Chapter 1: The Taking
Jake Benson saw the truck blocking the ranch road too late.
He was hauling fence posts in his F-250, radio on his hip, phone in the cupholder, doing a run to the far pasture where the consortium land butted up against open range. The kind of work he'd done a thousand times. Alone. Routine.
The black Chevy Silverado sat sideways across the dirt road, hood up like they'd broken down.
Jake slowed. Started to reach for his radio to call it in—probably just somebody lost, wrong turn off the county road—when his driver's door jerked open and the Glock was already in his face.
"Hands on the wheel."
Two more came out of the brush. Professional. Fast. They had him covered from three angles before he could think about the .45 under his seat.
"Out. Slow."
They yanked him from the truck, shoved him against the bed. Patted him down hard. Took his belt first, then the Ka-Bar knife off his hip—the one with his initials carved in the handle, the one his daddy gave him when he turned eighteen.
"Phone. Radio. Now."
Jake handed them over, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. Watched as the biggest one—white teeth, dead eyes—smashed both devices against the truck's wheel well. Plastic and circuit boards scattering in the dirt. Then he stomped them into pieces, ground them under his boot heel until there was nothing left but electronic guts and shattered screens.
"The GPS too," the one with white teeth said.
Another one climbed into Jake's truck, ripped out the dashboard panel with a crowbar. Yanked the GPS tracker—the one Jr. had installed in every consortium vehicle—and hurled it into the brush. Then he took the crowbar to it, beating it until it was just twisted metal and broken silicon.
"Get back in. You're driving."
"The hell I am."
The Glock pressed against his temple. "You're driving. We're following. You try anything—signal, swerve, slow down—we put a bullet through your back window and into your skull. Understand?"
Jake's hands balled into fists. Three of them. One gun he could see, probably more he couldn't. Out here, nobody would hear the shot. Billy wouldn't even know he was missing for hours.
"Where?"
"You'll know when we get there. Drive."
Jake drove.
The Silverado followed fifty yards back the whole way. They took him off Benson land, onto county roads he half-recognized, then onto dirt tracks that wound through scrub and mesquite. Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. Jake tried to memorize turns, landmarks, anything. But out here, everything looked the same—brush and red dirt and endless Texas sky.
They had him stop at an old barn, the kind that leaned like it might collapse in the next strong wind. Gray weathered boards, roof half-gone. Middle of nowhere.
"Out. Leave the keys."
They marched him inside. Made him strip off his shirt, his boots. Took his wallet, his keys, loose change. Everything. Patted him down again to make sure he had nothing left.
That's when Jake saw the chair.
Old wooden ladder-back, three horizontal slats across the spine. Weathered gray, same as the barn boards. The kind of chair that had sat at somebody's kitchen table for fifty years before ending up out here. But it wasn't at a table now. It sat dead center of the empty barn floor, ropes already cut and coiled beside it, waiting.
"You going to fuckin' tie me up to that chair?"
White Teeth grinned. "That's right, Benson. Sit down. Put your arms at your sides."
Jake stared at them with heat rising in his chest. The old familiar anger, the kind that had gotten him in trouble since he was six years old and bloodied Tommy Alvarez's nose on the school bus. Three to one. Gun on him. He could rush the bastard, maybe get his hands on—
The gun pressed harder into his ribs.
"Sit."
Jake sat.
They worked fast. Professional. The ropes weren't hardware store twine—this was climbing rope, the kind that held a man's weight on a cliff face. They started with his neck, lashing it to the top slat tight enough he had to keep his head straight. Any attempt to drop his chin or look down met immediate resistance.
Both arms next, forced down along the chair's sides. They bound his biceps first, pulling the rope around his flexed muscle and through the slats. Then his forearms. Then his wrists, each one tied separately to the chair legs. Jake tested them once—barely a quarter inch of give.
"This is a mistake," Jake said. His voice came out rougher than he wanted. "You know who my family is? You know what county you're in?"
Nobody answered.
One of them moved in front of him and wrapped rope around his bare chest, circling it twice before threading it through the middle slat and pulling it tight. The rope bit into his pecs. Another loop around his stomach, lashed to the bottom slat. Jake could feel his breathing restricted, had to work for each inhale.
They knelt and removed his boots. Then his socks. The barn floor was cold against his bare feet. They pulled both legs back to the rear chair legs and tied his ankles, then lashed each thigh over his jeans to the front legs and seat. Six points of contact. He couldn't move his legs even an inch.
Jake jerked hard against the restraints, putting everything into it. His muscles bunched and strained. The chair didn't even creak.
"The hell do you want?" Jake's voice was rising now. "Money? The ranch? What—"
One of them wadded up a bandanna and shoved it between his teeth before he could clamp his jaw. Jake tried to spit it out but hands were already tying it behind his head, knotting it tight. The cloth tasted like machine oil and dirt.
Then came the duct tape. They wrapped it around his head three times, sealing his mouth completely. Jake tried to work his jaw, tried to push the gag out with his tongue. Nothing. Just his own breathing, hard and fast through his nose.
The blindfold came next. More tape, circled around his eyes until everything went black. Jake's heart kicked harder. He could feel it hammering against the rope across his chest.
Then they took his hearing.
Foam earplugs pushed deep into both ears, far enough he felt them against his eardrums. Then more duct tape, wrapped around his head covering his ears entirely. The world went silent. Not quiet—silent. The kind of nothing that made his own pulse sound like thunder inside his skull.
Jake was alone in the dark and the quiet, rope-burned and sweating and unable to move anything except his fingers and toes.
That's when something touched the sole of his left foot.
Light. Skittering. Fingers dancing across the arch.
Jake jerked violently, the chair legs scraping maybe half an inch across the floor before the weight of his own body settled it again. He couldn't hear himself grunt behind the gag. Couldn't hear anything. Just that horrible tickling sensation crawling up his foot and he couldn't pull away, couldn't stop it, couldn't—
It stopped.
Jake's chest heaved. Sweat was already starting to bead on his forehead, his shoulders. How long had it been? Thirty seconds? A minute?
Something touched his right foot.
Jake thrashed again. Same result. The chair didn't budge. The ropes held. His neck burned where he'd yanked against the restraint. His biceps screamed.
Then nothing. Just darkness. Silence. The feeling of sweat beginning to trickle down his chest.
He couldn't hear the laughter. Couldn't hear them moving around him. Couldn't hear the camera clicking as they took photos of him bound and gagged and helpless.
He couldn't hear them leave.
Jake Benson was alone.
Chapter 2: The Discovery
Billy Benson knew something was wrong when Jake didn't answer his radio.
He'd been out on the north fence line all morning, patching a section where some idiot had tried to cut through consortium wire. Probably kids joyriding. He'd radioed Jake twice to let him know he was heading back for lunch, and both times got nothing but static.
Not unusual. The far pasture had dead zones. But Jake always checked in by noon.
Billy tried his cell. Straight to voicemail.
He climbed into his truck and headed toward the equipment barn, keying his radio again. "Jake, you copy? It's Billy. Where you at?"
Static.
By the time Billy pulled up to the ranch house, that familiar knot had formed in his gut. The same one he'd had when they were kids and Jake would disappear into the woods for hours, come back with a black eye and a grin, never saying where he'd been or who he'd fought.
Jr. and Celeb were in the driveway working on the Kawasaki four-wheeler, both covered in grease up to their elbows.
"You seen Jake?"
Jr. looked up, squinting against the sun. "Not since breakfast. Why?"
"Can't raise him on radio or phone."
Jr. wiped his hands on a rag, frowning. "GPS tracker?"
"Check it."
Jr. pulled out his tablet—one of the eighteen high-tech encrypted devices the wiz kids had just installed—and tapped through to the vehicle tracking system. His frown deepened.
"Uncle Jake's truck... it's not showing up."
