Pops climbed into Tom's ranch truck, rifle across his lap. "Jr., you boys ride with us. We're gonna need your eyes."
Jr. and the other three wiz kids piled into the back of Tom's extended cab, laptops balanced on their knees, iPads glowing. Robert and Billy Benson took another vehicle. Louisiana climbed in with Robert, his eyes fixed on the iPad feed.
"Move out!" Wade commanded.
The convoy roared out of the ranch yard, splitting into two columns. Wade leading his pursuit team. Pops and Tom leading the rescue team with the wiz kids providing real-time intel.
Jr.'s voice came over the encrypted radio from the back of Tom's truck. "Drones overhead now. I got visual on the farmhouse. Two heat signatures ground floor. Two in the basement, not moving much."
"Basement signatures are Jake and Celab," Daniel added, his fingers flying over his keyboard.
"Ground floor must be guards," Ryan Mattern said.
In the kitchen back at the ranch, Caroline, Sarah, and Mary huddled around an iPad, watching the drone feed. The farmhouse. The heat signatures. The Benson truck parked behind the structure.
"They're there," Caroline whispered. "They're right there."
"Wait!" Ryan Mattern's voice crackled over the radio, sharp with alarm. "Ground floor movement! They're coming outside. Looking up. They spotted the drones!"
On every screen, the heat signatures moved rapidly. One pointed skyward.
"They're running to the truck!" Jr. shouted into the radio. "They're gonna bolt!"
On Billy Renzo's screen in Wade's vehicle, the GPS dot lit up. "Engine's on! They're moving!"
The truck lurched forward on the screen, heading east.
"All units, we have a runner," Wade said, his voice cold and steady. "Billy, keep me on that signal."
"Got it, Sheriff. They're on County Road 9, heading east toward the state line."
Wade's foot hit the floor. His vehicle surged forward, Wilson and Ryan right behind him.
"Pops, Tom," Wade said over the radio. "You get to that farmhouse. Get our boys. We'll take down the truck."
"Roger that," Pops growled. "Go get those bastards."
The convoy split. Wade's pursuit team—three patrol vehicles and Billy Renzo tracking GPS—peeled off to intercept the fleeing truck.
Pops' rescue team—Tom's truck with the wiz kids, Robert's vehicle with Louisiana and Billy Benson—continued toward the farmhouse.
"How far to the farmhouse?" Pops asked.
"Three miles," Jr. said from the back seat, watching his screen. "ETA four minutes."
"Still got eyes on the basement?" Tom asked.
"Affirmative," Daniel said. "Two heat signatures. They're moving together now. Looks like they're working on something."
In the basement, Jake's fingers found another knot on Celab's back. The rope was thick, frapped tight, but he could feel it starting to give.
"Got it," Jake muttered. "Almost..."
They'd been sitting back to back for what felt like forever, working each other's bindings. Jake's abs screamed with every movement, the bruises deep and angry. Celab was breathing hard, his fingers fumbling with the ropes around Jake's torso.
"There," Celab said. "One more loop."
Jake felt the pressure ease slightly around his chest. He could breathe deeper now. His arms had some play.
"Keep going," Jake said, working Celab's knots. "We're almost out."
Overhead, they could hear vehicles now. Multiple engines. Getting closer.
"Someone's coming," Celab said.
"Could be them coming back," Jake said. "Or—"
"Or it's the consortium," Celab finished. "Either way, we need to be ready."
Jake's fingers worked faster. The knot loosened. One more pull and—
The rope around Celab's chest came free. Celab shrugged his shoulders, and suddenly his arms were moving, pulling free from the bindings.
"Got it!" Celab gasped. He spun around, immediately attacking the ropes around Jake's torso.
Outside, the sound of vehicles grew louder. Doors slamming. Voices.
Celab's fingers flew over the knots. "Come on, come on..."
At the ranch house, Caroline leaned closer to the iPad screen. "They're almost free. Look—one of them just got loose."
Sarah's hand gripped hers. "The convoy's almost there. Two minutes out."
On the screen, the heat signatures in the basement showed frantic movement. One signature's arms were moving freely now, working on the other.
"Come on, boys," Mary whispered. "Just a little more."
Chapter 6: Justice
The rescue convoy roared up the rutted driveway, throwing dust. Tom killed the engine before they'd fully stopped. Pops was out first, rifle up, moving toward the farmhouse with the practiced efficiency of a man who'd done this before—just forty years ago in a different jungle.
