Chapter 1
Scene 1: The Frat House Wake-Up
The alarm screamed at six AM, and Billy Benson's hand shot out from under the thin sheet, slapping the phone into silence. Above him, Jake groaned and rolled over in the top bunk, springs creaking. Across the narrow space between the beds, Celeb was already sitting up, rubbing his face.
"Morning, sunshine," Billy muttered, swinging his legs off the bottom bunk. His bare feet hit the worn floorboards, cool in the early morning.
"Fuck morning," came Billy Jr.'s voice from the other top bunk. The kid was sixteen but built like a man from ranch work, all shoulders and forearms.
Colt—Louisiana, as they called him—stirred on the mattress between the bunks, stretching his lanky frame. "Y'all always this cheerful?"
"Every damn day," Jake said, dropping down from his bunk with a thud that shook the room. He was twenty-two, a year older than Billy, but they looked enough alike that folks sometimes asked if they were twins. Same dark hair, same build, same way of moving. Jake just had a shorter fuse.
The frat house wasn't much—two bunk beds and that mattress on the floor, five guys crammed into a space meant for maybe two. But it worked. They'd made it work for fourteen months now, since Celeb moved in from the Beaumont place. Louisiana had only been here a few weeks, down from Baton Rouge, Celeb's cousin trying to learn the ranch life.
Billy pulled on his jeans and grabbed a white wifebeater from the pile of clean laundry Rebecca had left folded on the chair. The cotton was soft, worn thin from a hundred washings. He tugged it over his head and ran a hand through his hair.
"North pasture today?" Jake asked, pulling on his own shirt.
"Yeah. Fence line needs checking after that storm." Billy sat back down on his bunk to lace up his boots. "Solo run."
"Want company?"
"Nah. You got that irrigation system to fix with Tom."
Jake grinned. "Rather be riding fence."
"Rather be doing anything but fixing irrigation," Celeb said, standing and stretching. "That's a two-man job that needs four."
"That's ranch life," Billy said.
From downstairs, the smell of breakfast drifted up—bacon, eggs, biscuits. Sarah or Rebecca, probably both, working the kitchen like they did every morning. His mom and sister-in-law could feed an army, and most days they had to. The Benson Ranch ran on hard work and home cooking.
Billy stood and walked to the loose floorboard near the window. He pried it up with his fingers, revealing the cache underneath—warm Lone Stars in the darkness. He pulled one out, then another, tossing the second to Jake.
"Pops came through," Louisiana said, peering over.
"Always does," Billy said. The old man was seventy-six, a Vietnam vet with a mouth like a sewer and a heart bigger than Texas. Every morning, Pops would take their warm beers from under the floorboards and stick cold ones in the fridge, cursing and coughing his way through the task with a brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other. By evening, they'd have ice-cold beer waiting. It was his way of looking after them.
"Crazy old bastard," Jake said affectionately, cracking his beer. He took a long pull. "Breakfast beer. Breakfast of champions."
"That's what Pops says," Billy Jr. said, dropping down from his bunk. "Heard him this morning, coughing up a lung, going on about 'you boys better appreciate this' and 'in my day we drank warm piss and liked it.'"
They all laughed. Pops never did anything quietly.
Billy tucked his beer away for later—he'd drink it on the drive out to the north pasture. He grabbed his hat from the bedpost and settled it on his head. "I'm getting coffee."
"Bring me some," Jake said.
"Get your own."
"Come on, brother."
Billy paused at the door, looking back. Jake was grinning at him, that stupid grin that always worked. They weren't twins, but damn if they didn't think alike, move alike, know what the other was thinking half the time.
"Fine. But you owe me."
"I always owe you."
Billy headed downstairs, boots heavy on the wooden steps. The kitchen was bright and warm, Sarah at the stove flipping bacon while Rebecca pulled biscuits from the oven. The two women moved around each other with practiced ease, a choreography perfected over years of feeding the Benson clan.
"Morning, baby," Sarah said without turning around. Mothers always knew.
"Morning, Mama." Billy grabbed two mugs from the cabinet and filled them with coffee from the pot. Black for him, black for Jake. "Smells good."
"Fifteen minutes," Rebecca said, setting the biscuit tray on the counter. "You eating before you head out?"
"No time. Got a long ride to the north pasture."
"Take a biscuit at least," Sarah said, turning to look at him. She had that mom look, the one that said she'd force-feed him if necessary.
"Yes, ma'am." He grabbed a biscuit from the tray, still hot enough to burn his fingers. He juggled it and the two coffee mugs, heading back toward the stairs.
"Be careful out there," Sarah called after him.
"Always am."
Back in the frat house, he handed Jake his coffee and drained half of his own, standing by the window. The sun was just starting to break over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. It was going to be a hot one. Late summer in Kings County always was.
"You taking the north fence all the way to the Henderson line?" Celeb asked, pulling on his boots.
"That's the plan."
"That's a long ride."
"Four, five hours maybe. I'll be back by lunch." Billy finished his coffee and set the mug on the windowsill. He grabbed his work gloves from the chair and shoved them in his back pocket.
Jake stood and clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't let Henderson's cows seduce you. They're prettier than ours, but they're trouble."
"Henderson's cows are ugly as sin."
"That's what I'm saying. You're desperate enough, you might not notice."
Billy shoved him, and Jake laughed, stumbling back into Celeb. The room erupted in the kind of shoving, laughing chaos that happened every morning—five guys in too small a space, all of them brothers in everything but blood.
"All right, all right," Billy said, grabbing his hat again. "I'm out. Try not to burn the place down."
"No promises," Louisiana said.
Billy headed downstairs one more time, grabbed his beer from where he'd left it on the counter, and walked out into the morning. The air was already warm, promising heat. His pickup truck sat in the dirt lot beside the barn, dusty and reliable. He'd had it for three years now, and it ran like a dream.
He climbed in, set his beer in the cup holder, and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life. Through the windshield, he could see the ranch spreading out before him—pastures and fences, cattle and horses, the life he'd known since birth.
Just another day on the Benson Ranch.
He put the truck in gear and headed north.
Scene 2: The Abduction
The north pasture stretched out like a sea of brown grass and scattered mesquite, fence posts marching in a line toward the horizon. Billy had been at it for two hours, checking each post, testing the wire tension, replacing a few staples where the storm had loosened them. Honest work. The kind that made his shoulders ache and his mind quiet.
He was three miles from the ranch house, maybe half a mile from the Henderson property line, when he saw the trucks.
Two of them, coming fast across Henderson's land, dust plumes rising behind them. Billy straightened, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His wifebeater was already soaked through, clinging to his chest and back.
The trucks didn't slow down. They crashed through the fence line—Henderson's side, not his—and came straight at him.
Billy's hand went to his hip, but he'd left his sidearm in the truck. Stupid. He'd been so focused on the fence work he'd walked a quarter mile from where he'd parked.
The trucks skidded to a stop thirty feet away, engines still running. Doors opened. Three men got out, all wearing bandannas over their faces, all carrying rifles.
"Don't move," one of them said. His voice was flat, emotionless.
Billy's heart kicked into overdrive, but he kept his hands visible, away from his body. "What do you want?"
"Turn around. Cross your wrists behind your back."
"Listen, if this is about—"
"Now." The rifle came up, pointed at his chest.
Billy turned slowly, crossing his wrists behind his back like they'd ordered. His mind was racing. Three men. Two trucks. Rifles. This wasn't some random thing. This was planned.
One of them moved behind him. Billy felt rough hands grab his wrists, felt the bite of rope—hemp, quarter-inch, the kind they used on the ranch. The man worked methodically, wrapping the rope around Billy's wrists, cinching it tight, then wrapping it between his wrists in a frapping motion that made the binding impossibly secure.
"Too tight," Billy said.
No response. The man tied off the rope and moved to the next step. A bandanna appeared in Billy's peripheral vision, knotted in the middle. Before he could react, it was shoved between his teeth, the knot pressing against his tongue, the cloth pulling tight at the corners of his mouth. Another bandanna came next, this one covering his eyes, plunging him into darkness.
Billy's breathing quickened. He forced himself to stay calm. Panic wouldn't help.
Hands grabbed his arms again, pulling them up and together. The rope came back, wrapping around his elbows, drawing them close behind his back. Not touching, but close enough that his shoulders screamed in protest. More rope around his torso, pinning his arms to his body. Then around his biceps, frapping again, making everything tighter.
"Walk," the voice said.
Hands shoved him forward. Billy stumbled, blind and bound, his balance thrown off by the way his arms were secured. He took careful steps, trying to feel the ground through his boots.
"Stop."
He stopped. A truck door opened—he could hear the creak of hinges, feel the change in air.
"Get in."
Hands grabbed him and shoved him into a back seat. He landed awkwardly on his side, his bound arms trapped beneath him. The door slammed shut. A moment later, someone climbed into the front seat.
"Boots," another voice said from outside.
The door by his feet opened. More rope around his ankles, pulled tight, his boots pressed together. The door closed again.
An engine started—not the truck he was in, but the other one. Then his truck started, the familiar rumble of his own engine. Someone was driving his pickup.
They were taking him in his own damn truck.
The vehicle lurched forward, and Billy had to brace himself as best he could with his face against the seat. The cloth of the seat smelled like dust and oil. His wifebeater was soaked through with sweat, sticking to his skin. His arms were already starting to go numb from the position, the ropes cutting off circulation.
He tried to keep track of the turns, the time, anything that might help him figure out where they were going. But the blindfold was disorienting, and the pain in his shoulders was distracting. Left turn. Straight for a while. Right turn. Straight again. The road got rougher—dirt, maybe a ranch road.
How long had it been? Twenty minutes? Thirty? His arms were screaming now, a deep ache that radiated from his shoulders down to his fingertips. He couldn't feel his hands anymore.
The truck finally stopped. Doors opened. Hands grabbed him and dragged him out, his boots hitting the ground hard. He tried to stand, but his legs were stiff from being tied, and he stumbled. The hands caught him, held him upright.
"Move."