Billy felt the knot tighten. "What do you mean not showing up?"
"I mean it's not on the grid. Either it's off or—"
"Or what?"
Jr. looked up, and Billy saw it in his nephew's eyes. The same thing Billy was thinking.
"Or somebody disabled it."
Billy didn't wait. He pulled his radio and hit the emergency button—the one Jr. and Billy Renzo had rigged up six months ago when the consortium formed. The 911 system that would alert every family, every member, everyone with a radio or satellite phone within a fifty-mile radius.
The mechanical voice crackled across every frequency:
"911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Billy Benson."
Within minutes, trucks started arriving at the Benson ranch house.
Tom and Sarah came in from the back pasture. Ray pulled up from town, still in his business shirt and tie. Josh and Rebecca arrived with Pops in the passenger seat, the old man already reaching for his flask. Wade Nelson's sheriff SUV kicked up dust coming down the ranch road, lights off but moving fast. Wilson and Ryan Nelson right behind him in their deputy vehicles.
Robert and Caroline Beaumont came through the gate, and Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez showed up on four-wheelers, muddy from riding the back trails.
Sarah had coffee going before everyone even made it inside. The kitchen filled up fast—too many bodies, too much tension. Jr. opened up the command center next door, and the wiz kids filed in with their tablets while the adults crowded into the kitchen and spilled into the living room.
Billy laid it out fast. "Jake's been out of radio contact since this morning. Phone's dead. His truck's GPS is offline."
"Could be equipment failure," Ray said, always the logical one.
Pops spat into his coffee can. "Bullshit. Jake's truck was running fine yesterday. And his phone? GPS? All of it goes dark at once?" He shook his head. "Somebody took him."
Sarah's hand went to her mouth. Rebecca moved closer to her, one hand on her shoulder.
Tom's jaw was set hard. "We don't know that yet."
"Then let's find out." Wade turned to the wiz kids in the command center. "What can you pull up?"
Jr. was already pulling feeds on the monitors. "Checking the surveillance cameras now. We've got coverage on all the main roads leading off consortium property."
The room went quiet except for the clicking of keys and the hum of computers. Everyone who could fit crowded into the doorway of the command center, watching as Jr. scrolled through footage, time stamps racing backward.
"There." Billy Renzo pointed. "That's Uncle Jake's truck. 9:47 this morning."
They watched Jake's F-250 head down the dirt road toward the far pasture, fence posts visible in the bed.
Jr. fast-forwarded, tracking the route. Then he stopped.
"What is it?" Billy pushed closer.
"There's a gap. Camera three should've picked him up coming back this way, but..." Jr. pulled up another feed. "He never came back."
"Go to the perimeter cameras," Wade said.
Jr. switched angles. They watched in silence as a black Chevy Silverado appeared on screen, hood up, blocking the ranch road. Then Jake's truck approaching. Slowing.
"Freeze it," Tom said.
The image froze: Jake's truck stopped twenty yards from the Silverado. Three figures visible in the frame.
"Can you zoom in?" Wade leaned forward.
Jr. zoomed. The resolution wasn't great, but they could see movement. Jake's door opening. Figures swarming the truck.
"Son of a bitch," Pops growled.
They watched as Jake was pulled from his truck. Watched as one of them smashed something against the wheel well—phone and radio, Billy realized, his hands curling into fists. Watched as another climbed into Jake's truck with a crowbar.
"They're killing his GPS," Jr. said quietly.
Then the footage showed Jake climbing back into his own truck. The Silverado following.
"They made him drive." Billy's voice was flat. Dangerous. The same tone Jake got right before he threw a punch.
Jr. tracked the vehicles through three more cameras before they left consortium property entirely.
"Last visual here." Jr. pointed to the timestamp. "County Road 12, heading west. After that... nothing."
Wade was already moving. "Wilson, Ryan—get out to that location. I want forensics. Tire tracks, boot prints, anything they left behind."
The two deputies headed for the door immediately.
"I'm calling in county sheriffs, state troopers—" Wade continued.
That's when Jr.'s tablet chimed.
The sound cut through the room like a gunshot. Everyone froze.
Jr. looked down at the screen, and the color drained from his face.
"What is it?" Sarah's voice was barely a whisper.
Jr. turned the tablet around.
The photo filled the screen: Jake, shirtless, bound to a chair with climbing rope. Duct tape wrapped around his head—over his mouth, his eyes, his ears. Head forced straight by the rope around his neck. Every muscle in his arms and chest standing out in sharp relief against the restraints.
Helpless.
Below the photo, a message from an unknown number:
$500,000. Cash. Instructions to follow. You have 48 hours. No police or he dies.
Sarah made a sound—half sob, half gasp. Rebecca caught her before her knees buckled.
Pops stood up, his chair scraping loud against the floor. He looked at every man in the room, his jaw working, eyes hard as flint.
"Ryan, Wilson—you find anything out there, you bring it straight back here. We're getting my boy back." He turned to Wade. "And I don't give a damn what that message says. You do what you need to do, Sheriff."
Wade nodded once, grim. "Already on it."
Billy stared at the photo of his brother, bound and gagged and alone somewhere. His hands were shaking. Not from fear.
From rage.
Chapter 3: Rage Against Nothing
Jake didn't know how long they'd been gone.
Could've been five minutes. Could've been an hour. Time had no meaning in the dark and the silence. Just his own heartbeat thundering in his ears and the rope cutting into his neck every time he tried to move his head.
The anger came first. Hot and familiar, the same rage that had gotten him through every fight since he was old enough to throw a punch.
Jake threw everything he had against the restraints.
His biceps bulged, veins standing out as he yanked his arms against the ropes. The climbing rope bit deeper into his skin but didn't give. Not even a fraction. He tried to twist his wrists, pull them free from where they were lashed to the chair legs. Nothing.
He arched his back, trying to snap the rope around his chest. The middle slat pressed hard into his spine. His pecs strained against the bindings. The rope held.
Jake tried his legs next, jerking his thighs up, trying to break free from the seat. His ankles pulled against the rear chair legs. Six points of contact, all of them locked down tight. The chair didn't even creak.
He thrashed his whole body, violent and desperate, putting every ounce of strength into it. His neck burned where the rope held his head straight. His shoulders screamed. The chair scraped maybe half an inch across the barn floor before his own weight settled it back down.
Jake stopped, chest heaving. Sweat was starting to form on his forehead, his bare chest. He could feel it beginning to trickle down his sides.
The bastards had done this before. Professional. The kind of rope work that didn't fail. The kind of chair that had probably held a hundred men before him and never broke.
Jake tried again anyway.
He pulled. Twisted. Strained every muscle until they shook with the effort. The ropes cut deeper. He could feel the burn starting on his biceps, his wrists, around his neck. Raw skin where he'd rubbed it against the bindings.
The chair didn't budge. Didn't creak. Didn't give him anything.
Just solid oak and climbing rope and his own useless strength trapped inside a body that couldn't move.
Jake's breathing came hard and fast through his nose—the only way he could get air with the gag sealed over his mouth. His jaw ached from trying to work it loose. The bandanna was jammed so far back he could taste machine oil on his tongue.
Another bead of sweat rolled down his temple. Then another down his chest, slow and tickling.
Jake jerked involuntarily, the sensation making his skin crawl. Was that sweat or was that—
Something hit him across the face.
Hard. Open-handed. The slap came out of nowhere, snapping his head to the side as far as the neck rope would allow. Pain exploded across his cheek. Jake hadn't heard them coming. Hadn't heard footsteps or breathing or anything.
He tried to yell behind the gag, the sound coming out as nothing but a muffled grunt he couldn't even hear himself.
Then silence again. Darkness. Nothing.
