.
Chapter 1
The second floor of the Benson ranch house erupted at 5:30 AM sharp with the sound of Pops Benson's fist hammering on the frat house door.
"Get your lazy asses out of those goddamn beds! Sun's already thinking about coming up and you little shits are still snoring like a bunch of Tennessee hogs!"
From inside the room came groans and the creak of bunk bed frames.
"Jesus Christ, Pops," Jake mumbled into his pillow. "You say that every morning."
"And every morning you're still in bed when I say it, so shut your hole and get moving!" Another bang on the door. "I smell beer in there, don't think I don't! You boys are gonna work it off today!"
Billy's head appeared over the edge of the top bunk, grinning down at his brother. "He definitely knows about the floorboards."
"He's known for six months," Celeb said from the other top bunk, swinging his legs over. "He just likes busting our balls."
Jake sat up and glanced at the loose floorboard under the window. "Speaking of which—someone check the stash. We were getting low."
Jr. rolled off his mattress and lifted the board. His eyebrows went up. "Uh, guys? There's a fresh six-pack in here. Shiner Bock."
"What?" Billy dropped down from the top bunk and looked. "No way. We killed the last one on Tuesday."
"Magic beer," Colt said from his mattress, grinning. "It just appears."
They all looked at each other.
"Pops," they said in unison.
"Has to be," Celeb said. "Who else?"
"But he acts like he's gonna kill us if he catches us," Jr. said.
Billy shook his head, smiling. "That's the game, little brother. He supplies it, we pretend we snuck it, he pretends he's pissed. Everybody's happy."
"That's actually kind of genius," Colt said.
"That's Pops," Jake said. "Sneaky old bastard."
From down the hall, Pops' voice boomed again. "I hear talking! Talking ain't working! Move it!"
They replaced the floorboard carefully, trying not to laugh.
"Not a word," Billy said. "We let him think he's got us fooled."
"Agreed," they all said.
Jake finally rolled out of bed, landing with a thud. "Alright, alright. Who's got first shower?"
"Me," Billy and Jake said simultaneously.
They stared at each other.
"Race you," Billy said.
"You're on."
They bolted for the door, slamming into each other in the frame, shoving and cursing as they scrambled down the hall toward the bathroom. The sound of Pops laughing carried from his bedroom. "That's what I like to see! Competition! Builds character, you little bastards!"
Celeb shook his head, pulling on his jeans. "Those two are gonna kill each other one of these days."
"Nah," Colt said, tugging on his boots. "They'll just knock each other out and wake up best friends again." He'd only been here fourteen months, but he'd figured that out in the first week.
Jr. was already dressed, checking his phone. "Drones ran all night. Nothing on the north cameras except maybe a deer."
"You sleep at all?" Colt asked.
"Couple hours." Jr. shrugged. He practically lived in the Command Center next door when he wasn't in school. The kid was obsessed.
Billy came back in, hair wet, smug. "Jake's crying in the shower."
"Fuck you, Billy!" Jake's voice echoed from down the hall.
"Love you too, brother!"
Celeb grabbed a shirt from the pile on the floor—may or may not have been his—and sniffed it. "Good enough."
"You're disgusting," Jr. said.
"And you're sixteen. Wait till you're my age, you'll stop caring."
"You're twenty-one, not forty."
"Still older than you, Junior."
They filed out, boots heavy on the hardwood, past Pops' bedroom where the old man was pulling on his suspenders and already had a cigar between his teeth. "About damn time. Thought I was gonna have to drag you out by your ears."
"Morning, Pops," they chorused.
"Don't 'morning Pops' me. Get downstairs and eat. Got a full day of work and I ain't listening to you piss and moan about being hungry at ten o'clock."
They thundered down the stairs—Jake nearly tripping over his own feet, Billy shoving him for it—and into the kitchen where Sarah Benson was already at the stove, spatula in hand, and Rebecca was setting out plates.
"Morning, Mama," Billy said, kissing his mother on the cheek.
"Morning, baby. Sit down, all of you. And wipe your feet, Jake, you tracked mud in yesterday and I'm not doing it again."
"Yes, ma'am."