They walked him forward, maybe fifty feet. His boots scuffed against dirt, then wood—a floor. A barn, maybe. The air was different here, cooler, smelling of hay and old wood.
They stopped him and spun him around. His back hit something solid—a post. Hands grabbed his neck, and he felt rope wrap around his throat, not tight enough to choke but tight enough to hold him in place. More rope around his ankles, securing them to the post.
He was trapped. Bound to a post, blind and gagged, his arms numb and useless behind him.
Hands grabbed the front of his wifebeater. He heard the fabric rip, felt the cool air hit his bare chest and stomach as they tore the shirt open.
"Hold still," the voice said.
Something cold and sharp touched his chest—a marker. A Sharpie, from the smell. They were writing on him. He could feel the tip dragging across his skin, the letters taking shape. Dollar sign. Numbers. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it.
When they finished, one of them stepped back. "Perfect."
Then the first punch hit his stomach.
Billy grunted into the gag, his abs clenching instinctively. The second punch came before he could recover, driving the air from his lungs. The third. The fourth. They weren't hitting him in the face, weren't going for his ribs. Just his stomach, over and over, methodical and brutal.
His belly was on fire, the skin hot and tender. He could feel it swelling, turning red. He tried to double over, but the rope around his neck held him upright against the post.
Finally, they stopped.
Billy hung there, gasping through his nose, his stomach a mass of pain. Sweat poured down his face, soaking into the blindfold.
"Get the picture," one of them said.
A camera clicked. Once. Twice. Three times.
"That'll do."
Footsteps. The sound of a door opening and closing. An engine starting, then fading into the distance.
Silence.
Billy stood there, bound and blind, his chest heaving. They were gone. He was alone.
He had to get out of this.
Scene 3: The Barn
Billy forced himself to breathe slowly, in through his nose, out through his nose. The gag made it harder, the knotted bandanna pressing against his tongue, but he couldn't afford to panic. Panic would kill him faster than whatever these bastards had planned.
His stomach throbbed with every breath, the skin hot and tight where they'd punched him. His arms were completely numb now, dead weight behind his back. The rope around his neck kept him upright against the post, and the rope around his ankles made sure he couldn't move his feet.
But he could move his face.
Billy started working his facial muscles, scrunching his nose, raising his eyebrows, trying to shift the blindfold up even a fraction of an inch. It was slow work. The bandanna was tied tight, and every movement felt like it did nothing. But he kept at it, raising his eyebrows as high as they'd go, wrinkling his forehead, working his jaw side to side.
The blindfold shifted. Maybe a millimeter. Maybe less.
He kept going. Scrunch. Raise. Work the jaw. Over and over, a rhythm that became almost meditative. His face was starting to ache from the effort, the muscles cramping, but he didn't stop.
The blindfold inched up. He could feel it now, the bottom edge lifting slightly, letting in the faintest hint of light below.
More scrunching. More eyebrow raises. He tilted his head back slightly, using gravity to help, then brought it forward again. The blindfold slipped a little more.
Light. Real light now, a sliver of it at the bottom of his vision.
Billy kept working, his face contorting with the effort. The blindfold was above his cheekbones now, the bottom edge just below his eyes. One more push. He raised his eyebrows as high as they'd go, scrunched his whole face, and felt the blindfold slip up over his eyes.
He could see.
The barn swam into focus. It was old, the wood weathered and gray, sunlight streaming through gaps in the walls. Hay bales stacked in one corner. Tools hanging on the far wall. And directly in front of him, maybe fifteen feet away—
A bomb.
Billy's blood turned to ice.
It was crude but effective-looking. Sticks of what had to be dynamite, wired together, connected to a digital clock. The clock face glowed red in the dim light of the barn.
08:14:37.
08:14:36.
08:14:35.
Eight hours. He had eight hours before that thing went off.
Billy looked down at himself. His wifebeater hung open, torn down the middle, exposing his chest and stomach. His belly was red and swollen from the beating, and across his chest, written in thick black Sharpie, were the words: "$100K."
One hundred thousand dollars. That's what they wanted. That's what he was worth.
His mind raced. Could the ranch raise that kind of money in eight hours? Maybe. Probably. Pops had money tucked away, and Tom could liquidate some assets if he had to. It was a lot, but it wasn't impossible. Not like a million dollars. They could do it.
If they found him in time.
Billy looked around the barn, trying to figure out where he was. The walls were old but solid. The door was closed, probably locked from the outside. No windows low enough to reach, even if he could get free.
He had to get free.
Billy tested the ropes around his wrists, trying to flex his hands. He couldn't feel them anymore, but he could still move his arms slightly, could feel the rope shift against his skin. The binding was tight, professional. Whoever had done this knew what they were doing.
But rope could be loosened. Rope could be broken.
He started working his wrists, twisting them back and forth, trying to create any slack in the binding. The hemp bit into his skin, and he could feel warmth—blood, probably—but he kept going. Twist. Pull. Twist. Pull.
The clock ticked down.
08:11:22.
Billy thought of Sarah, his mom, probably wondering where he was by now. He'd said he'd be back by lunch. She'd be worried. Jake would be pissed, thinking Billy had stopped for a beer somewhere. Pops would be in his chair, brandy in hand, telling everyone to calm the hell down.
Billy Jr. would be the one to check the north pasture. The kid was smart, observant. He'd see the broken fence line, the tire tracks. He'd know something was wrong.
But would they find him in time?
Billy kept working the ropes, his shoulders screaming, his wrists raw. He thought of Edna, the girl he'd been seeing off and on for the past few months. She'd give him hell for getting himself kidnapped. She'd probably punch him herself when this was over.
If this was over.
No. When. When this was over.
The rope around his wrists shifted slightly. Not much, but enough to feel. Billy kept at it, twisting, pulling, ignoring the pain. His fingers were starting to tingle now, blood flow returning in painful pins and needles.
The clock ticked down.
08:07:15.
The barn was silent except for his breathing and the faint hum of the clock. Dust motes drifted in the sunlight. Somewhere outside, a bird called.
Billy Benson was twenty-one years old, the youngest son of the Benson Ranch, and he was tied to a post in a barn with a bomb counting down in front of him.
But he wasn't dead yet.
He kept working the ropes, his jaw set, his eyes on that clock.
Eight hours to live.
He'd make it seven hours and fifty-nine minutes longer than these bastards expected.
The clock ticked.
Billy fought.
Chapter 2
Scene 1: Jr.'s Check-In
Billy Jr. wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of mud across his skin. The irrigation line repair had taken longer than expected—three hours of digging, cutting, and re-fitting PVC pipe in the south pasture under a sun that felt like it was trying to cook him alive. At sixteen, he was built like a man from years of ranch work, shoulders broad and arms corded with muscle, but the Texas heat didn't care how tough you were.
He straightened, his back protesting, and surveyed the work. The new section of pipe gleamed white against the red dirt, connections sealed tight. He'd tested it twice. No leaks. Tom would be satisfied.
Jr. glanced at his watch. 9:47 AM. Billy should be finishing up the fence line in the north pasture by now. Probably could use a hand loading materials if there was extra wire and posts to haul back.
He pulled the encrypted radio from his belt and keyed the mic. "Billy, you copy? It's Jr. Finished up the irrigation line. You need help loading out?"
Static crackled.
Then a voice came through. Not Billy's voice.
"Billy's a little tied up right now."
Jr. froze. The voice was cold, flat, with an edge that made his skin crawl. Wrong. Everything about it was wrong.
"Who is this?" Jr. kept his voice steady, but his heart had started hammering. "Where's Billy?"
"Billy's secured. Safe. For now." A pause. "We want one hundred thousand dollars. Cash. You have until six PM today. Eight hours."
Jr.'s mind raced. Kidnappers. On their encrypted network. How the hell—
"If you want proof, check your phone."
The radio went silent.
Jr. yanked his phone from his pocket with shaking hands. A new message. Unknown number. He opened it.
The image loaded, and his stomach dropped.
Billy. Tied to a wooden post in what looked like a barn. His face was bruised, one eye swollen, blood dried at the corner of his mouth. His shirt had been cut away, and across his bare chest, written in what looked like black marker: "$100K."
But it was the device at Billy's feet that made Jr.'s blood run cold. Wires. A digital display. A bomb.
The timer read 07:58:43.
Seven hours and fifty-eight minutes.
"Jesus Christ," Jr. whispered.
His hands were steady now, the initial shock burning away into something sharper, more focused. He'd been trained for this—not kidnappings specifically, but crisis response. The consortium had drilled it into all four of the wiz kids. Stay calm. Assess. Act.
First problem: the kidnappers were on their encrypted network. They had Billy's radio. That meant they could hear everything the consortium said until Jr. locked them out.
Second problem: Billy had less than eight hours before that bomb went off.
Third problem: they needed to find him. Fast.
Jr. keyed his radio one more time. "I received your message. We'll get your money. Don't hurt him."
No response.
Jr. clipped the radio back to his belt and ran for his ATV. The four-wheeler roared to life, and he gunned it across the south pasture, bouncing over ruts and rocks, not caring about the suspension or his kidneys. The ranch house was two miles away. He covered it in under ten minutes, the ATV's engine screaming.
He skidded to a stop in the gravel drive, killed the engine, and sprinted for the house. His boots pounded up the porch steps. He hit the front door hard enough to make it bang against the wall.
"Command center!" he shouted to the empty house. "Now!"
He took the stairs three at a time, his phone clutched in one hand, the image of Billy burned into his mind.
Eight hours.
They had eight hours to find him.
Scene 2: The Command Center
Jr. burst through the door of the second-floor command center, his breath coming hard. The room was exactly as they'd left it after the last consortium meeting—four massive screens mounted on the wall, eighteen iPads arranged on the long table, six drone charging stations humming quietly in the corner. Fifty thousand dollars' worth of technology, and right now it was the only thing that might save Billy's life.
He dropped into the chair at the main console and his fingers flew across the keyboard. First priority: lock the kidnappers out of the network.
The encryption system was Jr.'s design, built on military-grade protocols he'd adapted and improved. Changing the codes would take ninety seconds. He pulled up the security interface and started typing, his mind working faster than his hands.