Jake's heart was racing now, slamming against his ribs. Were they still there? Had they left? He couldn't tell. Couldn't hear. Couldn't see. Just the pounding of his own pulse and the sting across his face and the sweat dripping down his chest.
Another drop of sweat crawled down his side. Jake tensed, waiting for another slap, another touch, something. But nothing came.
Just him. Alone in the dark. Unable to move. Unable to fight back. Unable to do anything but sit there and take whatever they wanted to do to him.
The rage was still there, burning hot in his chest. But underneath it, something else was starting to creep in.
Something Jake Benson had never felt before.
Fear.
Chapter 4: The Ransom
The second message came twenty minutes later.
Jr.'s tablet chimed again, and everyone in the command center jumped. He tapped the screen, his face going even paler than before.
"It's another photo."
This one was worse. Same chair. Same ropes. But now they could see the details—the duct tape wrapped multiple times around Jake's head, the way his muscles strained against the bindings, the sweat already visible on his bare chest and shoulders. The veins standing out on his forearms where he'd clearly been fighting the restraints.
And at the bottom of the photo, burned into the image like a brand:
TICK TOCK. 47 HOURS LEFT.
"Jesus Christ," Tom muttered.
Ray was already doing math in his head. "Five hundred thousand. We can get it. Between the consortium accounts, the ranch reserves—"
"No." Wade's voice cut through. "You pay, there's no guarantee they let him go. These people are professionals. They knew where to ambush him, knew about the GPS, knew how to avoid our cameras after County Road 12."
"So what do you suggest, Sheriff?" Pops' voice was dangerously quiet. "We sit here with our thumbs up our asses while they do God knows what to my boy?"
"I'm suggesting we find him." Wade turned to Jr. "Can you trace that number?"
Jr. was already typing. "Burner phone. Prepaid. They're probably ditching it after every message." He paused, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I can try to triangulate the tower it pinged off of, but that'll give us a radius of maybe twenty square miles."
"Do it anyway," Billy said. "It's more than we got now."
Billy Renzo was pulling up satellite maps on another monitor. "If they took County Road 12 west, that puts them in open range country. Lots of abandoned properties out there. Old barns, homesteads, line shacks."
"That narrows it down to about a hundred locations," Daniel Rodriguez said, not looking up from his screen.
Ryan Mattern had three drones prepped and ready on the desk. "We can start a grid search. Thermal imaging might pick up heat signatures."
"In broad daylight?" Tom shook his head. "Thermal works better at night when the ambient temperature drops."
"Then we wait until dark—" Ryan started.
"We don't have time to wait," Billy interrupted. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides. "Every hour we sit here is another hour they have him."
Wade's radio crackled. "Sheriff, this is Wilson. We're at the ambush site."
Wade keyed his radio. "What've you got?"
"Tire tracks from two vehicles. Boot prints from at least three individuals. We found debris—looks like phone and radio components, smashed to pieces. And..." Wilson's voice paused. "We found the GPS tracker. Looks like they beat it with a crowbar. Thing's in about twenty pieces."
"Bag it all," Wade said. "Tire tracks—can you get tread impressions?"
"Already on it. Looks like standard Chevy Silverado tread. Common as dirt out here, but we'll document it."
Wade turned back to the command center. "Jr., pull up that surveillance footage again. The Silverado. Can you get a plate number?"
Jr. rewound to the clearest shot of the black Silverado. Zoomed in. Enhanced. The license plate was visible but muddy.
"Partial," Jr. said. "Looks like... Texas plates. Maybe starts with BK7 or BR7. Can't make out the rest."
"That's something," Wade said. "I'll run it through DMV records, see what comes up."
Billy Renzo suddenly straightened. "Wait. Go back to the footage of them leaving."
Jr. pulled it up. The Silverado following Jake's F-250 off consortium property.
"There," Billy Renzo pointed. "Zoom in on the bed of the Silverado."
Jr. zoomed. In the back of the truck, barely visible, was what looked like equipment. Tarps. Maybe rope.
"They came prepared," Robert Beaumont said quietly. He'd been standing in the doorway, arms crossed, watching everything. Former military. His eyes were hard. "This wasn't opportunistic. They planned this."
"Which means they've been watching," Caroline added. She stood beside her husband, her face pale but composed. "They knew Jake's routine. Knew when he'd be alone."
Pops slammed his flask down on the counter. "So we got professionals who've been casing us, we got a burner phone we can't trace, and we got a twenty-square-mile radius to search with a hundred possible locations." He looked around the room. "That about sum it up?"
No one answered.
Sarah was sitting at the kitchen table, Rebecca beside her, both of them clutching coffee cups they hadn't touched. Mary Nelson had arrived sometime in the last hour and was standing with them, one hand on Sarah's shoulder.
"He's strong," Sarah said quietly. "Jake's strong. He can hold on."
Billy looked at the photo on Jr.'s tablet again. His brother, bound and helpless. The thought of Jake—loud, cocky, hothead Jake who'd never backed down from a fight in his life—sitting somewhere in the dark, unable to move, unable to fight back...
"We're going to find him," Billy said. Not a promise. A fact.
Jr.'s fingers never stopped moving across the keyboard. "I'm pulling traffic cam footage from every county road within fifty miles. If that Silverado is still moving, we'll spot it."
"And if it's not?" Ray asked.
"Then we search every barn, every structure, every abandoned property until we find him," Tom said. His voice was steady, but his jaw was clenched tight. "We've got six families in this consortium. We've got radios, satellite phones, drones, and every man here knows this county like the back of his hand."
Wade nodded. "I'll coordinate with county sheriffs, get deputies searching from their end. But we keep the ransom demand quiet. Last thing we need is this leaking to the press."
Pops picked up his flask again, took a long pull. "Forty-seven hours. That's what they said."
"Then we've got forty-seven hours to bring him home," Billy said.
The command center fell silent except for the clicking of keyboards and the hum of electronics. Outside, the sun was starting to dip toward the horizon. They had maybe three hours of daylight left before the thermal drones would be useful.
Three hours to find a needle in a hundred-square-mile haystack.
And somewhere out there, in the dark and the silence, Jake was running out of time.
Chapter 5: Helpless
The waiting was worse than anything.
Billy paced the length of the kitchen for the hundredth time, wearing a path in the floorboards between the coffee pot and the window. Outside, the sun was getting lower. They'd been at this for six hours now, and they had nothing.
Nothing except grainy surveillance footage and a partial license plate that Wade's DMV search had turned up forty-three possible matches for. Forty-three black Chevy Silverados in a three-county radius with plates starting BK7 or BR7.
"We should pay it," Sarah said suddenly. Her voice was quiet but firm. "Five hundred thousand. We have it. We pay it and get him back."
"And if they don't give him back?" Tom's voice was strained. "Sarah, these people are professionals. They could take the money and—"
"Don't." Sarah's cup rattled against the saucer as she set it down. "Don't you finish that sentence, Tom Benson."
Rebecca put her hand over Sarah's. "We're going to find him. The boys are good. The drones—"
"The drones haven't found shit," Pops growled from his corner. He'd been nursing the same flask for an hour, eyes fixed on the command center doorway. "Six hours. Nothing."
In the command center, Jr. was hunched over three monitors simultaneously, eyes bloodshot from staring at satellite imagery. Billy Renzo and Daniel Rodriguez were cycling through traffic cam footage, frame by frame. Ryan Mattern was outside launching the third drone rotation—thermal imaging was finally useful now that the sun was down.
"Anything?" Billy asked, stepping into the doorway for the twentieth time.
Jr. didn't look up. "Running facial recognition on the three figures from the surveillance footage. Software's comparing them against every database we can access—DMV photos, social media, arrest records."
"How long?"
"Could be hours. Could be never if they're not in any system."
Billy's fists clenched. Hours. They didn't have hours.