"Jr., what do we got?" Pops said into his radio.
"Two signatures still in the basement," Jr. said from the truck, his laptop glowing. "No movement upstairs. Building's clear except for them."
Robert and Billy Benson flanked the back door. Louisiana was right behind them, his face hard.
"We go in fast," Pops said. "Tom, with me. Robert, Billy—secure the upper floor. Louisiana, you're with us."
They didn't knock.
The door splintered under Pops' boot. They moved through the farmhouse in a tactical sweep—hallway, kitchen, living room. Empty. Abandoned. The kidnappers had run.
"Basement," Tom said, pointing to a door hanging open.
Pops went down first, rifle leading. The stairs creaked. The single bulb was still burning.
And there, on the concrete floor, were Jake and Celab.
Jake was working the last knot on Celab's wrists, his fingers bloody and raw. Both of them were shirtless, their torsos marked with angry purple and black bruises. Rope burns on their wrists. Tape residue around their mouths. But alive. Conscious. Fighting.
"Jake!" Tom shouted.
Jake's head snapped up. "Dad?"
"We got you," Pops said, lowering his rifle. "You're safe."
Louisiana pushed past them, dropping to his knees beside Celab. "Cousin—"
"I'm okay," Celab said, though his voice was hoarse. "We're okay."
Robert came down the stairs, his face going pale when he saw his son. "Celab—"
"I'm good, Dad." Celab stood, swaying slightly. Jake grabbed his arm to steady him.
Jr. and the wiz kids appeared at the top of the stairs, laptops forgotten. They stared at Jake and Celab—battered, bruised, but standing.
"Jesus," Ryan Mattern whispered.
Jake looked up at them, his jaw tight. "Where are they? The ones who took us?"
"Wade's got them," Pops said. "He's running them down now."
"Good," Jake said. His voice was cold. "Because we're not done."
Twenty miles east, Wade's patrol vehicle screamed down County Road 9, lights flashing now. Billy Renzo's laptop showed the GPS dot ahead, slowing.
"They're stopping," Billy Renzo said. "Half mile ahead. They're pulling over."
"Wilson, Ryan—box them in," Wade commanded.
The three patrol vehicles converged on the Benson ranch truck, now sitting on the shoulder of the road. The kidnappers were climbing out, hands up, knowing they were caught.
Wade was out of his vehicle before it fully stopped, weapon drawn. "On the ground! Now!"
The three men—the bearded leader, the dead-eyed younger one, and a third who looked barely older than Jake—dropped to their knees, then their faces. Wilson and Ryan moved in with handcuffs, professional and efficient.
"You're under arrest for kidnapping, assault, and extortion," Wade said. "You have the right to remain silent—"
"We know our rights," the bearded man said. "We got families too, Sheriff. We got land we're losing. The consortium's squeezing us out—"
"Shut up," Wade said. "You had choices. You made the wrong one."
He turned to Wilson. "Get them secured. We're taking them back to the county lockup."
Billy Renzo's radio crackled. "Wade, this is Pops. We got the boys. They're beat up but alive. They want to come to you."
Wade looked at the three men on the ground. Then at Billy Renzo.
"Tell them to come," Wade said quietly. "But tell them we do this by the book."
Billy Renzo keyed the mic. "Pops, Wade says come on. He's got them in custody."
By the time Pops' convoy arrived, the kidnappers were cuffed and sitting on the shoulder of the road, backs against the patrol vehicle. Wade stood nearby, arms crossed.
Tom's truck pulled up. The doors opened.
Jake and Celab climbed out slowly. Their torsos were still bare, the bruises visible even in the fading light. Every man there could see what had been done to them. Caroline and Sarah had wrapped blankets around their shoulders, but the damage was clear.
The bearded kidnapper looked up. His face went pale.
"You made a mistake," Jake said, walking toward them. His voice was steady, but there was murder in his eyes.
"Jake—" Wade started.
"No," Jake said. "We're owed."
Celab was beside him. Louisiana. Billy. Even Jr. and the wiz kids, standing back but watching.
Pops stepped forward. "Wade. You're a good man. You've done your job. But these boys got a debt to settle."
Wade looked at Pops. Then at Jake and Celab, beaten and brutalized. Then at the three kidnappers who'd strung them up and played their sick game with a baseball bat.
"I need to check the truck," Wade said. He turned to Wilson and Ryan. "Come help me search for evidence."