New encryption key. Generate. Implement across all devices. The system would push the update to every radio, every iPad, every satellite phone in the consortium network. Everyone except Billy's radio.
The kidnappers would be locked out. Blind and deaf.
The progress bar crawled across the screen. Sixty seconds. Forty-five. Thirty.
Jr. grabbed one of the encrypted satellite phones from the charging dock. His thumb found the emergency button—red, recessed, impossible to hit by accident. He pressed it hard.
The mechanical voice activated immediately, broadcasting across the entire network to every radio, every device. Cold. Emotionless. Impossible to ignore.
"911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr."
The message repeated three times, exactly as programmed. Every person in the consortium would hear it. Every radio would light up. The emergency protocol was absolute.
The mechanical voice cut off, and Jr. keyed the mic.
"Billy's been taken. Kidnappers want one hundred thousand dollars. They sent proof. I'm forwarding the image now."
His fingers moved across his phone, pulling up the photo. He connected it to the network interface and hit send. The image would appear on every radio's mini screen, every iPad, every monitor in the system.
"Eight-hour deadline. Six PM. Bomb threat confirmed. I've locked the kidnappers out of our network. They had Billy's radio."
The encryption update completed. Green checkmarks across the board. The network was secure.
Jr. pulled up the GPS tracking protocol. Every radio in the consortium network had a tracker—standard safety feature for a ranch operation spread across thousands of acres. If Billy's radio was still active, they could find it.
He entered Billy's radio ID and initiated the trace.
The door slammed open behind him.
"What the hell is going on?"
Jake. Jr. didn't turn around, didn't stop working. "Billy's been kidnapped. Kidnappers contacted me on his radio. They want a hundred K by six PM."
"They what?" Jake's voice went from confusion to rage in half a second. He crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Jr.'s shoulder, spinning the chair around. "Where is he?"
Jr. met his eyes. Jake's face was flushed, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles stood out like cables. But Jr. had seen Jake angry before. This was different. This was fear wearing rage as a mask.
"I don't know yet. Look at your radio."
Jake yanked his radio from his belt. The mini screen glowed, displaying the image Jr. had forwarded. Jake stared at it, and all the color drained from his face.
"Those sons of bitches," he whispered. Then louder: "Those goddamn sons of bitches!"
He hurled the radio across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor.
"Jake!" Jr. snapped. "I need you focused. Breaking shit doesn't help Billy."
Jake rounded on him, fists clenched, and for a second Jr. thought he might take a swing. But Jake stopped himself, breathing hard through his nose, visibly fighting for control.
"What do we do?" Jake's voice was rough.
"I locked them out of the network. They can't hear us anymore. And I'm tracking Billy's radio GPS signal right now." Jr. turned back to the console. The tracking program was running, searching for the signal. "Once we have a location, we move."
"How long?"
"Two minutes. Maybe three."
Jake paced behind him like a caged animal. Jr. could feel the tension radiating off him, the barely contained violence. Jake had always been the hothead, the one who acted first and thought later. Right now, that energy needed to be channeled, not unleashed.
"I'm sending an emergency beacon to the other wiz kids," Jr. said, pulling up the group chat on one of the iPads. "We're going to need all four of us on this."
He typed quickly: EMERGENCY. COMMAND CENTER. NOW.
The responses came back within seconds.
Billy Renzo: On my way.
Ryan Mattern: 5 minutes out.
Daniel Rodriguez: Coming.
Jr. pulled up the GPS tracking display on the main screen. The program was still searching, scanning for Billy's radio signature across the consortium's network range.
"Come on," Jr. muttered. "Come on."
A blip appeared on the screen. Then coordinates. Then a map overlay.
"Got it," Jr. said.
Jake was at his shoulder instantly. "Where?"
Jr. zoomed in on the location, his stomach sinking as he recognized the property. "Old Henderson place. About eight miles northeast of here."
"Henderson's been abandoned for two years," Jake said.
"I know." Jr. pulled up satellite imagery of the property. Old barn. Farmhouse with a collapsed roof. Outbuildings in various states of decay. Plenty of places to hide. "That's probably why they chose it."
Jake was already moving toward the door. "I'm going."
"Wait." Jr.'s voice cracked like a whip. "We do this smart. We get everyone here first. We plan. We don't go in blind and get Billy killed."
Jake stopped, his hand on the doorframe. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, ready to explode into action. But he didn't move.
"Five minutes," Jake said. "They get five minutes to show up. Then I'm gone."
Jr. nodded. Five minutes he could work with.
He turned back to the console and started pulling up everything they had—property records, topographical maps, drone footage from previous surveys. They'd need to know every approach, every line of sight, every possible position the kidnappers might have set up.
The clock on the screen read 10:03 AM.
Seven hours and fifty-seven minutes until the bomb went off.
Jr.'s fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling data, building a tactical picture.
They were going to find Billy.
And God help the bastards who took him.
Scene 3: The Gathering
The sound of ATVs and trucks filled the air outside. Jr. heard them before he saw them—engines roaring up the drive, gravel spraying, vehicles skidding to stops. The wiz kids were arriving.
Billy Renzo hit the command center first, taking the stairs two at a time. He was Jr.'s age, sixteen, with dark hair and his father's sharp features. Ryan Mattern came right behind him, red-faced and breathing hard, followed by Daniel Rodriguez, who'd clearly sprinted from wherever he'd been working.
"Show me," Billy Renzo said, no preamble.
Jr. gestured to the main screen. "GPS signal from Billy's radio. Old Henderson property. Eight miles northeast."
The three wiz kids crowded around the console, their eyes scanning the data. This was what they'd trained for—not kidnappings specifically, but crisis response, tactical coordination, using technology to solve problems that would break most people. Four sixteen-year-olds who could hack, track, and coordinate better than most military units.
"I've got satellite imagery from three months ago," Jr. said, pulling it up on screen two. "Henderson place has been abandoned since the old man died. Main house is half-collapsed. Barn's still standing. Three outbuildings."
"Drone coverage?" Daniel asked.
"Launching now." Jr. activated two of the drones from the charging stations. The machines hummed to life, rotors spinning up. "We'll have live aerial in ten minutes."
The door banged open again. More footsteps on the stairs, heavier this time. Adult footsteps.
Pops hit the command center like a force of nature, Tom right behind him. At seventy-six, Pops moved like a man twenty years younger, his face carved from leather and fury. He was wearing his Vietnam-era combat boots and a shirt that read "I'm Not Arguing, I'm Just Explaining Why I'm Right."
"Where's my grandson?" Pops barked.
Jr. pointed to the screen. "Old Henderson place. We've got a GPS lock on his radio."
"How long ago?"
"Contact was at 9:47. I locked the kidnappers out of our network at 9:52. Got the GPS location at 10:03."
Pops studied the screen, his jaw working. Tom stood beside him, his face gray. Tom was the steady one, the planner, but right now he looked like he'd aged ten years in ten minutes.
More footsteps. Sarah Benson appeared in the doorway, Rebecca right behind her. Sarah saw the image still displayed on screen three—Billy tied to the post, beaten, the bomb at his feet—and her knees buckled.
Rebecca caught her, strong nurse's hands gripping Sarah's arms. "I've got you. Come on, sit down."
"My baby," Sarah whispered. "My baby boy."
Rebecca guided her to one of the chairs, but Sarah couldn't take her eyes off the screen. Tears streamed down her face.
Tom moved to his wife, kneeling beside her chair, taking her hands. "We're going to get him back. I promise you, Sarah. We're going to bring him home."
The command center was filling up now. Josh and Rebecca's son—Jr.'s father—appeared with Wade Nelson. Wade was wearing his sheriff's uniform, his face grim. He was torn, Jr. could see it. Wade was law enforcement, sworn to uphold protocol. But he was also consortium, family in all but blood.
"I should call the FBI," Wade said, but his voice lacked conviction. "Kidnapping's federal."
"Fuck the FBI," Pops snapped. "By the time those bureaucratic bastards get their thumbs out of their asses, Billy's dead. We handle this ourselves."
"Pops—"
"Don't 'Pops' me, Wade. You know I'm right. We've got eight hours. Less than eight hours now. We find these sons of bitches, we get Billy back, and then you can call whoever the hell you want."
Wade's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Agreed. But we do this smart. No cowboy shit."
More families were arriving. Jr. could hear them downstairs—the Beaumonts, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. All six consortium families, responding to the 911 alert. The command center couldn't hold everyone, but they were gathering in the house below, armed and ready.
Ray Benson appeared in the doorway, phone pressed to his ear. At twenty-eight, Ray was the consortium's business manager, the one who handled finances and logistics. He covered the phone's mic. "I'm working on the hundred K. I can have it liquid by two PM. Maybe earlier."
"We ain't paying shit until we know where he is," Pops said. "We find these bastards first, then we decide what to do."
Jake was pacing again, his hands opening and closing into fists. "We know where they are. Henderson place. Let's go get him."
"We go in smart," Wade said. "We scout first. Drones, surveillance. We figure out how many there are, what we're dealing with."
"While Billy sits there with a bomb at his feet?" Jake's voice rose. "Every minute we wait—"
"Every minute we wait, we gather intel," Pops cut him off. "You go charging in half-cocked, you get Billy killed and probably yourself too. We do this right."
Jr. was only half-listening to the argument. His focus was on the screens, on the data flowing in. The drones had launched, their cameras feeding live footage to screens two and three. The wiz kids were working in synchronized silence, pulling up property records, topographical data, access routes.
"Got something," Billy Renzo said. He pulled up a document on his iPad and mirrored it to screen four. "Henderson property is forty acres. Main structures are here, here, and here." He highlighted them on the satellite image. "But there's also an old access road on the east side that connects to Farm Road 1223. If they're smart, they've got a vehicle positioned there for quick exit."
"Can we block it?" Wade asked.
"Easily," Daniel said. "Two trucks, one on each end of the access road. They're boxed in."
Jr. pulled up the GPS tracking data again, overlaying it on the property map. The signal from Billy's radio was strong, stationary. "Radio's not moving. They're dug in somewhere on the property."