Tom Benson sat at the head of the table, newspaper open, coffee steaming. He glanced up over his reading glasses. "Morning, boys."
"Morning, Mr. Benson," Colt said, sliding into a chair.
"How many times I gotta tell you, son? It's Tom. You live here now."
"Yes, sir. Tom."
From the office off the kitchen, Ray's voice carried through the open door, phone pressed to his ear. "Yeah, I told you Tuesday. Tuesday. No, I don't care what the market—hold on." He leaned out. "Josh, you hear back from the feed supplier?"
Josh came in from the mudroom, work gloves in hand, his face already weathered from years outside. "They'll deliver Friday. I told them if they're late again, we're switching."
"Good." Ray went back to his call.
Josh grabbed a mug of coffee and surveyed the boys at the table. "Alright, listen up. Billy, Jake—south fence line needs another post replaced. Celeb, you're with them. Jr., you're monitoring the east camera system, we had some glitches yesterday. Louisiana—" He looked at Colt. "North pasture. Take the mule quad. Check those fence lines near the creek. Pops thinks we got bear activity up there, couple posts are leaning."
"Got it," Colt said.
Pops shuffled in, poured himself coffee, and without asking, added a splash of brandy from the bottle he kept on the counter. Sarah gave him a look.
"What? It's medicinal."
"It's 5:45 in the morning."
"And my back hurts. Doctor said keep it loose."
"Doctor said no such thing."
"Well he should've." Pops lit his cigar, ignoring Sarah's second look, and sat down with a grunt. "You boys remember: you work for the Benson ranch, you work hard, you work smart, and you don't take shit from nobody. Especially goddamn bears. Louisiana, you see a bear, you call it in, you don't go playing hero. Bears don't give a rat's ass about how tough you think you are."
"Yes, sir."
"And another thing—" Pops pointed his cigar at Jr. "You and your little tech buddies keep them drones charged. I don't want to hear 'battery died' when we need eyes on something."
"They're charged, Pops."
"Good. 'Cause if I find out you been using them to spy on the Nelson girls—"
"Jesus, Pops, I'm sixteen, not twelve."
"That's exactly my point."
Rebecca laughed, setting down a platter of eggs and bacon. "Leave him alone. He's got a girlfriend."
"Anna's got him whipped already," Jake said, grinning.
Jr. threw a balled-up napkin at him. "Shut up."
"Boys," Sarah warned.
They ate fast—ranch mornings didn't wait—forks scraping plates, coffee refilled twice, Pops telling a story about Vietnam that he'd told a hundred times but they still listened because you didn't interrupt Pops. Billy and Jake argued about who could fix a fence post faster. Celeb asked if anyone had seen his good work gloves. Jr. checked his phone again.
Colt finished his plate, drained his coffee, and stood. "I'm headed out."
"Take water," Sarah said. "It's gonna be warm today."
"Yes, ma'am."
Josh tossed him the keys to the mule quad. "Radio if you need anything. And check in when you're done."
"Will do."
Colt grabbed his hat from the hook by the door, stepped out into the cool pre-dawn air, and headed toward the equipment barn. The ranch was quiet except for the distant sound of cattle and the first birds starting up. He loved this time of morning—the whole day stretched out ahead, work to do, good people around him.
He climbed onto the quad, fired it up, and headed north toward the pasture as the first pale line of sunrise touched the horizon.
Behind him, the house was already back to its comfortable chaos: Billy and Jake racing to finish breakfast, Pops lighting another cigar, Sarah scolding him for it, and the Benson ranch rolling into another day.
It was 6:03 AM.
Chapter 1
The second floor of the Benson ranch house erupted at 5:30 AM sharp with the sound of Pops Benson's fist hammering on the frat house door.
"Get your lazy asses out of those goddamn beds! Sun's already thinking about coming up and you little shits are still snoring like a bunch of Tennessee hogs!"
From inside the room came groans and the creak of bunk bed frames.
"Jesus Christ, Pops," Jake mumbled into his pillow. "You say that every morning."
"And every morning you're still in bed when I say it, so shut your hole and get moving!" Another bang on the door. "I smell beer in there, don't think I don't! You boys are gonna work it off today!"