Wade came back in from the porch, phone in hand. "County sheriffs are running their own grid search. They've got four units checking abandoned properties in the search radius. Nothing yet."
"Not good enough," Billy said.
"It's what we've got," Wade shot back. "Unless you want to tell me how to search a hundred square miles in the dark faster."
"Hey!" Pops stood up, his chair scraping. "We don't turn on each other. Not now."
The room went quiet.
Robert Beaumont moved to the table, spreading out a paper map—old school, the kind with county roads marked in red. "Here's what we know. They left consortium property heading west on County Road 12 at 10:03 AM." He marked it with a pencil. "Last visual was here, at the intersection with Ranch Road 47. That was 10:17."
"Fourteen minutes," Caroline said, leaning over his shoulder. "At fifty miles an hour on those roads, that's maybe twelve miles max."
"Less if they slowed down or made turns," Robert continued. He drew a circle on the map. "This is our primary search radius. Everything within twelve miles of that last visual."
Celeb appeared in the doorway, holding two energy drinks. He handed one to Jr. without a word, then went back to his own monitor.
"Billy Renzo spotted something," Daniel called out suddenly.
Everyone crowded into the command center.
Billy Renzo pointed to his screen. "Traffic cam from Highway 82, about eighteen miles west of the last visual. Timestamp is 11:43 AM—over an hour after we lost them."
The footage showed a black Silverado passing under the camera.
"Can you get the plate?" Wade moved closer.
Billy Renzo enhanced the image. The plate was partially visible: BK7...
"That's one of our forty-three," Wade said. "Where was it heading?"
"North on 82. But here's the thing—" Billy Renzo pulled up another camera. "It doesn't show up on any of the other cameras along that route. It's like it just... disappeared."
"Which means they turned off," Robert said. "Onto private property or a side road that's not on our camera grid."
Jr. was already pulling up satellite imagery of Highway 82. "There." He pointed. "Four properties with structures within two miles of that camera. Two old barns, one abandoned homestead, one line shack."
"That's it," Billy said. "That's where we start."
"We don't know that for sure—" Ray started.
"We don't know anything for sure!" Billy's voice rose. "But it's the only goddamn lead we've got!"
Tom put a hand on his son's shoulder. "Billy—"
"No." Billy shook him off. "Jake is out there. Right now. And we're sitting here staring at screens while they—" His voice broke. He turned away, jaw working.
The kitchen fell silent except for the hum of computers and the distant sound of a drone motor outside.
Pops walked over to Billy, put a weathered hand on the back of his neck. The same way he'd done when Billy and Jake were kids and one of them got hurt.
"We're going to find him," Pops said quietly. "Your brother's a fighter. He's holding on. And when we get to him—" Pops looked around the room at every face. "When we get to him, those bastards are going to wish they'd never heard the name Benson."
Jr.'s tablet chimed.
Everyone froze.
Jr. grabbed it, read the message. His face went white.
"What?" Sarah stood up. "What is it?"
Jr. turned the screen around.
Another photo. Jake, still bound to the chair. But this one showed his face more clearly—the tape wrapped around his head, the way his chest heaved with labored breathing, the rope burns visible on his arms.
Below it:
46 HOURS. STOP LOOKING OR WE START CUTTING.
Mary Nelson gasped. Caroline's hand went to her mouth.
Wade's face went hard. "They know we're searching."
"How?" Tom demanded.
"Could be monitoring police frequencies," Robert said. "Or they've got eyes on the property. Could be anywhere."
Pops grabbed his rifle from where it leaned against the wall. "Then let's give them something to look at."
"Wait—" Wade started.
But Pops was already heading for the door, Tom and Josh right behind him.
Billy looked at the photo of his brother one more time. Jake's face, twisted behind the gag. The fear in his body language that Jake would never admit to if he could speak.
They were running out of time.
And whoever had Jake was watching them right now.
Chapter 6: The Unraveling
Jake had lost all sense of time.
The darkness was absolute. The silence was worse. His own breathing through his nose was the only sound—rhythmic, desperate, the only proof he was still alive. But even that was starting to feel distant, like it belonged to someone else.
How long had he been here? An hour? Three? Ten?
He tried to count. Tried to use his heartbeat as a clock, the way Pops had taught him about staying calm in tight situations. One beat. Two. Three. But the numbers slipped away in the void, meaningless. Was that a hundred beats or a thousand?
Jake's arms ached. The rope burns on his biceps and wrists throbbed with every pulse. His neck felt raw where he'd fought against the restraint holding his head straight. His back screamed from being forced into the same position, unable to shift even an inch for relief.
Another bead of sweat rolled down his temple. Then his chest. Jake tensed involuntarily, waiting for hands to touch him, for another slap, for something.
Nothing came.
Just the tickle of his own sweat crawling down his ribs. The sensation drove him mad—every drop feeling like fingers, like they were there watching him, touching him, and he couldn't tell the difference anymore between his body and their torture.
Jake tried to flex his fingers, just to feel something he controlled. They moved maybe a quarter inch. That was it. Everything else—locked down. Helpless.
Then something brushed the bottom of his right foot.
Feather-light. Deliberate. Fingers skating across the arch, finding every sensitive spot.
Jake exploded against the restraints. His whole body convulsed, muscles straining, veins bulging as he tried to jerk his foot away. The chair scraped across the floor—maybe an inch—before his own weight settled it back. The rope around his neck cut in as he thrashed. He couldn't hear himself screaming behind the gag, but he felt it—the vibration in his throat, the burn in his lungs.
Then it stopped.
Silence. Darkness. Nothing.
Jake's chest heaved, pulling against the ropes with each desperate breath. His heart slammed so hard he thought it might burst through his ribs. Were they still there? Were they watching him lose it?
He waited. Listening to nothing. Seeing nothing. Feeling nothing except the ropes cutting into his skin and the sweat soaking his body.
Minutes passed. Or seconds. He couldn't tell anymore.
His mind started to fill the void.
They're going to cut you. That's what the message said, wasn't it? Start cutting. An X across your chest. Your gut. They're going to carve you up piece by piece and you can't stop them. Can't fight. Can't even see it coming.
Jake tried to push the thoughts away, but they came faster in the silence.
What if Billy doesn't find you? What if the wiz kids can't track them? What if you're in the middle of nowhere and nobody knows where to look?
Another drop of sweat. Jake flinched hard, pulling against the ropes, certain it was a knife tip trailing across his skin.
It wasn't. Just sweat. Just his own body betraying him.
How long until you lose it completely? How long until you're just gone—still breathing but not there anymore? Sitting in this chair forever, blind and deaf and screaming inside your own head?
"Stop," Jake tried to say behind the gag. The word came out as nothing. A muffled grunt that died in the bandanna stuffed in his mouth.
He was alone. Completely, utterly alone. And for the first time in his life, Jake Benson understood what it meant to be truly helpless.
No amount of strength mattered. No amount of rage. No fighting his way out. Just him and the dark and the silence and the certainty that he was breaking.
Another touch. This time his left foot. Nails dragging slowly from heel to toe.
Jake thrashed. Screamed. Pulled so hard against the neck rope he felt something tear—skin or muscle, he didn't know. Didn't care. He just needed it to stop. Needed to move. Needed to fight back. Needed—
Nothing.
They were gone again. Or maybe they'd never been there. Maybe he'd imagined it. Maybe he was already losing his mind and this was just the beginning.
How much longer could he hold on?
The answer came swift and terrible in the darkness:
Not much longer at all.
Chapter 7: The Vigil
Night settled over the Benson ranch like a weight.
The kitchen lights had been on for twelve hours straight now. Sarah kept making coffee—pot after pot that nobody really drank, just held onto like it gave them something to do. Rebecca had put together sandwiches that sat untouched on the counter. Mary Nelson and Caroline Beaumont moved quietly between the kitchen and living room, refilling cups, clearing plates nobody had eaten from.