The three lawmen walked away, deliberately turning their backs.
Jake stepped forward. Celab beside him.
"You wanted to see what happens when you mess with the consortium?" Jake said. "Here it is."
The first punch caught the bearded man in the gut. The same place he'd swung the bat. The man doubled over, gasping.
Celab hit the younger one. Hard. Right in the stomach. The man's eyes went wide, the air exploding from his lungs.
Jake and Celab took turns. Methodical. The same way it had been done to them. Each punch drove deeper. Each impact a repayment.
The third kidnapper tried to scramble away, but Louisiana grabbed him, shoved him back. "You don't get to run."
By the time Jake and Celab stepped back, all three kidnappers were on the ground, curled up, their own guts black and blue and screaming.
"Now we're even," Jake said.
Wade turned around, as if just noticing. "Looks like they resisted arrest. Took a few falls. Wilson, make a note in the report."
"Yes, sir," Wilson said.
Pops put a hand on Jake's shoulder. "Let's go home, son."
Jake nodded. He was shaking now, the adrenaline fading, the pain of his own injuries catching up. Celab was the same, leaning on his father.
They climbed back into the trucks. The convoy turned around, heading for home.
Behind them, Wade and his deputies loaded three groaning, beaten men into the patrol vehicles.
Justice, Texas style, had been served.
Chapter 7: Coming Home
The convoy rolled into the Benson ranch yard just after midnight. Every light in the house was blazing.
The wives who'd stayed behind—Mary Nelson, Rebecca, Edna, Anna, and the other consortium women—poured out of the house. They'd been watching on the iPads, seeing everything unfold, unable to do anything but wait.
The trucks pulled up and doors opened. Caroline climbed out with Celab, her arm still around her son. Sarah was right beside Jake, the blanket still draped over his shoulders. They'd had their reunion at the arrest site. Now they were just bringing their boys home.
Anna ran to Jr., threw her arms around him. "You did it. You found them."
"We all did," Jr. said, holding her tight.
Edna was there for Billy, her face wet with tears of relief.
The yard filled with the rest of the consortium families arriving—everyone who'd been monitoring from their own ranches, waiting, praying. Hugs and backslaps and quiet words of relief.
"Inside," Rebecca said, taking charge. Josh's wife was a practical nurse at Kings County Hospital, and she'd come prepared. "Everyone inside. Jake, Celab—you first. I need to check those injuries."
"And you all need food," Mary Nelson added.
"And whiskey," Pops added, already heading for the house.
The kitchen became organized chaos. The consortium wives—Mary, the Renzo and Mattern and Rodriguez mothers, along with Edna and Anna—pulled out cold cuts, leftover chicken, potato salad from dinner that had never been eaten. Bread, cheese, pickles. Nothing fancy. Just food, fast.
Rebecca set up at the kitchen table with her medical kit—antiseptic, bandages, gauze. Jake and Celab sat, still shirtless, blankets around their shoulders. Their bruises looked worse under the bright lights—deep purple spreading across their abs, swollen and angry.
"This is going to sting," Rebecca warned, dabbing antiseptic on the rope burns around Jake's wrists.
He hissed but didn't pull away.
"You should really go to the hospital," Caroline said, standing close.
"No," Celab said firmly. "I'm staying here."
"Me too," Jake said.
Rebecca cleaned the wounds methodically, applied antibiotic ointment, wrapped bandages around their wrists. "You're lucky. Nothing's broken. But those bruises are going to hurt like hell for a week."
"Worth it," Jake muttered.
Pops appeared with his bottle of Jack Daniels and a stack of glasses. He started pouring—generous shots for the men, then smaller ones for Jr. and the wiz kids.
"Pops!" Sarah said sharply.
"They earned it," Pops said. He handed a glass to Jr., then to Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. "Those boys ran the whole damn operation. They get to drink with the men."
Caroline opened her mouth to protest, but Robert put a hand on her arm. "Let them have this."
Mary Nelson shook her head but didn't argue. Anna and Edna exchanged glances, half-scandalized, half-impressed.
The teens took the glasses, eyes wide, trying not to grin.
Pops raised his glass. "To Jake and Celab. And to the consortium. Nobody messes with our family."
"Nobody," everyone echoed, and drank.
The whiskey burned. Jr. tried not to cough. Billy Renzo's eyes watered. But they drank it down.