Billy's head appeared over the edge of the top bunk, grinning down at his brother. "He definitely knows about the floorboards."
"He's known for six months," Celeb said from the other top bunk, swinging his legs over. "He just likes busting our balls."
Jake sat up and glanced at the loose floorboard under the window. "Speaking of which—someone check the stash. We were getting low."
Jr. rolled off his mattress and lifted the board. His eyebrows went up. "Uh, guys? There's a fresh six-pack in here. Shiner Bock."
"What?" Billy dropped down from the top bunk and looked. "No way. We killed the last one on Tuesday."
"Magic beer," Colt said from his mattress, grinning. "It just appears."
They all looked at each other.
"Pops," they said in unison.
"Has to be," Celeb said. "Who else?"
"But he acts like he's gonna kill us if he catches us," Jr. said.
Billy shook his head, smiling. "That's the game, little brother. He supplies it, we pretend we snuck it, he pretends he's pissed. Everybody's happy."
"That's actually kind of genius," Colt said.
"That's Pops," Jake said. "Sneaky old bastard."
From down the hall, Pops' voice boomed again. "I hear talking! Talking ain't working! Move it!"
They replaced the floorboard carefully, trying not to laugh.
"Not a word," Billy said. "We let him think he's got us fooled."
"Agreed," they all said.
Jake finally rolled out of bed, landing with a thud. "Alright, alright. Who's got first shower?"
"Me," Billy and Jake said simultaneously.
They stared at each other.
"Race you," Billy said.
"You're on."
They bolted for the door, slamming into each other in the frame, shoving and cursing as they scrambled down the hall toward the bathroom. The sound of Pops laughing carried from his bedroom. "That's what I like to see! Competition! Builds character, you little bastards!"
Celeb shook his head, pulling on his jeans. "Those two are gonna kill each other one of these days."
"Nah," Colt said, tugging on his boots. "They'll just knock each other out and wake up best friends again." He'd only been here fourteen months, but he'd figured that out in the first week.
Jr. was already dressed, checking his phone. "Drones ran all night. Nothing on the north cameras except maybe a deer."
"You sleep at all?" Colt asked.
"Couple hours." Jr. shrugged. He practically lived in the Command Center next door when he wasn't in school. The kid was obsessed.
Billy came back in, hair wet, smug. "Jake's crying in the shower."
"Fuck you, Billy!" Jake's voice echoed from down the hall.
"Love you too, brother!"
Celeb grabbed a shirt from the pile on the floor—may or may not have been his—and sniffed it. "Good enough."
"You're disgusting," Jr. said.
"And you're sixteen. Wait till you're my age, you'll stop caring."
"You're twenty-one, not forty."
"Still older than you, Junior."
They filed out, boots heavy on the hardwood, past Pops' bedroom where the old man was pulling on his suspenders and already had a cigar between his teeth. "About damn time. Thought I was gonna have to drag you out by your ears."
"Morning, Pops," they chorused.
"Don't 'morning Pops' me. Get downstairs and eat. Got a full day of work and I ain't listening to you piss and moan about being hungry at ten o'clock."
They thundered down the stairs—Jake nearly tripping over his own feet, Billy shoving him for it—and into the kitchen where Sarah Benson was already at the stove, spatula in hand, and Rebecca was setting out plates.
"Morning, Mama," Billy said, kissing his mother on the cheek.
"Morning, baby. Sit down, all of you. And wipe your feet, Jake, you tracked mud in yesterday and I'm not doing it again."
"Yes, ma'am."
Tom Benson sat at the head of the table, newspaper open, coffee steaming. He glanced up over his reading glasses. "Morning, boys."
"Morning, Mr. Benson," Colt said, sliding into a chair.
"How many times I gotta tell you, son? It's Tom. You live here now."
"Yes, sir. Tom."
From the office off the kitchen, Ray's voice carried through the open door, phone pressed to his ear. "Yeah, I told you Tuesday. Tuesday. No, I don't care what the market—hold on." He leaned out. "Josh, you hear back from the feed supplier?"
Josh came in from the mudroom, work gloves in hand, his face already weathered from years outside. "They'll deliver Friday. I told them if they're late again, we're switching."