Ryan was working the drone controls, bringing the first aircraft over the Henderson place. The live feed showed the property from five hundred feet—the collapsed farmhouse, the barn with its rusted tin roof, the outbuildings slowly being reclaimed by brush and mesquite.
"Zoom in on the barn," Jr. said.
Ryan adjusted the camera. The barn filled the screen. Old wood, gaps in the siding, but the structure was intact. A truck was parked beside it—dark blue, maybe black, hard to tell from the aerial view.
"There," Jake said, pointing. "That's them."
"Maybe," Wade said. "Or maybe it's just an abandoned truck. We need to be sure."
"I can get closer," Ryan said. "Drop to two hundred feet, get a better angle."
"Do it," Pops said.
The drone descended, the image growing clearer. The truck was a Chevy, ten years old, covered in dust. Texas plates, but Jr. couldn't make out the numbers from this angle.
"Thermal imaging," Jr. said. "Can we pick up heat signatures?"
"Switching now," Ryan said.
The image changed, colors shifting to the thermal spectrum. The truck's engine glowed orange—still warm. Recently driven. And inside the barn—
"Two heat signatures," Billy Renzo said. "Human-sized. Moving."
"That's them," Jake said. "That's the bastards who took Billy."
But something was wrong. Jr. stared at the thermal image, his mind working through the problem. Two signatures in the barn. The truck outside. Billy's radio signal coming from the same location.
But where was Billy?
"Wait," Jr. said slowly. "If Billy's in that barn, why are we only seeing two signatures? There should be three—Billy and two kidnappers."
The room went silent.
"Unless Billy's not there," Wade said quietly.
Jr.'s stomach dropped. "The radio. They've got Billy's radio, but Billy's somewhere else."
"Son of a bitch," Pops breathed.
"They're using the radio as bait," Jr. said, the pieces falling into place. "They knew we'd track it. They wanted us to find this location."
"Why?" Tom asked.
"Distraction," Wade said. "Keep us focused on the Henderson place while they've got Billy stashed somewhere else."
Jake slammed his fist on the table. "So where the hell is he?"
Jr. was already pulling up the photo again, studying every detail. The barn Billy was in—wooden posts, old wood, hay on the floor. Sunlight coming through gaps in the walls. It could be anywhere. Hundreds of old barns across the county.
"We need more information," Jr. said. "But we also can't ignore the Henderson place. Those two in the barn are part of this. They might know where Billy is."
"Then we go get them," Jake said. "Make them talk."
Wade nodded slowly. "We can do that. But we need to be smart about it. If they're expecting us, they might be armed. Might have backup."
"I don't give a damn if they've got a goddamn tank," Pops said. "We're going in. Wade, you take point. Jake, you're with him. Tom, Josh, Ray—you're backup. I want the Beaumonts and the Nelsons covering the access roads. Nobody gets in or out."
"What about the money?" Ray asked.
"Keep working on it," Pops said. "But we're not paying until we have Billy back. These bastards want to play games, we'll play. But we play to win."
Jr. looked at the clock. 10:34 AM.
Seven hours and twenty-six minutes.
The command center had transformed into a war room. All four screens were active now—drone feeds, maps, tracking data, communications. The wiz kids were coordinating, pulling data, running scenarios. The adults were arming up, checking rifles and handguns, loading magazines.
Sarah was still in her chair, Rebecca beside her. Sarah's face was wet with tears, but her jaw was set. "Bring him home," she said to Wade. "Whatever it takes. Bring my boy home."
"Yes, ma'am," Wade said.
The families were moving now, heading downstairs, loading into trucks. Jr. watched them go, his mind racing. They were heading to the Henderson place, to confront the kidnappers, to get information.
But Billy wasn't there. Billy was somewhere else, tied to a post with a bomb counting down.
They had to find him. Fast.
Jr. pulled up the photo one more time, zooming in on every detail. The wood grain of the post. The type of rope. The style of the barn. Somewhere in this image was a clue, something that would tell them where Billy was.
He just had to find it.
"Jr.," Pops said from the doorway. "You stay here. Coordinate from command center. Keep those drones in the air. We need eyes on everything."
"Yes, sir."
Pops studied him for a moment, then nodded. "You did good, son. Locking them out, getting the GPS location. You did real good."
Then he was gone, his boots heavy on the stairs.
Jr. turned back to the screens. Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel were still with him, their faces grim but focused.
"We find him," Jr. said quietly. "We figure out where that barn is, and we find him."
"Agreed," Billy Renzo said.
The sound of trucks starting filled the air outside. Engines roaring. Gravel crunching. The consortium was moving out, armed and ready, heading to the Henderson place to confront the kidnappers.
But Jr. knew the truth. The Henderson place was a diversion. Billy was somewhere else.
And they had seven hours and twenty-three minutes to find him.
The clock ticked down.
Jr. got to work.
Chapter 3
Scene 1: The Ambush
The convoy kicked up dust as it tore down the county road toward the old Henderson property. Wade Nelson rode in the lead truck with Tom Benson, his sheriff's radio crackling with updates from the command center. Behind them, five more trucks followed in tight formation—Jake and Josh in the second, Pops and Robert Beaumont in the third, the rest of the consortium families spread through the others.
"Thermal still showing two signatures," Jr.'s voice came through the radio. "No movement in the last three minutes. They're stationary inside the structure."
"Copy that," Wade said. He glanced at Tom. "Your boy's good."
Tom's jaw was tight. "He better be. We're running out of time."
The clock on Wade's dashboard read 10:43 AM. Seven hours and seventeen minutes remaining.
The Henderson place came into view—a sagging barn and a collapsed farmhouse, surrounded by overgrown pasture and rusted equipment. Two trucks were parked near the barn, both newer models, out of place among the decay.
Wade keyed his radio. "All units, this is Wade. We go in quiet and fast. Surround the structure, cut off all exits. Nobody fires unless I give the order. We need these bastards alive."
A chorus of acknowledgments came back.
The convoy slowed as they approached, engines dropping to idle. Wade raised his fist, and the trucks spread out in a practiced formation, encircling the barn from a hundred yards out. Doors opened silently. Men emerged with rifles, moving low and fast through the tall grass.
Wade moved to the front of the barn, Tom and Robert flanking him. Jake appeared on his left, his face flushed with barely controlled rage, his rifle up and ready.
"Easy," Wade murmured. "We do this clean."
Jake's finger was on the trigger guard, his breathing hard. "They hurt my brother."
"And we're gonna make them pay. But first we find out where Billy is." Wade's voice was steel. "You hear me, Jake?"
Jake nodded once, sharp.
Wade positioned men at every corner, every window, every possible exit. Pops took the back with Josh and two others. The barn was surrounded, no way out.
"Jr., you still got eyes?" Wade said into his radio.
"Affirmative. Two heat signatures, center of the structure. No movement."
Wade raised his voice, projecting toward the barn. "This is Sheriff Wade Nelson. You're surrounded. Come out with your hands up. Now."
Silence.
Wade waited ten seconds, then tried again. "You've got nowhere to go. Every exit is covered. You come out now, nobody gets hurt."
A long pause. Then the barn door creaked open.
Two men emerged, hands raised. Mid-thirties, wearing jeans and work shirts, looking scared and stupid. One was tall and lanky, the other shorter with a beer gut. Neither looked like criminal masterminds.
"On your knees!" Wade barked. "Hands behind your heads!"
They dropped fast, faces pale.
Jake surged forward, but Wade caught his arm. "Not yet."
Tom and Robert moved in, rifles trained on the men while Wade approached with zip ties. He secured the tall one first, yanking his arms back and cinching the plastic tight. The man winced but didn't resist.
"Where's Billy Benson?" Wade demanded.
"I don't—we don't—" the tall one stammered.
Jake was there in two strides, grabbing the man by his shirt and hauling him halfway off the ground. "WHERE IS MY BROTHER?"
"Jake!" Wade pulled him back. "Stand down!"
Jake shoved the man away, breathing hard. His hands were shaking.
Wade secured the second kidnapper, then started searching them. The tall one had a wallet, some cash, a cheap burner phone. The shorter one had Billy's radio clipped to his belt.
Jake saw it and lunged. Wade barely caught him.
"That's his! That's Billy's!" Jake's voice cracked.
"I know." Wade unclipped the radio and held it up. "Where did you get this?"
The shorter man's eyes darted between them. "We—we were hired, man. We didn't know—"
"Hired by who?" Wade's voice was deadly calm.
"I don't know! Some guy, encrypted messages, cash up front—"
"Where's Billy?" Tom stepped forward, his rifle still trained on them. "Where's my son?"
"We left him at a barn, like we were told—"
"What barn?" Wade demanded. "Where?"
"I don't—it was north, I think, we took a bunch of turns—"
Jake kicked the tall one in the ribs. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to hurt. The man gasped and curled up.
"Jake!" Wade grabbed him again, physically hauling him back. "You want to find your brother or you want to beat on these idiots?"
Jake's chest was heaving. "They know where he is!"
"Maybe." Wade turned back to the kidnappers. "But they're not gonna tell us anything if you kill them first."
Pops appeared from around the barn, his face grim. "Barn's empty except for Billy's radio signal. They were waiting here like Jr. said."
Wade nodded. "Load them up. We're taking them back to the ranch."
"We should make them talk now," Jake said.
"We will. But not here." Wade looked at the kidnappers. "You two are gonna tell us everything. Where you took Billy, who hired you, all of it. And you're gonna do it fast, because that boy's got a bomb strapped to him and a clock ticking down."
The shorter one's eyes went wide. "Bomb? What bomb? Nobody said anything about a bomb!"
"The one in the photo you sent," Wade said coldly. "The one that's gonna blow in less than seven hours if we don't find him."
"Jesus Christ," the tall one breathed. "We didn't know—they didn't tell us—"
"Then you better start remembering where you left him." Wade hauled the shorter one to his feet. "Move."
They loaded the kidnappers into the back of Wade's truck, hands zip-tied, wedged between Tom and Robert. Jake climbed in the bed, his rifle across his lap, staring at them with murder in his eyes.