In the command center, the glow from six monitors cast blue light across Jr.'s face. He hadn't left his chair in hours except to piss. His eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot from staring at satellite feeds and traffic cam footage until the images blurred together.
Billy Renzo sat beside him, cycling through the same hundred frames of surveillance footage for the twentieth time. Looking for something—anything—they'd missed. Daniel Rodriguez was cross-referencing the partial plate number against vehicle registration databases, expanding the search radius county by county.
Ryan Mattern came in from outside, drone controller in hand. "Third rotation complete. Nothing on thermal. Just coyotes and cattle."
"Run it again," Jr. said without looking up.
"Jr., we've covered the same grid four times—"
"Then cover it a fifth time." Jr.'s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Please."
Ryan nodded and headed back out.
In the kitchen, Billy Sr. had worn a groove in the floorboards. Back and forth, from the window to the coffee pot to the command center doorway, over and over. His hands opened and closed at his sides like he was looking for something to hit.
Tom sat at the kitchen table with Ray, the paper map spread between them. They'd marked every property within the search radius, numbered them, prioritized them based on Robert Beaumont's assessment of which structures could hold a vehicle and a hostage. But there were still seventy-three locations on the list.
Pops stood on the porch, his third cigar of the night glowing orange in the darkness. His flask sat on the railing, nearly empty. He'd been quiet for hours—uncharacteristically quiet. No cursing, no war stories, no barking orders. Just standing there, staring out at the dark pastures like he could will his grandson to appear.
Wade Nelson's radio crackled. "Sheriff, this is Unit Four. We've cleared properties twelve through fifteen. All empty. Moving to sixteen."
"Copy that," Wade said. He'd been coordinating the county search from the living room, marking cleared locations on his own map. The deputies had been at it for eight hours. Nothing.
"How many left?" Josh asked from the doorway.
"County units? About thirty more properties in their grid." Wade rubbed his eyes. "But that's just their sector. There's still—"
"Seventy-three total," Tom finished. "We know."
The room fell quiet except for the hum of computers and the distant sound of the drone motor outside.
Sarah stood at the kitchen sink, staring out the window at nothing. Her hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white.
"He's scared," she said quietly. Nobody answered. "Jake. Wherever he is. He's scared and he's alone and he doesn't know if we're coming."
Rebecca moved beside her, put an arm around her shoulders.
"We're coming," Billy said from across the room. His voice was rough. "He knows that. Jake knows we're looking."
"Does he?" Sarah turned, and her eyes were red. "It's been twelve hours, Billy. Twelve hours he's been sitting there tied up, and we haven't found him. What if—"
"Don't." Tom stood up. "Don't go there, Sarah."
"I can't help it!" Her voice broke. "What if they've already—what if we're too late and we're sitting here drinking coffee while he—"
"Mom." Jr. appeared in the doorway, his face pale. "Uncle Jake's tough. Tougher than anybody. He's holding on."
But even as he said it, Jr. could see the photo in his mind. His uncle bound to that chair, tape wrapped around his head, every muscle straining against ropes that wouldn't break. How long could anyone hold on like that?
Celeb came in from the frat house, another case of energy drinks in his arms. He set them on the counter without a word, then went back to the command center. The wiz kids had been running on caffeine and adrenaline for twelve hours straight.
Billy Renzo's screen flashed. "Got something."
Everyone moved.
"What is it?" Wade pushed into the command center.
"Facial recognition hit. One of the three guys from the ambush footage." Billy Renzo pulled up a DMV photo. "Marcus Webb. Age thirty-four. Last known address in Midland. Prior arrests for—" He scrolled. "Armed robbery. Assault. Did three years in Huntsville, released eighteen months ago."
"That's him," Wade said, staring at the photo. "That's the son of a bitch."
"Any known associates?" Robert Beaumont had moved in behind them, Caroline at his shoulder.
Jr. was already pulling records. "Two. Both did time with him. Both also released in the last two years." He pulled up their photos. "Could be our other two."
"Addresses?" Tom demanded.
"One in Midland, one in Odessa. Both over a hundred miles from here."
"They came a long way," Pops said from the doorway. Everyone turned. He'd finally come inside, cigar smoke trailing behind him. "Professionals. They've been watching us for weeks, probably. Knew Jake's routine. Knew when he'd be alone."
"Which means they've got a base of operations somewhere close," Robert said. "Somewhere they've been staging from."
"The barn," Billy said. "Has to be. They needed somewhere to take him, somewhere private. They wouldn't risk driving him a hundred miles back to Midland."
Wade was already on his phone. "I'll get warrants for their known addresses, send units there. But you're right—they're using something local."
Jr.'s tablet chimed.
The room went silent. Everyone stared at the device like it was a live grenade.
Jr. picked it up with shaking hands. Read the message. His jaw clenched.
"What?" Sarah asked. "What does it say?"
Jr. turned the tablet around.
Another photo. Jake's chest heaving against the ropes, sweat visible on his skin, rope burns on his arms angry and red.
Below it:
40 HOURS. LAST WARNING. STOP SEARCHING OR HE DIES SCREAMING.
Pops took the tablet from Jr.'s hands. Stared at the photo of his grandson. Then he set it down carefully on the desk, picked up his rifle from where it leaned against the wall, and checked the magazine.
"Pops—" Tom started.
"I'm done waiting," Pops said quietly. "We've got names now. We've got faces. And somewhere out there in that hundred-square-mile grid is my grandson, tied to a chair, wondering if we're coming." He looked around the room at every face. "So here's what we're going to do. Those four properties Jr. flagged near Highway 82? We're checking every single one of them. Tonight. Right now."
"We don't have probable cause—" Wade began.
"I don't give a damn about probable cause, Sheriff. You want to sit here and wait for another message? Another threat? Or do you want to go find Jake?"
Nobody moved.
Then Billy grabbed his jacket off the chair. "I'm going."
"Me too," Josh said.
Tom nodded. "Let's move."
Within minutes, the house was in motion. Men grabbing rifles, checking radios, loading into trucks. The wiz kids packing tablets and drone controllers. Wade coordinating with his deputies.
Sarah stood in the doorway watching them prepare, Rebecca and Mary beside her.
"Bring him home," Sarah said quietly.
Billy looked at his mother, then at the photo of his brother still displayed on Jr.'s screen.
"We will," he said. "I promise."
But as they headed out into the night, nobody said what they were all thinking:
Forty hours left. And they still didn't know where Jake was.
Chapter 8: Breaking Point
Jake's body had stopped obeying him.
His muscles trembled with exhaustion, the constant strain of fighting the ropes leaving him spent and weak. The rope burns on his biceps and wrists felt like fire now, raw and seeping. Every breath was work—the rope around his chest restricting his lungs, forcing him to concentrate on pulling air through his nose.
He'd stopped fighting. Not because he wanted to. Because he couldn't anymore.
The rage was gone. Used up. Burned through like kindling until there was nothing left but ash and fear.
God, the fear.
It crawled up from somewhere deep in his gut, cold and suffocating. The kind of fear Jake had never let himself feel before. The kind he'd always punched his way out of or run from or drowned in whiskey and bravado.
But there was nowhere to run now. No one to punch. Just him and the dark and the silence and the terrible certainty that he was breaking apart.
Are they coming?
The question looped through his mind like a prayer. Like a curse.
Billy knows something's wrong by now. He has to. Jr. would've checked the GPS. They'd see it's offline. They'd look for you.
But how would they find him? He didn't even know where he was. Somewhere west. That's all he had. Endless miles of brush and dirt and abandoned properties. How many old barns were out there? Fifty? A hundred?
What if they can't find you in time?
Jake's breathing hitched, panic clawing at his chest. The tape over his mouth felt tighter, suffocating. He forced himself to slow down, to breathe through his nose, one breath at a time.