"Good." Ray went back to his call.
Josh grabbed a mug of coffee and surveyed the boys at the table. "Alright, listen up. Billy, Jake—south fence line needs another post replaced. Celeb, you're with them. Jr., you're monitoring the east camera system, we had some glitches yesterday. Louisiana—" He looked at Colt. "North pasture. Take the mule quad. Check those fence lines near the creek. Pops thinks we got bear activity up there, couple posts are leaning."
"Got it," Colt said.
Pops shuffled in, poured himself coffee, and without asking, added a splash of brandy from the bottle he kept on the counter. Sarah gave him a look.
"What? It's medicinal."
"It's 5:45 in the morning."
"And my back hurts. Doctor said keep it loose."
"Doctor said no such thing."
"Well he should've." Pops lit his cigar, ignoring Sarah's second look, and sat down with a grunt. "You boys remember: you work for the Benson ranch, you work hard, you work smart, and you don't take shit from nobody. Especially goddamn bears. Louisiana, you see a bear, you call it in, you don't go playing hero. Bears don't give a rat's ass about how tough you think you are."
"Yes, sir."
"And another thing—" Pops pointed his cigar at Jr. "You and your little tech buddies keep them drones charged. I don't want to hear 'battery died' when we need eyes on something."
"They're charged, Pops."
"Good. 'Cause if I find out you been using them to spy on the Nelson girls—"
"Jesus, Pops, I'm sixteen, not twelve."
"That's exactly my point."
Rebecca laughed, setting down a platter of eggs and bacon. "Leave him alone. He's got a girlfriend."
"Anna's got him whipped already," Jake said, grinning.
Jr. threw a balled-up napkin at him. "Shut up."
"Boys," Sarah warned.
They ate fast—ranch mornings didn't wait—forks scraping plates, coffee refilled twice, Pops telling a story about Vietnam that he'd told a hundred times but they still listened because you didn't interrupt Pops. Billy and Jake argued about who could fix a fence post faster. Celeb asked if anyone had seen his good work gloves. Jr. checked his phone again.
Colt finished his plate, drained his coffee, and stood. "I'm headed out."
"Take water," Sarah said. "It's gonna be warm today."
"Yes, ma'am."
Josh tossed him the keys to the mule quad. "Radio if you need anything. And check in when you're done."
"Will do."
Colt grabbed his hat from the hook by the door, stepped out into the cool pre-dawn air, and headed toward the equipment barn. The ranch was quiet except for the distant sound of cattle and the first birds starting up. He loved this time of morning—the whole day stretched out ahead, work to do, good people around him.
He climbed onto the quad, fired it up, and headed north toward the pasture as the first pale line of sunrise touched the horizon.
Behind him, the house was already back to its comfortable chaos: Billy and Jake racing to finish breakfast, Pops lighting another cigar, Sarah scolding him for it, and the Benson ranch rolling into another day.
It was 6:03 AM.
Chapter 2
The north pasture stretched out before Colt in the golden morning light, endless Texas grassland bordered by live oaks and the dark line of the creek beyond. He cut the engine on the mule quad and sat for a moment, listening. Birds. Cattle lowing somewhere in the distance. The wind moving through the grass.
Peace.
He climbed off, grabbed his work gloves from the back, and headed toward the fence line where Pops had reported the damage. Sure enough, three posts were leaning, bark stripped near the base. Bear, probably. Big one, from the claw marks.
Colt crouched down to examine the damage, already calculating what he'd need to fix it. New posts, concrete, maybe some of that electric wire if the bear kept coming back—
The blow came from nowhere.
Something hard—rifle butt, maybe—cracked across the back of his skull. White light exploded behind his eyes. He went down hard, face hitting the dirt, arms splaying above his head.
A boot slammed into his gut.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
"Get the rope and the tape and TIE HIM UP!"
Three men moved fast. One stood watch with a semi-automatic rifle, scanning the horizon. The other two dropped to their knees beside Colt's unconscious body.
They flipped him onto his stomach. One grabbed his wrists and yanked them behind his back, crossing them. Rope circled once, twice, three times, then cinched tight between his wrists.