They ate standing up, crowded around the kitchen—cold sandwiches passed hand to hand, potato salad eaten straight from the bowl. There was talking and laughter, the tension finally breaking. Jake told the story of getting free from the ropes. Louisiana showed everyone the Saint Christopher medal he'd found. The wiz kids walked through the drone operation, their words tumbling over each other.
Anna stayed close to Jr., her hand in his. Edna kept touching Billy's arm, as if reassuring herself he was real.
Gradually, families started to leave. The Nelsons first, Wade needing to get back to the station. Then the Matterns, the Rodriguezes, the Renzos—but not before the fathers clapped Jr. and the wiz kids on the shoulders.
"You boys did good," Tom Renzo said to his son.
"Real good," Daniel's father added.
When the last truck pulled out, it was just the Bensons, the Beaumonts, and the four wiz kids standing in the yard.
"You boys staying over?" Tom asked the wiz kids.
"If that's okay," Billy Renzo said. "We're too wired to sleep anyway."
"Frat house is yours," Jake said. "All of you."
They headed upstairs—Jake, Celab, Billy, Louisiana, Jr., and the three wiz kids. Eight of them total. Pops followed, bottle in hand.
The frat house was always cramped with five. With eight, it was ridiculous.
Two bunk beds dominated the room. Louisiana's mattress on the floor between them. Gear and clothes piled in corners. The floorboards where the beer stash lived.
"Where the hell are we all gonna fit?" Ryan Mattern said, looking around.
"We'll make it work," Jake said, dropping onto the lower bunk. He winced as his bruised abs protested.
Billy climbed into his own bunk. "Someone's sleeping in the hallway."
"I'll take the floor," Billy Renzo said, looking at the limited space.
"Me too," Daniel Rodriguez added.
"There's a couch out there," Louisiana said, pointing to the hallway.
"I got it," Ryan Mattern said, already grabbing a pillow.
Jake reached down, pried up the floorboard, and pulled out a six-pack. "Beer's on me."
Pops settled into the one chair in the room—the only chair—poured himself another three fingers of Jack. "You boys did good today. Real good."
They passed the beers around, cracking them open. Jr. took one from his bunk. Nobody stopped him.
"So what happened in there?" Louisiana asked quietly from his mattress. "In the basement?"
Jake's jaw tightened. He took a long pull from his beer. "They strung us up. Beat the shit out of us with a baseball bat. Took pictures."
"Jesus," Billy whispered from his bunk.
"We got 'em back though," Celab said from his top bunk. His voice was hard. "Every hit they gave us, we gave back."
"Damn right," Pops said, raising his glass. "That's how it's done."
They drank to that.
The conversation drifted—exhaustion creeping in now, adrenaline finally fading. They talked about the drones, the GPS tracking, Wade's pursuit. Jr. and the wiz kids walked through every technical detail, proud and still buzzing. Jake and Celab got quieter, the pain and the trauma settling in now that they were safe.
"Alright," Billy said eventually from his bunk. "We gotta figure this out before we all pass out."
"Jake and Celab keep their bunks," Louisiana said. Nobody argued. They'd earned it.
"Billy and Jr. too—they're already in theirs," Daniel said.
They started pulling out sleeping bags from the closet, extra blankets, pillows. Billy Renzo and Daniel Rodriguez claimed floor space on either side of Louisiana's mattress. Ryan Mattern took the couch in the hallway, dragging a blanket with him.
It was cramped and chaotic and perfect.
Pops stood, stretched. "You boys need anything, you holler. I'll be downstairs with my bottle."
"Thanks, Pops," Jake said.
The old man paused at the door, looked back at the eight of them—battered, exhausted, but together. "You did good, boys. Real good. Your families are proud. I'm proud."
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut.
They settled in—bodies in bunks, on the mattress, on the floor in sleeping bags. The lights went out. For a moment, there was just breathing in the darkness.
"Hey Jake?" Jr. said quietly from his bunk.
"Yeah?"
"You scared?"
A pause. Then: "Yeah. I was."
"Me too," Celab said from above.
"But you got out," Louisiana said from his mattress. "You fought back."
"We all did," Jake said. "The whole consortium. That's what matters."
Silence again. Then Billy's voice, soft from his bunk: "Love you guys."
"Shut up," Jake said, but there was no heat in it.
"Love you too," Jr. said.
Quiet laughter rippled through the room. Then exhaustion took over, and one by one, they fell asleep—eight boys and the ghosts of the day, safe in the frat house, surrounded by family.