Pops would come. Tom. Wade. The whole consortium. They wouldn't stop looking.
But what if they were looking in the wrong place? What if that Silverado had driven him in circles, throwing off any sense of direction? What if he was so far from home that even the drones couldn't—
Another drop of sweat rolled down his chest.
Jake flinched violently, certain it was fingers, certain they were back to hurt him again. But nothing came. Just his own body, torturing him with sensations he couldn't control.
How much longer?
Time had no meaning anymore. Could've been hours since they left. Could've been days. His body ached like it had been days, but his mind couldn't hold onto any sense of before and after. Just now. Just this eternal moment of darkness and silence and rope cutting into his skin.
What if you go insane before they find you?
The thought hit him like ice water. What if his mind just... broke? Snapped under the weight of sensory deprivation and fear and helplessness? What if he was still sitting here breathing but not really here anymore, just a shell tied to a chair in an abandoned barn?
Jake tried to speak behind the gag. Tried to say Billy's name, or Pops', or anyone's. But the bandanna absorbed the sound, the tape sealed it away, and all that came out was nothing.
He was disappearing.
Please.
Jake didn't know who he was talking to. God, maybe. Pops, who'd taught him to never give up, to fight through anything. Billy, his brother, his twin in all but birth.
Please find me. Please don't let me die here like this. Please—
But what if they did find him and it was too late? What if they burst through that barn door and he was already gone, mind shattered, nothing left of Jake Benson but a body breathing on autopilot?
What if being found was worse than this?
The thought came unbidden, terrible and seductive.
What if you just... let go?
Stop fighting. Stop hoping. Stop enduring this endless horror of waiting for the knife, for the pain, for whatever came next. Just surrender. Let the dark take him. Let his mind slip away into nothing where at least there'd be peace.
Jake's fingers twitched—the only part of him he could still move. He held onto that. The only proof he was still here, still Jake, still fighting even if his body had given up.
Don't you dare quit.
Pops' voice in his head. Rough and certain and unforgiving.
Bensons don't quit. You hear me, boy? You hold on. You hold the hell on.
But God, he was tired. So tired. Every muscle screaming. Every breath a fight. Every second in the dark and silence wearing him down to nothing.
How much more could he take?
Something brushed his foot again.
Jake didn't thrash this time. Didn't scream. Just shuddered as the fingers danced across his sole, methodical and cruel, and felt something inside him crack a little more.
Then they were gone.
And Jake sat alone in the dark, trembling and broken and wondering if anyone was coming at all.
Chapter 9: The Break
Billy Renzo had been staring at the thermal feed for so long his eyes were crossing.
Four AM. They'd been searching for eighteen hours straight. The fourth property on Jr.'s list had been another dead end—just an old line shack with a rusted tractor and no sign anyone had been there in years.
Billy Renzo flew the drone in lazy grid patterns over the search radius, watching heat signatures bloom and fade on his screen. Coyote. Deer. Cattle. Nothing human. Nothing that mattered.
He was about to call it and bring the drone back for a battery swap when something caught his eye.
A heat signature. Rectangular. Too regular to be natural.
"Wait." Billy Renzo leaned closer to the screen. "Jr., come look at this."
Jr. was at his shoulder in seconds, Daniel and Ryan Mattern crowding in behind him.
"What am I looking at?" Jr. asked.
"There." Billy Renzo pointed. "Heat signature. Looks like... a vehicle maybe? Under cover?"
Jr. enhanced the image. The thermal showed a long rectangular shape, definitely metal, definitely warm enough to have been driven recently. And beside it, a smaller heat signature. Another vehicle.
"Where is this?" Wade was already moving into the command center.
Billy Renzo pulled up the GPS coordinates. "About sixteen miles west of the last visual. Off a dirt road that branches from Highway 82."
"That's outside our primary search radius," Robert said.
"Barely," Jr. was already cross-referencing with satellite imagery. "There's a structure there. Old barn, looks like. Weathered, half-collapsed roof."
Billy felt his heart kick. "Can you get closer? See if there's anyone inside?"
Billy Renzo adjusted the drone's position, dropping altitude. The thermal feed sharpened. The barn showed ambient heat from the structure itself, but there—in the center—a small concentrated heat signature.
Human-sized.
Sitting perfectly still.
"Oh my God," Jr. breathed. "That's him. That has to be him."
The command center exploded into motion.
"Get me exact coordinates," Wade barked, already on his radio. "Wilson, Ryan—I need you mobile now. We've got a location."
Billy Sr. was grabbing his rifle. Tom right behind him. Josh already had his keys.
Pops appeared in the doorway, rifle in hand, face hard as granite. "Where?"
"Sixteen miles west," Jr. said, fingers flying as he locked the GPS coordinates into every tablet, every phone, every device. "Sending you the route now."
Jr. looked at Billy Renzo, Daniel, and Ryan Mattern. "Set the drone to auto-track and lock the feed to our tablets. We're going with them."
"Jr.—" Tom started.
"He's our uncle," Jr. said, already moving to the gun safe. He pulled out four Glocks, checked each magazine, handed them to Billy Renzo, Daniel, and Ryan Mattern. "We've been hunting since we were six. We're going."
Pops looked at his great-grandson, then nodded once. "Get your gear."
The wiz kids grabbed their tablets, radios, and weapons. Celeb was already at the door with Robert.
Sarah appeared in the kitchen doorway, Rebecca and Mary behind her. "You found him?"
"We found something," Billy said. He looked at his mother, saw the hope and terror warring in her eyes. "We're bringing him home."
Jr. pulled up a satellite view on the main monitor for Sarah and the women to watch. "Two vehicles on site. The barn's got one entrance we can see from here. No windows on the east or west walls, but the roof's partially collapsed on the north side. Could be a secondary entry point."
"How long to get there?" Tom asked.
"Fifteen minutes if we push it," Billy Renzo said, securing his Glock in his belt.
"Then we push it." Pops was already heading for the door.
The convoy formed fast. Wade's sheriff SUV in the lead, lights off, Wilson and Ryan Nelson with him. Tom's truck behind with Billy and Josh. Robert and Celeb in the Beaumont F-350. Pops rode in Josh's passenger seat, rifle between his knees, face set like carved stone. Jr. and the three wiz kids loaded into Billy's truck, tablets and Glocks ready.
Wilson and Ryan Nelson had their AR-15s from the sheriff's department. Everyone else carried hunting rifles they'd been shooting since childhood.
"Stay on that thermal feed," Wade said over the radio as they pulled out.
Jr. had his tablet open, monitoring the drone's auto-track. "Heat signature hasn't moved. Still stationary in the center of the structure."
The convoy moved fast down dark county roads, headlights cutting through the night. Jr. watched the thermal overlay on his screen. The signature in the barn remained perfectly still.
Too still.
"He's restrained," Robert said over the radio. Former military. He'd seen this before. "They've got him tied down."
"Then we go in fast," Pops said. "No warning. No negotiation."
"Pops—" Wade started.
"Those bastards have had my grandson for eighteen hours, Sheriff. Tied to a chair. In the dark. They threatened to cut him." Pops' voice was cold. Flat. "We breach that barn, and if any one of them so much as twitches wrong, I will put them down. Are we clear?"
Nobody answered. They didn't have to.
"Five minutes out," Wade said.
In Billy's truck, Jr. and the wiz kids checked their weapons one more time. Billy Renzo's hands had stopped shaking. Daniel's jaw was set. Ryan Mattern's eyes were hard.
They'd found Uncle Jake. Now they were going to bring him home.
"Two minutes," Wade's voice came over the radio. "Kill your headlights. We go in silent."
The convoy went dark, rolling the last mile on moonlight alone.
Jr. watched the thermal signature on his tablet. Still there. Still sitting.
Still waiting.