The convoy turned around and headed back toward the Benson ranch, driving fast.
Wade checked the clock. 10:58 AM. Six hours and forty-seven minutes remaining.
"Jr., you copy?" he said into the radio.
"Copy, Wade."
"We got them. Two suspects in custody. Heading back now. ETA fifteen minutes."
"Copy that. Command center standing by."
Wade glanced in the rearview mirror. The kidnappers looked terrified, pressed between Tom and Robert, with Jake glaring at them from the truck bed. Good. They should be terrified.
But Wade's gut told him these two were just hired muscle. Low-level idiots who'd been paid to do a job. They might not even know where Billy was.
And if they didn't, they were running out of options fast.
The ranch appeared on the horizon. Wade pressed the accelerator harder.
They had to make these bastards talk.
Scene 2: The Interrogation
They brought the kidnappers to the old equipment barn on the north side of the property—far enough from the main house that nobody would hear, close enough that they could move fast if needed. Wade and Pops hauled them inside while the others secured the perimeter.
The barn smelled of oil and old hay. Sunlight streamed through gaps in the walls, cutting sharp lines across the dirt floor. Wade shoved the kidnappers onto two metal chairs in the center of the space, their hands still zip-tied behind them.
Jake paced like a caged animal, his rifle slung over his shoulder, his fists clenching and unclenching. Tom and Josh stood near the door, silent and grim. Robert Beaumont leaned against a workbench, arms crossed.
Pops pulled up a chair and sat down facing the kidnappers, his weathered face unreadable. At seventy-six, he'd seen things these boys couldn't imagine. Vietnam. Forty years of ranching. He knew how to read men, and he knew how to break them.
"Names," Pops said quietly.
The shorter one swallowed. "Derek. Derek Mullins."
"Travis Holt," the tall one said.
"Who hired you?"
"We don't know," Derek said quickly. "I swear, man, we don't know. It was all encrypted messages, cash drops—"
"Bullshit." Jake stopped pacing. "You grabbed my brother, you know who paid you."
"We don't!" Travis's voice cracked. "It was anonymous, man. We got messages on an app, instructions, half the money up front—"
"What app?" Wade asked.
"Some encrypted thing. I deleted it after, like they told us to."
Wade's jaw tightened. "What were your instructions?"
Derek and Travis exchanged glances. Derek spoke first. "Grab Billy Benson from the north pasture. Tie him up, blindfold him, take a photo. Drive him to a barn and leave him there. Send the photo and the ransom demand. Drop his radio at the Henderson place and wait."
"What barn?" Pops leaned forward. "Where did you take him?"
"I don't—it was north, I think—"
"You think?" Jake's voice rose. "You don't remember where you left my brother to die?"
"We blindfolded him!" Travis said desperately. "We took a bunch of turns, back roads, I wasn't paying attention to exactly where—"
Jake crossed the space in two strides and grabbed Travis by the throat, lifting him and the chair off the ground. "You better start paying attention!"
"Jake!" Wade pulled him off. The chair crashed back down, Travis gasping.
"He's lying!" Jake shouted. "They know where Billy is!"
"Maybe they do, maybe they don't." Wade stepped between Jake and the kidnappers. "But you beating on them isn't gonna help."
Jake's hands were shaking. "We're wasting time."
"I know." Wade turned back to Derek and Travis. "Listen to me very carefully. Billy Benson has a bomb strapped to his chest. It's set to go off at six PM. That's less than seven hours from now. If you don't tell us where he is, he dies. And when he dies, you two become accessories to murder. That's life in prison, minimum. You understand?"
Derek's face had gone white. "We didn't know about any bomb. I swear to God, they didn't tell us—"
"I don't care what they told you. I care about where Billy is."
"North side of the county," Travis said quickly. "Old barn, abandoned. Near a creek, I think. There were trees around it, real overgrown—"
"That describes half the old barns in this county," Tom said from the doorway. His voice was rough. "You need to be more specific."
"I don't know!" Travis was close to tears. "We drove for maybe forty minutes, took a bunch of turns, it was all dirt roads—"
Pops stood up slowly. He walked over to Travis, leaned down until their faces were inches apart. "Son, I was in Vietnam. I've done things that would make you piss yourself. And right now, my grandson is tied up in a barn somewhere with a bomb on his chest. So you're gonna dig real deep in that memory of yours, and you're gonna tell me everything you remember about that drive. Every turn. Every landmark. Every goddamn thing."
Travis was shaking. "I—I remember we turned off County Road 12, I think. Went west for a while. Then north on some dirt road. There was an old windmill, broken, leaning to one side. And then more turns, I don't know, it all looked the same—"
"What about the barn?" Wade asked. "What did it look like?"
"Old. Real old. Wood was gray, falling apart. Big doors on the front, one was hanging crooked. There was junk around it, old equipment and shit."
"That's every abandoned barn in the county," Josh muttered.
Derek spoke up. "There was a sign. On the road, before we turned in. Real faded, but I saw it. Said something like 'Miller' or 'Milner,' I don't know."
Wade's head snapped up. "Miller?"
"Maybe. It was real faded."
Wade pulled out his phone and brought up a county map. "The old Miller place. Been abandoned for years. North side of the county, off County Road 12."
"That's gotta be it," Tom said.
Pops straightened. "How far?"
Wade was already calculating. "Forty-five minutes from here, maybe more depending on the roads."
Jake was at the door. "Let's go."
"Wait." Wade held up a hand. "We need to be sure. Jr., you copy?"
The radio crackled. "Copy, Wade."
"Pull up property records for the old Miller place, north side of the county. Abandoned barn. See if it matches the description."
"On it," Jr. said. "Stand by."
The seconds stretched. Jake paced. Tom stared at the kidnappers with barely controlled rage. Pops stood silent, his hand resting on the pistol at his hip.
The radio crackled again. "Wade, I've got it. Miller property, abandoned since 2019. Barn structure still standing according to satellite imagery. Matches the description—old, isolated, near a creek bed."
"That's it," Wade said. "Has to be."
"Wait." Jr.'s voice was tight. "I'm launching a drone now to confirm. Give me ten minutes to get eyes on it."
"We don't have ten minutes!" Jake shouted.
"We're not going in blind," Wade said firmly. "We confirm Billy's there, then we move. Ten minutes won't kill us."
"It might kill Billy!"
Pops put a hand on Jake's shoulder. "Wade's right. We do this smart."
Jake shook him off and stormed out of the barn.
Wade looked at Derek and Travis. "You two better pray we find him alive."
"We didn't know about the bomb," Derek said again, his voice small. "I swear."
"Doesn't matter now." Wade turned to Tom and Josh. "Get them secured in the bunkhouse. Post a guard. We'll deal with them after we get Billy back."
Tom and Josh hauled the kidnappers to their feet and led them out.
Wade checked his watch. 11:47 AM. Six hours and thirteen minutes remaining.
"Wade." Pops's voice was quiet. "What if they're lying? What if Billy's not at the Miller place?"
"Then we're screwed." Wade met his eyes. "But it's the best lead we've got."
They walked out into the sunlight. The command center was visible across the yard, Jr. and the wiz kids hunched over their screens. Sarah stood on the porch, her arms wrapped around herself, watching.
Wade's radio crackled. "Wade, this is Jr. Drone is in the air, heading to Miller property now. ETA seven minutes."
"Copy that."
Seven minutes. Then they'd know.
Wade looked at the clock again. Time was slipping away.
They had to find Billy. Soon.
The next two hours were the longest of Jr.'s life.
He sat in the command center, surrounded by screens, watching the drone feed as it swept over the Miller property. The barn was there—old, gray, exactly as the kidnappers had described. But the thermal imaging showed nothing. No heat signature. No sign of Billy.
"Could be shielded," Ryan said, adjusting the drone's altitude. "Old barns sometimes have enough insulation or metal roofing to block thermal."
"Or he's not there," Daniel said quietly.
Jr.'s stomach twisted. "He has to be there."
But as the minutes ticked by, doubt crept in. They searched the Miller property from every angle. Nothing. They expanded the search radius, checking every structure within five miles. Nothing.
Downstairs, Wade and Pops were back to interrogating Derek and Travis, pushing harder, trying to shake loose any detail they might have missed. Jake had to be physically restrained twice.
The clock kept ticking. 12:30 PM. 1:00 PM. 1:30 PM.
Five and a half hours remaining. Five hours. Four and a half.
Jr. pulled up the photo of Billy again, staring at it until his eyes burned. The wood grain. The rope. The shadows. There had to be something.
"Wait," Billy Renzo said suddenly. "Look at the light."
Jr. leaned closer. "What about it?"
"The angle. It's coming from high up, almost directly overhead. That means the photo was taken around midday, when the sun's at its peak."
"So?"
"So look at the shadows on the floor. They're short, but they're pointing northeast. That means the barn opening faces southwest."
Jr. pulled up the satellite imagery of the Miller property. The barn doors faced southeast.
"It's not the Miller place," Jr. said, his heart sinking.
"Shit," Ryan breathed.
Jr. keyed his radio. "Wade, we've got a problem."
By 2:00 PM, they were back to square one.
The Miller place was a dead end. The kidnappers either didn't remember correctly, or they'd lied, or Billy had been moved. Either way, they had no idea where he was.
Wade stood in the command center, staring at the map on the screen. Every abandoned barn in the northern part of the county was marked. There were forty-three of them.
"We don't have time to check them all," Tom said. His voice was hollow.
Jake stood by the window, his fists clenched. He hadn't said a word in twenty minutes.
Sarah sat in the corner, her face in her hands. Caroline Beaumont had her arm around her shoulders.
Pops stood next to Jr., studying the screens. "There's gotta be something we're missing."
"I've analyzed every pixel of that photo," Jr. said. His voice was raw. "I can't find anything else."
The clock read 2:03 PM. Three hours and fifty-seven minutes remaining.
"We need a new approach," Wade said. "Jr., how many drones do we have operational?"
"Six."