"Push his sleeves up."
They shoved his grey sweatshirt sleeves all the way up to his shoulders, exposing his bare forearms. More rope around his forearms, pulling them together. Then his elbows, forcing them closer, the rope biting into bare skin.
"Loop the biceps. Keep 'em separated."
Rope around each bicep now, then a length between them, pulled taut. Three inches apart. Locked in place.
They moved to his legs. Rope around his boots, tight. Ankles bound. Then knees. Then thighs. Quick. Methodical. Practiced.
"Gag him."
A dirty rag shoved into his mouth. Duct tape wrapped around his head twice, sealing it in.
"Get him in the truck. Now!"
They grabbed him by his bound arms and legs, lifted him like a sack, and threw him into the bed of a waiting pickup truck. His head cracked against the metal but he didn't stir.
The man with the rifle jumped in the driver's seat. The other two climbed in the cab.
"Go!"
The engine roared. Tires spun in the dirt, then caught. The truck lurched forward, speeding away from the fence line, leaving the mule quad sitting silent and empty in the grass.
Behind them, mounted high in a live oak near the property line, a small camera with a blinking red light recorded everything.
Chapter 3
The truck bounced over rough roads for twenty minutes before it finally stopped. The engine cut off. Doors opened and slammed.
"Get him inside. Quick."
Hands grabbed Colt's bound body and dragged him out of the truck bed. He was still unconscious, head lolling, blood crusted on the back of his skull where they'd hit him.
They were at an old barn, half-collapsed, miles from anywhere. The perfect place nobody would look.
They dropped him on the dirt floor inside, and one of them stepped back, pulling out his phone.
"Alright, get the picture. Make it look good."
The second man grabbed Colt's shoulders and propped him up slightly, his bound arms visible behind him, his head hanging forward, grey sweatshirt riding up, rope cutting into his bare forearms. The gag and tape were clear across his face.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
"Got it. That'll do."
The tall one—the leader—took the phone and started typing. "We got William Benson Jr tied up and want $500k ransom or we'll torture the boy to death. Instructions to follow."
He attached the photos and hit send.
"Done. Message is out."
"Good. Now let's see what we got on him."
The tall one crouched down and started going through Colt's pockets. Keys to the quad. A few crumpled dollars. Then he reached around to Colt's back pocket and pulled out his wallet.
He flipped it open and pulled out the driver's license.
His face went pale.
"What?" the second man asked.
The tall one stared at the license. "Colton Beaumont. Baton Rouge, Louisiana."
Silence.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean this ain't William Benson Junior!" The tall one stood, his voice rising. "We grabbed the wrong fucking kid!"
"What? How?"
"I don't know! He came from their property, he was working their fence line—"
"Shit. Shit!" The second man paced, running his hands through his hair. "But we already sent the message!"
"You think I don't know that?"
"So what do we do?"
The third man, the one with the rifle, stepped forward. "We can't take him back. And we already demanded ransom for the Benson kid."
The tall one looked down at Colt's unconscious body, his jaw clenched. Thinking. The seconds stretched out.
"Maybe they pay anyway," he finally said. "They're all in that consortium together, right? Six families. All buddy-buddy. Maybe the Bensons pay for their neighbor's kid."
"And if they don't?"
"Then we dump him and get the hell out of Texas before they figure out who we are."
The second man shook his head. "This is fucked."
"Yeah, well, it's done now. The message is sent. So we tie him up good, dump him somewhere remote, and wait to see what happens."
They grabbed more rope from the truck. Working quickly, they looped it around Colt's torso, threading it over his shoulders and under his arms, pulling it tight. Then they fed the rope between his bound arms and his back, cinching everything together. His forearms were now locked against his spine, immobile.
"That'll hold him."
"Now the hogtie. Make sure he can't get loose."
One of them grabbed Colt's ankles and pulled them back toward his wrists. They connected the ankle rope to the wrist rope with a short length, then pulled it tight. Colt's body arched backward, his spine bending, locked in place.
"Jesus, that's tight."
"Good. Means he ain't going anywhere."