"We're coming, Uncle Jake," Jr. whispered.
And this time, they knew exactly where he was.
Chapter 10: The Rescue
The convoy stopped a quarter mile from the barn, engines cut, doors closing with soft clicks instead of slams.
Wade gathered everyone behind his SUV, voice low. "Wilson, Ryan—you're with me on the main entrance. Robert, Pops—you've got overwatch. Find positions with clear sight lines into that barn."
"Copy," Robert said. Former Army sniper. Pops had been a marksman in Vietnam. Both men moved immediately into the brush, rifles ready.
"Tom, Billy, Josh—you're backup on the main breach. Celeb, Jr., you boys stay behind us until we clear the interior." Wade looked at the four sixteen-year-olds, all armed with Glocks. "That understood?"
"Yes sir," Jr. said. But his hand was already on his weapon.
Billy Renzo had his tablet out, thermal feed live. "Three heat signatures inside now. Two standing, one sitting. The sitting one hasn't moved."
"That's Jake," Billy Sr. said, his voice tight.
"And the other two?" Wade asked.
"Moving around. Looks like... they're close to him. Real close."
Tom's jaw clenched. "We need to move. Now."
They approached in formation—Wade, Wilson, and Ryan Nelson leading with AR-15s. Tom, Billy, and Josh right behind with hunting rifles. Robert and Pops flanking wide, finding positions in the scrub with clear angles on the barn's entrance and the collapsed section of roof.
Jr. and the wiz kids stayed in the middle, weapons drawn, tablets tracking.
Fifty yards out.
Billy Renzo froze, staring at his screen. "Wait. They're doing something. Both signatures converging on—"
A sound cut through the night.
Muffled. Desperate. Barely human.
Screaming.
"GO!" Wade shouted.
The formation broke into a run. Wade hit the barn door first, Ryan and Wilson right behind him. The old wood splintered under their combined weight, hinges tearing free.
"SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT! HANDS UP!"
The scene inside froze like a photograph.
Jake, bound to the chair in the center of the barn. Shirtless, drenched in sweat, tape wrapped around his head. Every muscle straining against ropes that held him immobile. Two men standing over him—one holding Jake's head back by the hair, the other with a hunting knife pressed against Jake's bare chest, the tip already drawing a thin line of blood.
For one heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then everything happened at once.
The man with the knife started to turn, blade coming up—
Two shots. Almost simultaneous. One from Robert's position in the brush. One from Pops.
The knife clattered to the barn floor. The man went down hard, holes center mass.
The second man dove for something on the ground—a Glock, half-hidden in the hay—
Wilson's AR-15 barked once. Twice. The man dropped before his fingers touched the weapon.
"CLEAR!" Wade shouted, sweeping the barn. "CLEAR!"
But the family was already moving.
Jr. and Billy Renzo hit the barn first, Glocks up, scanning for threats. Daniel and Ryan Mattern right behind them. Then Tom, Billy Sr., Josh, Celeb—all of them flooding in.
"Uncle Jake!" Jr. was at the chair, hands already working at the tape around Jake's head. "We got you. We got you."
Billy Sr. dropped his rifle and pulled a knife from his belt, sawing at the ropes around Jake's chest. Tom worked on his arms. Josh on his legs. Celeb cutting the rope at his neck.
"Easy, easy," Tom said as the neck rope came free. Jake's head dropped forward immediately, the strain finally released.
Jr. peeled the tape away from Jake's ears first, then carefully removed the earplugs. Jake flinched at the sudden sound—voices, movement, chaos after hours of silence.
"It's us," Jr. said, his voice cracking. "It's family. You're safe."
Billy worked at the tape over Jake's mouth, trying to be gentle but needing it off NOW. The tape pulled free, and Jake spat out the oil-soaked bandanna, gasping for air through his mouth for the first time in eighteen hours.
The ropes around his chest came loose. Then his arms. Jake's muscles spasmed as they were freed, cramping immediately from being held in the same position for so long.
"I got you, brother," Billy said, catching Jake as he started to slump forward. "I got you."
Tom cut the last rope around Jake's ankles. Jake tried to stand and his legs buckled—no strength left, muscles screaming.
Billy and Tom caught him, holding him up between them.
Jake's eyes were wild, unfocused. Sweat-soaked. Rope burns angry and raw on his biceps, wrists, neck. He looked around the barn like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing—his family, his brothers, all of them here.
Then his eyes landed on the two bodies on the barn floor.
"They're dead," Pops said, walking in from his position outside, rifle still in hand. "They ain't never touching you again."
Jake's breathing was ragged, his whole body trembling. He tried to speak but his voice came out as a croak, throat raw from screaming behind the gag.
"Don't talk," Billy said. "Just breathe. We got you."
Jr. pulled off his jacket and draped it over Jake's bare shoulders. Jake flinched at the touch, then seemed to realize who it was and grabbed Jr.'s arm like a lifeline.
"You found me," Jake managed to rasp. "You... you actually found me."
"Of course we found you," Jr. said, tears streaming down his face. "You're family. We don't leave family behind."
Celeb was on his knees gathering the cut ropes, his face hard. Billy Renzo and Daniel were photographing the scene with their tablets for evidence. Ryan Mattern stood guard at the door, weapon still drawn.
Wade was on his radio. "This is Sheriff Nelson. We've got the victim. Two suspects down. Need EMTs at our location immediately."
"No hospital," Jake croaked. His hand shot out, grabbing Billy's arm with surprising strength. "Take me home. Just... take me home."
Billy looked at Tom. Tom looked at Wade.
Wade sighed. "Rebecca's a nurse. She can check him over at the ranch. But Jake—if there's internal damage—"
"I'm fine," Jake rasped. He wasn't fine. He was shaking like a leaf, rope burns seeping, barely able to stand. But his eyes were clearing, focusing. "I want to go home."
Pops stepped forward, put a weathered hand on Jake's face. "Then we're going home, boy. All of us."
They carried him out of the barn—Billy on one side, Tom on the other, Josh supporting from behind. Jr. and the wiz kids formed a protective circle around them, weapons still out, scanning for threats even though the danger was over.
Robert met them outside. "Wilson and Ryan are securing the scene. Found a third subject in the Silverado, tried to run. He didn't get far."
"Good," Tom said.
They loaded Jake into the backseat of Tom's truck, Billy climbing in beside him, keeping a hand on his brother's shoulder. Jake leaned into him, eyes closing for the first time in eighteen hours.
"Stay awake," Billy said quietly. "Just until Rebecca checks you out. Then you can sleep."
"Can't sleep," Jake mumbled. "Every time I close my eyes I'm back in that chair..."
"You're not in the chair anymore," Billy said firmly. "You're here. With us. And we're taking you home."
The convoy reformed—slower this time, headlights on, no urgency now except to get Jake back to his family.
Jr. sat in the passenger seat with his tablet, watching his uncle's heat signature on the thermal feed. Not alone in a barn anymore. Surrounded by family.
Where he belonged.
Chapter 11: Coming Back
The ranch house lights were blazing when the convoy pulled in just after dawn.
Sarah was out the door before Tom's truck even stopped, Rebecca and Mary right behind her. Caroline Beaumont had her phone out, already calling the other consortium families.
Billy helped Jake out of the truck. Jake's legs were steadier now, but he still needed support. The rope burns on his wrists and biceps looked worse in the daylight—angry red welts where he'd fought the restraints for hours.
Sarah stopped three feet away, her hand over her mouth, taking in the sight of her son. Shirtless except for Jr.'s jacket draped over his shoulders. Sweat-stained. Rope-burned. Trembling.
"Mom," Jake said, his voice still rough.
That broke her. Sarah closed the distance and wrapped her arms around him, careful of the injuries but holding on like she'd never let go.
And that's when Jake broke.