"Launch all of them. Systematic search pattern, northern part of the county. Thermal imaging on every structure. We're looking for a single human heat signature, stationary, in an isolated building."
"That'll take hours," Daniel said.
"Then we better start now."
Jr. nodded and turned to his team. "Billy, you take sectors one and two. Ryan, three and four. Daniel, five and six. I'll coordinate and monitor all feeds."
They launched the drones within five minutes, spreading them across the northern part of the county in a grid pattern. Six screens showed six different aerial views, sweeping over pastures and dirt roads and abandoned structures.
"Thermal imaging active on all units," Ryan reported.
The search began.
Jr. watched the screens, his eyes flicking between them, looking for anything. A heat signature. A vehicle. Any sign of Billy.
The minutes crawled by. 2:15 PM. 2:30 PM. 2:45 PM.
False positives came in regularly. A farmer working in a shed. Cattle clustered in a barn. Old equipment giving off residual heat.
"Negative, sector two," Billy Renzo said.
"Negative, sector four," Ryan said.
"Keep searching," Jr. said.
Jake turned from the window. "This is taking too long."
"It's all we've got," Wade said.
3:00 PM. Three hours remaining.
Jr.'s hands were shaking. He gripped the edge of the desk, forcing himself to focus. Billy was out there. They just had to find him.
"Got something," Daniel said suddenly. "Sector five. Old barn, isolated. Single heat signature, human-sized, stationary."
Jr. pulled up Daniel's feed on the main screen. The thermal image showed a figure, tied to something, barely moving.
"Zoom in," Jr. said.
The image sharpened. A person, bound, in the center of a barn.
"That's him," Jake breathed. "That has to be him."
Jr. switched to satellite view. The barn was old, gray, surrounded by overgrown trees. No vehicles nearby. Middle of nowhere.
"Cross-reference with property records," Wade said.
Jr.'s fingers flew across the keyboard. "Old Miller place—wait, no. Different Miller place. There are two Miller properties in the northern part of the county. This one's been abandoned since 2014."
"How far?" Pops asked.
Jr. calculated. "Thirty-eight minutes from here. Maybe forty depending on road conditions."
Wade was already moving. "Get everyone. Now."
The command center exploded into motion. Wade on the radio, calling in the teams. Pops heading for the stairs. Tom and Josh running for their trucks.
Jake was out the door before anyone else, sprinting toward his truck.
Jr. kept the drone overhead, tracking. "I've got eyes on the location. I'll keep the feed live."
"Good man," Wade said. He paused at the door. "You did it, Jr. You found him."
Then he was gone.
Jr. turned back to the screens. The thermal image showed Billy, still tied up, still alive.
The clock read 3:13 PM. Two hours and forty-seven minutes remaining.
Sarah appeared at his shoulder, her hand on his arm. "Is it really him?"
"It's him, Mom." Jr.'s voice cracked. "We found him."
She pressed her face against his shoulder, crying.
Outside, engines roared to life. Trucks peeled out of the driveway, kicking up gravel and dust. The convoy formed up—Wade in the lead, Jake right behind him, the rest of the consortium families following in tight formation.
Jr. watched them go, then turned back to the screens. He kept the drone overhead, feeding live coordinates to Wade's GPS.
"Hang on, Billy," he whispered. "They're coming."
The convoy disappeared down the road, moving fast.
Jr. checked the clock. 3:20 PM. Two hours and forty minutes remaining.
They'd found him.
Now they just had to reach him in time.
Chapter 4
The Rescue
Billy's wrists were on fire.
He'd been working the ropes for hours now—since the moment the kidnappers had left him alone in the barn. The quarter-inch hemp rope had seemed impossible at first, wrapped tight around his wrists in some kind of complicated knot that pulled tighter every time he moved. But Billy had grown up on a ranch. He knew rope. He knew how it stretched, how it frayed, how it gave if you worked it long enough.
And he'd been working it a long time.
His wrists were raw, the skin torn and bleeding where the rope had scraped away layers of flesh. The blood helped, actually—made everything slippery, gave him a little more room to twist and pull. His arms screamed with pain, muscles cramping from being held in the same position for so long. But he kept moving his wrists in small circles, twisting them back and forth, creating microscopic amounts of slack.
The clock on the bomb read 30:00 when he glanced at it. Thirty minutes.
He forced himself to breathe slowly and kept working.
The wooden post behind him had become his best tool. Hours ago, he'd found a rough section of wood, maybe where a nail had been pulled out or the grain had splintered. He'd been using it to saw at the rope, rubbing the hemp back and forth against the rough surface. It was slow work—agonizingly slow—but he could feel the rope starting to fray. Individual fibers breaking. The rope getting just a little bit looser.
Twenty-five minutes.
Billy's fingers were numb. He couldn't feel them anymore, couldn't tell if he was making progress or just tearing his own skin off. But he kept going. He thought about Jake, probably losing his mind right now trying to find him. He thought about his mom, Sarah, and how she'd looked at breakfast this morning when she'd threatened to force-feed him. He thought about Pops and Edna, about Tom and all the families in the consortium.
He thought about dying in this barn, and he kept working the ropes.
Twenty minutes.
His left wrist—he'd been focusing on the left one, trying to get just that one hand free. If he could get one hand out, he could untie everything else. The rope had stretched enough now that he could feel a tiny bit of give. Not much. But something.
He found what felt like a splinter on the post, a sharp point of wood sticking out. He maneuvered his bound wrists until he could feel it against the knot, then started picking at it. His fingers were clumsy, numb, but he worked the splinter into the knot, trying to loosen it from the inside.
Fifteen minutes.
The knot gave a little. Just a fraction. But Billy felt it, and hope surged through him like electricity. He twisted his wrists harder, ignoring the pain, ignoring the fresh blood running down his hands. The rope was definitely looser now. He could compress his left thumb against his palm, make his hand as small as possible, and when he pulled—
Ten minutes.
—the rope moved. Not much. Maybe a quarter inch. But it moved.
Billy's heart was hammering. He could do this. He could get out.
He thought about his family again. About Jake grinning at him this morning, saying he'd rather be riding fence. About his mom's biscuits and the way Pops had looked at him when he'd said to be careful. About Edna calling him "hon" and Tom talking about the irrigation system.
He wasn't going to die here. He refused.
Five minutes.
Billy compressed his thumb again, twisted his wrist, and pulled. The rope scraped against raw flesh, tearing skin, and the pain was excruciating. He bit down on his lip hard enough to taste blood and kept pulling.
The rope moved another quarter inch.
He could feel the loop now, feel how it was constructed. If he could just get his thumb through, collapse his hand enough to slip it past the widest part of the loop—
Four minutes.
He pulled harder. Skin tearing. Blood making everything slick. His hand was on fire, every nerve screaming, but the rope was moving, sliding up over his thumb, over his knuckles—
Three minutes, forty-five seconds.
His left hand slipped through.
Billy gasped, almost sobbing with relief. His left hand was free. He brought it around in front of him, fingers barely working, and started frantically untying the knot on his right wrist. His fingers were clumsy, numb, covered in blood, but he knew knots. He found the end of the rope, pulled it through, loosened the loop.
Three minutes.
His right hand came free.
Billy's arms dropped to his sides, and the relief was so intense he almost blacked out. But he didn't have time. He looked at the clock—2:58—and started tearing at the ropes around his chest. They were wrapped tight, multiple loops, but now that his hands were free he could work faster. He found the knot, pulled it loose, unwound the rope.
Two minutes, thirty seconds.
The chest ropes fell away. Billy grabbed the rope around his neck—Jesus, they'd tied his neck—and yanked it over his head.
Two minutes, ten seconds.
He bent forward and attacked the ropes around his ankles. His fingers were shaking, barely responding, but he got the first knot loose, then the second. The rope unwound and fell to the barn floor.
Two minutes exactly.
Billy was free.
He tried to stand and his legs buckled. They'd been tied for too long, circulation cut off, muscles cramped and useless. He grabbed the post and hauled himself up, forcing his legs to take his weight. Pins and needles shot through his calves and thighs, so intense it was almost worse than the rope burns.
One minute, fifty-eight seconds.
Billy looked at the bomb, then at the barn door twenty feet away. His legs barely worked. He took one step, then another, holding onto the post for support. Then he let go and stumbled forward, legs threatening to give out with every step.
One minute, forty-five seconds.
He reached the barn door and shoved it open. Fading daylight hit his face—it was late afternoon, the sun low on the horizon. He'd been in that barn all day. Billy stumbled out into the open and started running.
His legs were screaming. Every step was agony. But he ran anyway, arms pumping, bleeding wrists leaving drops of blood in the dirt behind him. He ran across the open field, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the barn.
One minute, thirty seconds.
Behind him, the barn sat quiet and still, the bomb ticking down inside.
Billy kept running. His lungs burned. His legs felt like they were going to collapse. But he pushed harder, running through the pain, running for his life.
One minute.
He could see headlights in the distance. Vehicles coming fast, kicking up dust. The convoy. They'd found him. But they were too far away—maybe half a mile out, maybe more. They weren't going to reach the barn in time.
Forty-five seconds.
Billy kept running. He was maybe a hundred yards from the barn now, out in the open field. Not far enough. Not nearly far enough.
Thirty seconds.
He saw a small ravine ahead, a depression in the ground where rainwater had carved out a ditch. Billy ran for it, legs barely holding him up.
Twenty seconds.
The headlights were closer now. He could hear engines. Someone was shouting, but he couldn't make out the words.
Fifteen seconds.
Billy reached the ravine and dove in, landing hard on his shoulder. He curled up, covered his head with his arms, and pressed himself against the dirt.
Ten seconds.
He could hear the trucks now, close enough that he could make out individual engines. Jake's truck—he knew that sound. Wade's. Others.
Five seconds.
Billy squeezed his eyes shut.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The world exploded.
The blast was massive, a wall of sound and pressure that hit like a physical thing. Billy felt himself lifted and thrown forward, slamming into the far side of the ravine. The roar was deafening, so loud it stopped being sound and became just pain in his ears. Heat washed over him, intense enough that he thought his clothes might catch fire.