They stood back, looking at their work. Colt lay on his side now, completely immobilized, arms locked behind him, legs pulled back, body arched in a severe hogtie.
"Alright, get him back in the truck. Let's get rid of him."
They grabbed him again—he was dead weight, still unconscious—and threw him into the truck bed. The tall one climbed into the driver's seat.
"Where we taking him?"
"Old swamp area past the county line. Near Cypress Creek. Nobody goes out there. If the Bensons pay, fine. If not..." He shrugged. "Not our problem."
"He'll die out there."
"Should've thought about that before he looked like a Benson."
The engine started. The truck pulled out of the barn and headed southeast, away from Kings County, away from the Benson ranch, into the empty backroads of East Texas.
Forty minutes later, the truck slowed and turned onto an overgrown dirt path that barely qualified as a road. Branches scraped the sides. The ground got softer, muddier.
Finally, the truck stopped.
"This is good. Middle of nowhere."
They got out and walked to the back. Pulled Colt out and dropped him in the dirt like a piece of trash. He landed on his side, still unconscious, hogtied and helpless.
The tall one looked down at him for a moment.
"Good luck, kid. You better hope the Bensons like you."
They climbed back in the truck. The engine roared to life, and the tires spun in the soft earth before catching. The truck pulled away, back down the path, the sound fading into the distance.
And then there was nothing.
Just silence.
The buzz of insects. The sound of water moving somewhere nearby. Birds calling from the cypress trees.
Colt lay in the dirt, bound and broken, alone in the swamp.
Minutes passed.
Then an hour.
The sun climbed higher, burning off the morning cool.
And finally, Colt's eyes opened.
Chapter 4
Colt's eyes opened.
Dirt. Inches from his face.
His head felt like it had been split open with an axe. Throbbing, pulsing pain that made his vision swim. He tried to lift his head and immediately regretted it—nausea rolled through him.
He tried to move his hands to his head.
They wouldn't move.
What the fuck?
He pulled harder. Nothing. His arms were locked behind him, completely immobile.
Panic spiked. He tried to sit up. Couldn't. His whole body was bound, pulled into an arch he couldn't escape.
His breath came faster, harder, but something was wrong with his mouth—full, gagged, something shoved in there that tasted like oil and dirt. Tape sealing it shut. He couldn't breathe right. Had to force air through his nose.
Calm down. Calm down.
He forced his eyes to focus. Trees. Cypress trees. Spanish moss hanging like dead men's beards. Water nearby—he could hear it, smell it. Swamp.
Where the hell was he?
He tested his bonds more carefully now. His wrists were crossed behind his back, rope cutting into bare skin. He could feel it—his forearms were bare, exposed. His sweatshirt sleeves had been pushed up. The rope bit directly into his skin.
Forearms pulled together. Elbows cinched tight. He could feel more rope around his biceps, holding them apart, maybe three inches. More rope around his torso, threading through everything, locking his arms against his spine.
His legs were bound too. Ankles, knees, thighs. And something pulled them back, connected to his wrists, arching his spine painfully. Hogtied.
Jesus Christ.
Memory came in fragments. The fence line. Crouching down to check the posts. Then... pain. Explosion of white light. Nothing after that.
Who did this? Why?
He tried to think but his head pounded. He remembered leaving the ranch. Josh giving him the assignment. The boys in the frat house, finding the fresh beer Pops had left. This morning. That was this morning.
What time was it now?
He looked up at the sun, squinting through the pain. High. Maybe ten or eleven? He'd left at six. Hours. He'd been out for hours.
Think. Think.
The sat radio. He always clipped it to his belt. Always. Josh's rule—everyone on the ranch carries one.
He couldn't see his belt with his body twisted like this, couldn't feel it with his arms locked up, but it had to be there. Under his sweatshirt. Still clipped.
If he could reach it. If he could hit the button. The 911 button.
Then they'd know. The signal would go out. GPS coordinates. They'd come.
But his arms were locked against his spine, forearms bare and already raw from the rope. To reach his belt, he'd have to move his hands down his back. Inches. Maybe six inches.
Through rope that was already cutting into his skin.