Eighteen hours of darkness and silence and terror came flooding out all at once. His whole body shook as sobs tore through him—raw, ugly, the kind of crying he hadn't done since he was a kid. He couldn't stop it. Couldn't control it. Didn't want to.
"I thought—" Jake choked out between sobs. "I thought you wouldn't find me. I thought I was gonna die in that chair and nobody would know where—"
"Shhh," Sarah held him tighter. "We found you, baby. We found you."
Billy was there suddenly, one arm around Jake's shoulders, holding his brother up. Then Tom on the other side. Then Josh. Then Jr. and Celeb and the wiz kids, all of them crowding in, hands on Jake's back and shoulders and arms.
"We got you, brother," Billy said, his own voice thick. "We got you."
Pops stepped into the circle, put both weathered hands on Jake's face and made him look up. The old man's eyes were wet.
"You held on," Pops said. "You hear me, boy? You held on and we found you. That's what Bensons do. We hold on and we come for each other."
Jake nodded, still crying, not caring who saw. Let them see. Let them all see that Jake Benson—hothead, fighter, the one who never backed down—had been terrified and broken and was only standing here because his family came for him.
Robert Beaumont stood back with Wade, both men looking away to give Jake his moment. But Robert's jaw was tight. He'd seen men break before. Knew what it took to come back from it.
After a long moment, Jake's breathing started to even out. The sobs quieted to shudders. He wiped his face with his hand, embarrassed now but also lighter somehow. Like something poisonous had been drained out.
"Sorry," Jake muttered.
"Don't you dare apologize," Sarah said fiercely. "Don't you dare."
Rebecca moved in gently. "Jake, I need to check you over. Those rope burns need cleaning and—"
"I know," Jake said. His voice was steadier now. "I know."
They got him inside and seated at the kitchen table. Rebecca immediately went to work with her medical kit—cleaning the rope burns, checking his circulation, examining his neck where the restraint had rubbed the skin raw.
"This is going to sting," Rebecca warned, dabbing antiseptic on his wrists.
Jake hissed through his teeth but didn't pull away.
"Pussy," Billy said from across the table, grinning.
Jake looked up, saw his brother's face, and something clicked back into place. "Fuck you," he rasped back.
"There he is," Josh said, and everyone laughed—the sound breaking the last of the tension like a dam bursting.
Pops handed Jake the flask. "Drink."
Jake took a long pull, wincing as the whiskey burned down his raw throat. Then another. He handed it back and looked around the kitchen—at his family, at the wiz kids hovering nearby, at Celeb leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.
"You all came," Jake said quietly. "Every one of you."
"Of course we came," Jr. said. "What'd you think was gonna happen?"
"I don't know," Jake admitted. "After a while in that chair, I couldn't think straight. Couldn't tell what was real anymore. Just kept hoping..."
"We were coming," Billy said firmly. "Always. You know that now, right?"
Jake nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah. I know."
Wade came in from outside, radio in hand. "Crime scene's secure. We've got three suspects—two deceased, one in custody. He's already talking, trying to cut a deal."
"What'd they want?" Ray asked.
"Ransom money. They've been casing consortium properties for weeks. Thought they could grab someone, get paid, and disappear." Wade shook his head. "They thought wrong."
Pops took another pull from his flask. "Damn right they did."
Rebecca finished bandaging Jake's wrists and moved to his ankles. "You're going to be sore for days. Those muscles were locked in position for too long. You need rest, fluids, and—"
"I'm hungry," Jake interrupted.
Everyone stopped.
Jake looked at his mother. "Mom, can you make pot roast? With the potatoes and carrots like you do?"
Sarah's eyes filled with tears again, but she was smiling. "I can make pot roast."
"Make a lot," Jake said. "I'm starving."
"Now we know he's okay," Josh said. "Only thing that boy loves more than fighting is eating."
"Damn straight," Jake said.
By noon, the ranch house was packed.
The Renzos arrived first—Billy Renzo's parents bringing two casserole dishes and hugging Jake so hard he yelped. Then the Matterns and Rodriguezes, Daniel's mother immediately taking over part of the kitchen to help Sarah. The women worked together like they'd done it a thousand times—pot roast in the oven, potatoes peeling, green beans snapping, biscuits rising.
Edna Nelson showed up with her mother and made a beeline for Billy, but her eyes kept drifting to Jake sitting at the table, and she looked like she might cry.
Anna Nelson did cry when she saw Jr., throwing her arms around him even though he smelled like barn and sweat and eighteen hours of no sleep.
The dining room table got extended with two extra leaves. Then they added the folding table from the garage. Then chairs from every room in the house until there were enough seats for thirty people.
Pops held court on the porch with his cigars, the wiz kids gathered around him like always. Jr., Billy Renzo, Daniel, and Ryan Mattern recounting the search—the endless hours of footage, the grid patterns, the moment Billy Renzo spotted the heat signature.
"Almost missed it," Billy Renzo admitted. "Was about to bring the drone back."
"But you didn't miss it," Pops said, pointing his cigar at the boy. "You found him. You brought him home."
Billy Renzo ducked his head, embarrassed, but pleased.
Inside, Jake endured Rebecca's hovering—she made him drink three glasses of water, checked his pulse twice, and fussed over his bandages until he threatened to tie her to a chair if she didn't stop.
"Too soon," Billy said, and everyone laughed again.
By two PM, the food was ready.
Pot roast. Mashed potatoes. Roasted carrots and onions. Green beans with bacon. Fresh biscuits. Three pies—apple, pecan, and cherry—cooling on the counter.
They crammed around the tables, shoulder to shoulder, passing dishes and talking over each other. The consortium families—six of them now, connected by land and loyalty and the knowledge that when one of them was in trouble, all of them came running.
Wade said grace. Short and simple. "Thank you for bringing this boy home. Amen."
"Amen," everyone echoed.
Jake ate like he hadn't seen food in a week. Three helpings of pot roast. Two biscuits. A mountain of potatoes. Sarah kept refilling his plate, her hand touching his shoulder every time she passed.
"So what happened to the third guy?" Ray asked Wade.
"In county lockup. He's singing like a canary—gave us names, connections, the whole operation. They've done this before, apparently. Other counties. Always small ranches, always someone who'd be missed but not too quickly."
"They picked the wrong ranch this time," Tom said quietly.
"Damn right," Pops said, raising his flask. "To family."
"To family," everyone echoed, glasses and cups raised.
Jake looked around the table—at his brothers, his parents, his nephew and the wiz kids, at Robert and Caroline who'd become family in just over a year, at Celeb who fit into the frat house like he'd always been there. At Pops, who'd probably taken that shot without hesitation. At Wade and his deputies who'd coordinated the whole thing.
"Thank you," Jake said suddenly. The room quieted. "All of you. I was in that dark and I was... I was breaking. Thought I was gonna lose my mind before you got there. But you came. Every one of you. So thank you."
Billy reached over and punched his shoulder—right where a rope burn was healing.
"Ow! What the hell?"
"We're brothers, you idiot," Billy said. "Of course we came."
"Still hurt, asshole."
"You want me to kiss it better?"
"I want you to shut the hell up."
"Make me."
And just like that, it was normal again. Billy and Jake bickering. Jr. and his buddies laughing. Pops cursing loud enough that Sarah yelled at him from the kitchen. The women clearing plates and serving pie. Robert and Tom and Wade talking strategy for improving security. Ray already planning upgrades to the surveillance system.
Jake ate his slice of apple pie and felt the trembling in his hands finally stop.
He was home. He was safe. And his family—his whole goddamn family—had come for him.
That was all that mattered.
Outside the window, the sun was shining on Benson land. The consortium land. The place they'd all fought to protect and would fight to protect again if they had to.
But today, they were just having Sunday dinner.
And Jake Benson was exactly where he belonged.