Then debris started falling. Chunks of wood, pieces of metal, burning fragments of the barn raining down around him. Something heavy hit the ground next to his head. Something else landed on his back, and he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder.
Billy stayed curled up, arms over his head, waiting for it to stop.
Slowly, the debris stopped falling. The roar faded to a ringing in his ears. Billy lifted his head and looked back.
The barn was gone. Just gone. In its place was a massive fireball, flames shooting fifty feet into the air, thick black smoke billowing up into the darkening sky. The heat was intense even from here, and Billy could feel it on his face.
He'd made it. He'd gotten out.
Billy tried to stand and his legs gave out. He made it to his knees, then had to stop, breathing hard. His whole body was shaking. His ears were ringing so loud he couldn't hear anything else.
Then he heard the trucks.
Wade saw the explosion from half a mile out.
One second the old Miller barn was visible in the distance, a dark shape against the fading light. The next second it was a fireball, a massive orange and red bloom of flame that lit up the entire sky.
"NO!" Jake's voice, raw and broken. "NO! BILLY!"
Wade floored the gas pedal. His truck surged forward, engine screaming. Behind him, the rest of the convoy did the same.
In the passenger seat, Tom was gripping the dashboard, his face white. In the back seat, Sarah was screaming, a sound Wade had never heard from her before and hoped he'd never hear again.
They raced toward the burning barn. The fireball was still rising, flames shooting into the sky, debris falling in a wide circle around the blast site. Thick black smoke poured up, visible for miles.
Wade's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. They were too late. They'd found Billy, tracked him down, and they were too late.
The barn had been there. Billy had been in that barn.
Now the barn was gone.
Wade's truck skidded to a stop about two hundred yards from the inferno. The heat was intense even from here, waves of it washing over them. The rest of the convoy pulled up behind him, trucks and ATVs forming a loose semicircle.
Doors flew open. People jumped out.
Jake was running before his truck had fully stopped, sprinting toward the flames. Wade and Tom caught him, grabbed his arms, held him back.
"Let me go!" Jake was fighting them, trying to break free. "He's in there! Billy's in there!"
"He's gone," Wade said, and the words felt like they were tearing something inside him. "Jake, he's gone. He didn't make it."
"No!" Jake was sobbing now, still fighting. "No, he got out, he had to get out—"
Sarah collapsed. Just dropped to her knees in the dirt, her hands over her face, sobbing. Rebecca and Edna were there immediately, holding her, crying with her.
The consortium families stood in a loose group, staring at the flames. The barn was completely destroyed, nothing left but burning timber and twisted metal. The heat was so intense they couldn't get any closer.
Pops stood apart from the others, his face like stone, staring at the fire. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, watching his grandson's grave burn.
Wade felt Tom's hand on his shoulder. The older man's face was wet with tears.
"We were too late," Tom said quietly.
Wade couldn't respond. He just stood there, watching the flames, feeling like he'd failed in the worst way possible.
Jake had stopped fighting. He stood between Wade and Tom, his whole body shaking, tears streaming down his face. "He was right there," Jake said, his voice broken. "We found him. He was right there."
The fire roared. Smoke poured into the darkening sky.
Billy was gone.
Then someone shouted.
"Wait—look!"
Wade's head snapped up. Ray Benson was pointing, his arm extended toward the smoke.
"There! In the smoke!"
Wade squinted through the flames and billowing black clouds. At first he didn't see anything. Then—
Movement.
A figure, stumbling through the smoke. Dark against the flames. Walking toward them.
For a moment, no one moved. No one breathed.
Then the figure came closer, emerging from the smoke, and Wade could see him clearly.
Billy.
Covered in dirt and blood, his shirt torn, his arms dark with what looked like rope burns and bleeding wounds. Walking toward them, barely staying on his feet, but walking.
Alive.
"BILLY!" Jake's voice cracked on the name. He tore free from Wade and Tom and ran.
Everyone ran.
Wade was running, Tom was running, Sarah was on her feet and running, the whole consortium surging forward. Jake reached Billy first, caught him just as Billy's legs gave out.
"You crazy son of a bitch!" Jake was sobbing, holding Billy up, holding him tight. "You crazy—how did you—"
Billy collapsed into his brother's arms. Jake went down with him, both of them on their knees in the dirt, Jake holding Billy like he'd never let go.
Then Sarah was there, and Tom, and everyone else, converging on them in a mass of bodies and tears and hands reaching out to touch Billy, to make sure he was real.
Sarah grabbed Billy's face in both hands, sobbing so hard she couldn't speak. Billy looked up at her, his eyes barely focusing.
"Mom," he said. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "I'm okay. I'm okay."
"Oh my God," Sarah was saying, over and over. "Oh my God, oh my God."
Tom had his hand on Billy's shoulder, tears streaming down his face. Pops pushed through the crowd, dropped to one knee beside his grandson.
"That's my boy," Pops said, his voice rough. "Tough as nails."
Billy tried to smile. "Had to be."
Wade knelt down beside them. "How the hell did you get out?"
Billy held up his wrists. They were raw, bleeding, the skin torn away in places. Rope burns circled both wrists, deep and angry.
"Worked the ropes," Billy said. His words were slurred, exhausted. "Had to. Been working them since they left me. Got my hand free with two minutes left."
"Two minutes?" Jake's voice cracked again.
"Got out and ran." Billy looked back at the burning barn. "Dove into a ravine when it blew."
Sarah was crying, holding Billy's face, kissing his forehead. "You're alive. You're alive."
"I got out," Billy said. He was fading, barely conscious. "I got out. I had to."
Rebecca pushed through the crowd, her medical bag already open. "Let me see him. Everyone back up, give him air."
They moved back reluctantly, but no one went far. Rebecca checked Billy's pulse, his pupils, ran her hands over his ribs and arms.
"Dehydrated," she said. "Rope burns, bruises, cuts. Possible concussion from the blast. But he's alive." She looked up at Sarah. "He's going to be okay."
Sarah broke down again, sobbing into Tom's shoulder.
Wade and Jake helped Billy to his feet. He could barely stand, legs shaking, but they held him up. They walked him to Wade's truck and got him into the back seat. Sarah climbed in beside him, pulling him against her, holding him tight.
Wade's radio crackled. Jr.'s voice, frantic. "Wade? Did you find him? Is he—?"
Wade picked up the radio. "He's alive. Billy's alive. He freed himself."
There was a long pause. Then Jr.'s voice came back, thick with tears. "He's alive?"
"He's alive, son. We're bringing him home."
In the command center back at the ranch, Jr. collapsed into his chair, put his face in his hands, and cried.
The convoy formed up again. Wade took the lead, Jake right behind him, the rest of the families following. The sun was setting now, painting the sky orange and red, almost the same color as the flames still burning behind them.
Billy sat in the back of Wade's truck, squeezed between Jake and his parents. Sarah had her arm around him, holding him close. Tom had his hand on Billy's shoulder. Jake was pressed against his brother's other side, like he was afraid Billy might disappear if he let go.
Billy looked back through the rear window one last time. The barn was still burning, a pillar of smoke rising into the darkening sky. He'd been tied up in there. He'd almost died in there.
But he hadn't.
He'd gotten out.
"Let's go home," Billy said quietly.
Wade put the truck in gear and headed south. The convoy followed, a long line of headlights cutting through the gathering darkness. The sun sank below the horizon, painting everything gold and red.
Billy leaned against his mother and closed his eyes. His wrists throbbed. His whole body ached. But he was alive, and he was going home, and his family was all around him.
That was enough.
The trucks drove into the sunset, carrying Billy home.
Chapter 5
Home
The convoy rolled up the long drive to the ranch house just as the last sliver of sun disappeared below the horizon. The sky was still painted in streaks of orange and purple, and every light in the house was blazing. Trucks and ATVs were parked everywhere—the families who'd stayed behind, the neighbors who'd come to help, everyone waiting.
Wade's truck came to a stop in front of the house, and Billy could see them all gathered on the porch. The four wiz kids—Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel—stood in a tight cluster at the front, still wearing their headsets around their necks. Behind them, the consortium wives who'd stayed behind: Caroline Beaumont, Mrs. Renzo, Mrs. Mattern, Mrs. Rodriguez, and a dozen others. Neighbors from the surrounding ranches. Friends.
And Edna.
She was standing at the edge of the porch, her hands clasped in front of her, her face pale in the porch light. Even from here, Billy could see she'd been crying.
The truck door opened, and Jake climbed out first, then turned to help Billy down. Billy's legs were shaky, and his wrists were still bleeding through the makeshift bandages Rebecca had wrapped around them at the rescue site. He got his feet under him and stood, and that's when Edna saw him.
Her hands flew to her mouth. Then she was running.
"Billy!"
She flew down the porch steps and across the yard, her boots kicking up dust. The four wiz kids were right behind her, all of them running, but Edna was faster. She reached Billy first and threw herself at him, and Wade caught her gently by the shoulders just before she collided with him.
"Easy, sweetheart," Wade said. "He's hurt."
Edna stopped, her chest heaving, tears streaming down her face. "Billy—"
"I'm okay," Billy said. His voice was rough, but he managed a smile. "I'm here."
She reached for him more carefully this time, her hands trembling as they touched his face, his shoulders, like she needed to make sure he was real. Then she wrapped her arms around him as gently as she could and buried her face in his chest, sobbing.
Billy held her with his bandaged hands, ignoring the pain. "I'm okay," he said again, quieter. "I'm here. I'm okay."
Then the wiz kids arrived, all four of them talking at once.
"We tracked you the whole time!" Jr. said, his voice cracking.
"Saw the explosion on the drone feed," Ryan added, his face pale.
"Thought you were dead," Billy Renzo said.
"We all thought you were dead," Daniel finished.
Billy looked at them over Edna's head. All four of them looked like they'd aged ten years in the last twelve hours. "Takes more than a bomb, boys," he said.
Jr. let out a shaky laugh and scrubbed at his eyes. "Jesus, Billy."
Sarah and Rebecca climbed out of the convoy trucks, and the other wives rushed forward to greet them. Caroline Beaumont hugged Sarah hard, and Mrs. Renzo grabbed Rebecca's hands.
"Thank God you're all safe," Caroline said.
"Is he okay?" Mrs. Mattern asked, looking past them to where Billy stood with Edna still clinging to him.
"He will be," Sarah said. Then she straightened, and her voice took on that tone that meant business. "Dinner. Thirty minutes. All of us."
The other wives who'd been waiting stared at her. "Thirty minutes?" Mrs. Rodriguez said. "Sarah, we can't—"
"We can," Sarah said firmly. "And we will. Everyone's hungry, everyone's exhausted, and we're going to sit down together and eat like a family. That's what we do."
Rebecca nodded. "We'll make it work."
"We can help," Caroline said immediately. The other wives nodded.
"Good," Sarah said. "Let's move."
The kitchen exploded into controlled chaos.
Sarah and Rebecca took command the moment they walked through the door, but the other wives had already started. Mrs. Renzo had pulled every package of frozen steaks from the freezer and had them soaking in warm water to defrost. Mrs. Mattern was chopping vegetables at superhuman speed. Caroline Beaumont was setting up the big folding tables outside while Mrs. Rodriguez coordinated the younger women hauling chairs.
"Tom! Josh!" Sarah called out the back door. "Get the BBQ going!"
"On it!" Tom's voice came back.
Sarah turned to Rebecca. "Potatoes?"
"Already in the oven," Rebecca said. "Mrs. Henderson brought three casseroles this afternoon. They just need heating."
"Bless that woman," Sarah said. She grabbed an apron and tied it on. "All right, ladies. Let's feed our family."
They moved like a well-oiled machine. Steaks went from the water bath to the grill. Potatoes came out of the oven. Casseroles were heated. Salad was tossed. Bread was sliced. Sweet tea was poured into pitchers. The younger women set the tables outside with plates and silverware and napkins.
Twenty-eight minutes after Sarah had given the order, dinner was ready.
Billy sat at the kitchen table, Edna in the chair beside him, her hand wrapped around his. She hadn't let go since they'd come inside, and Billy wasn't complaining. The four wiz kids hovered nearby, still looking shell-shocked.
Pops walked in carrying a wooden crate, and everyone turned to look. He set it on the table with a heavy thunk, and Billy saw six bottles of Jack Daniels lined up inside.
"Best medicine there is," Pops said. He started pulling bottles out and handing them around. One to Billy. One to Jake. One to Tom. One to Wade. One to Josh. One to Robert Beaumont.
Then he looked at the four wiz kids and pulled out four more bottles from a second crate. "You boys earned it today."
Jr.'s eyes went wide. "Pops, we're not—"
"You saved his life today," Pops said, his voice firm. "All four of you. That command center, that drone, that tracking—you did that. You're men now. Act like it."
He handed each of them a bottle. They took them reverently, like they'd just been knighted.
Rebecca appeared with her medical kit, the same one she'd used at the rescue site. "All right, Billy. Let's get you properly patched up."
She pulled a chair over and sat down in front of him, opening the kit. Edna scooted her chair closer, still holding Billy's hand with one of hers.
"This is going to sting," Rebecca warned.
"Yes, ma'am," Billy said. He unscrewed the cap on his Jack Daniels bottle and took a long pull.
Rebecca started cleaning the rope burns on his wrists, and Billy hissed through his teeth. The skin was raw and torn, some of it still bleeding. He took another swig of whiskey.
"Hold still," Rebecca said.
"Yes, ma'am." Another swig.
Edna watched with tears in her eyes, her grip on his hand tightening every time he flinched. Rebecca worked efficiently, cleaning and disinfecting and wrapping fresh bandages around both wrists and his forearms where the ropes had cut in.
Pops stood nearby, watching. When Rebecca finished with the first wrist, he nodded. "That's my boy. Tough son of a bitch."
Edna squeezed Billy's hand, and Billy squeezed back.
When Rebecca finally finished, Billy's arms were wrapped in clean white bandages from mid-forearm to palm. He flexed his fingers experimentally and winced.
"No heavy lifting for at least a week," Rebecca said firmly. "And I mean it, Billy. Those need to heal."
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'll make sure he behaves," Edna said quietly.
Rebecca smiled and patted her shoulder. "Good girl."
They ate outside under the stars, all of them together. The big folding tables were pushed together end to end, and every seat was filled. The consortium families, the neighbors, the friends who'd helped search. Billy sat between Edna and Jake, with his parents across from him and the four wiz kids down the table.
Wade stood and raised his bottle of Jack Daniels. "To Billy," he said, his voice carrying across the yard. "Who's tougher than any of us gave him credit for."
"To Billy!" everyone echoed, raising their glasses and bottles.
Pops stood next. "To family," he said. "To the people who show up when it matters. To the boys who ran that command center and the men who rode out to bring him home. To all of you." His voice was rough with emotion. "I'm proud to know every single one of you."
"To family!" they all said.
Billy tried to stay awake through dinner, but his eyes kept drifting closed. Edna kept her hand on his arm, and every time he started to slump, she'd squeeze gently and he'd jerk back upright. Jake watched him with a mixture of amusement and concern.
"You need to sleep, little brother," Jake said quietly.
"I'm fine," Billy mumbled.
"You're about to fall face-first into your steak."
"'M fine."
But he wasn't, and everyone knew it. When dinner finally wound down and people started clearing plates, Sarah came over and kissed the top of Billy's head. "Go on up to the frat house. Get some rest."
"Yes, ma'am."
Edna stood reluctantly. Her parents were waiting to take her home, and she had to go. Billy walked her to their truck, moving slowly, and she turned to face him in the darkness.
"I thought I lost you," she said, her voice breaking.
"You didn't," Billy said. He cupped her face with his bandaged hands. "I'm right here."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
He kissed her, soft and gentle, and she kissed him back with tears on her cheeks. When they finally pulled apart, she touched his face one more time.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Billy said.
"You better," Edna said.
He watched her truck drive away, then turned and headed for the frat house. Jake was waiting at the bottom of the stairs with the four wiz kids, plus Celeb and Colt, who'd shown up sometime during dinner.
"Come on," Jake said. "Let's go."
The frat house was exactly as they'd left it that morning—two bunk beds, a couch that had seen better days, a mini fridge, and a TV that only got three channels. Billy had never been so happy to see it.
Jake went straight to the corner and pulled up the loose floorboards, revealing their hidden stash of beer. He started passing cans around, and everyone grabbed one.
Then Pops appeared in the doorway with a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a box of cigars in the other.
"Room for one more?" he asked.
"Always," Billy said.
Pops came in and handed out cigars to everyone. Billy Jr. looked at his like he wasn't sure what to do with it, and Pops showed him how to cut and light it. Soon the room was full of smoke, and they were all sitting around drinking and talking.
"You did good today, boys," Pops said, looking around at all of them. "All of you."
He turned to the four wiz kids. "That command center saved his life. You know that, right?"
Jr. ducked his head. "We just did what we could."
"You did more than that," Pops said. "You tracked him, you found him, you kept eyes on him until we could get there. That's not nothing. That's everything."
"He saved his own damn life," Jake said, looking at Billy. "Crazy bastard got himself out of those ropes with two minutes left on the clock."
"Couldn't have done it without you all," Billy said. His voice was quiet, but everyone heard him. "I knew you were coming. I knew you'd find me. That's what kept me going."
"You just had to be dramatic about it," Jake said, but his voice was rough.
"Next time you get kidnapped," Billy shot back.
"There better not be a next time," Celeb said.
"Y'all are crazy," Colt added, shaking his head. "All of you."
"We kept the drone on you the whole time," Jr. said. "After we found you in that barn, we didn't take our eyes off you."
"Watched you run out with seconds left," Billy Renzo added. "Then the explosion—"
"We thought you were gone," Ryan said quietly.
"Almost was," Billy admitted.
"Coolest thing I've ever seen," Daniel said. "And the scariest."
Pops sat back and watched them all, these boys who'd become men today. His grandsons, their friends, the sons of his friends and neighbors. This was his legacy, right here in this room. Not the land or the cattle or the money. This. These boys who'd fight for each other, who'd risk everything for family.
The room filled with smoke and laughter and the kind of easy conversation that only comes when you've been through hell together and made it out the other side. They told stories and drank beer and smoked cigars, and for a few hours, everything was perfect.
Finally, well past midnight, Pops stood and stretched. "Work starts at six," he said.
Everyone groaned.
"I'm taking tomorrow off," Billy said.
Pops looked at him, and for a moment Billy thought he was serious. Then Pops grinned. "The hell you are."
"Pops—"
"Six AM, Billy. Don't be late."
He left, his boots heavy on the stairs, and they heard him chuckling all the way down.
The guys started settling in for the night. The wiz kids claimed the floor and the couch, spreading out sleeping bags and pillows. Celeb and Colt took the other bunk bed. Billy climbed into his bunk, and Jake climbed into the one above him.
The room went quiet, just the sound of breathing and the occasional creak of the old house settling.
"Billy?" Jake's voice came from above.
"Yeah?"
"You scared the shit out of me today."
"Sorry."
"Don't do it again."
"Deal."
Silence for a moment. Then Billy said, "Jake?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for coming for me."
"Always, little brother," Jake said, his voice soft. "Always."
Billy closed his eyes. His wrists throbbed, and his whole body ached, and he was pretty sure he'd have nightmares about that barn for a long time. But he was home. He was safe. He was surrounded by family.
That was enough.
He fell asleep listening to the sound of his brother breathing above him and his friends sleeping around him, and for the first time in twelve hours, he felt at peace.
Outside, the stars wheeled overhead, and the ranch settled into the quiet of night. Tomorrow there would be work to do, questions to answer, kidnappers to prosecute. But tonight, they were all home, and they were all safe, and that was all that mattered.
The frat house was full of smoke and the smell of whiskey and the sound of boys sleeping, and somewhere in the darkness, Pops stood on the porch and looked up at the window where the light had finally gone out.
"That's my boys," he said quietly.
Then he went inside, and the ranch slept.