He twisted slightly, trying to see his own arms. The movement sent a spike of pain through his shoulders. But he could see enough. The rope around his forearms was tight, professional. His skin was already red and scraped where they'd cinched it. Moving against that rope was going to tear his skin off.
But what choice did he have?
He looked around. Cypress trees, standing water, thick undergrowth. No roads. No buildings. No people. He could scream through the gag all day and nobody would hear him.
The sun climbed higher. The temperature was rising. He was already thirsty, his mouth dry around the gag.
And somewhere in the water nearby, something splashed. Something big.
Colt closed his eyes, forced himself to breathe slowly through his nose.
He thought about the frat house. Billy and Jake arguing over the shower. Celeb grabbing a dirty shirt. Jr. checking his drones. Pops with his cigar and his brandy-laced coffee.
He thought about his aunt and uncle. Robert and Caroline. How they'd brought him and Celeb to Texas, become part of the consortium, become family with the Bensons.
He thought about Celeb. His cousin. His brother in every way that mattered.
They were looking for him. Had to be. By now they knew something was wrong.
But they couldn't find him if he didn't help them.
The sat radio. Six inches away. Might as well be six miles.
Colt opened his eyes and looked at the sun again. Afternoon. And when night fell...
He didn't want to think about what came out in the swamp at night.
He had to try.
He took a breath, braced himself, and started to move his bound hands down toward his belt.
The rope bit immediately. Hair ripped. Skin scraped.
He stopped, gasping through his nose, eyes watering.
Then he started again.
Chapter 5
Billy Jr. sat in the Command Center, three monitors glowing in front of him, a cup of coffee going cold at his elbow. He'd been reviewing last night's drone footage, checking the perimeter cameras, making notes about a glitch in the eastern sector that kept pixelating.
Normal morning. Routine work.
His sat phone buzzed on the desk. Unknown number. He almost didn't answer—probably spam—but instinct made him check.
A message. With photo attachments.
He opened it.
The world stopped.
The photo showed someone tied up, arms bound behind them, head hanging forward, grey sweatshirt, rope cutting into bare forearms, duct tape across the face. In a barn somewhere. Beaten. Helpless.
And the message below: "We got William Benson Jr tied up and want $500k ransom or we'll torture the boy to death. Instructions to follow."
Jr.'s hands started shaking.
That's... that's me. That's supposed to be me.
But he was sitting right here. In the Command Center. Safe.
He looked at the photo again. Closer. The grey sweatshirt. The build. The—
Wait.
The belt. That buckle.
That's Colt's belt. The one Uncle Robert gave him for his birthday.
"Oh my God."
Jr. grabbed his radio with trembling hands and hit the 911 button three times.
The mechanical voice broadcast across all consortium frequencies: "911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr."
He keyed the mic, his voice cracking. "Command Center to all units—I just received a ransom photo. They think they have me but it's COLT. COLT'S BEEN KIDNAPPED!"
His fingers flew across the keyboard, uploading the photo to all eighteen iPads and sat radios in the network.
Within seconds, radios exploded with responses.
"What?"
"When?"
"Where is he?"
"Command Center, confirm—"
Jr. keyed the mic again. "Photo shows him tied up in a barn. Ransom demand for five hundred thousand. They think he's me but it's Colt. I'm uploading the photo now!"
From down the hall, Pops' door slammed open. "What the hell is going on? Who hit the 911?"
He appeared in the Command Center doorway, suspenders half-on, cigar clenched between his teeth, his face already red with fury.
Jr. turned in his chair, his face pale. "Someone kidnapped Colt. They sent a ransom photo. They think he's me."
"Show me."
Jr. pulled it up on the main monitor.
Pops stared at the image. His jaw clenched. "Those sons of bitches."
Downstairs, Billy and Jake were still working in the mudroom, cleaning tools from the fence repair job. Celeb was with them, reorganizing the supply shelf.
The 911 alert came through their radios simultaneously.
They looked at each other for one frozen second.
Then they ran.
Boots pounding up the stairs, taking them two at a time, bursting into the Command Center.
"What's going on?" Billy demanded. "Who hit the—"
Then he saw the photo on the main monitor.
"Holy shit."
Celeb pushed past him, staring at the screen. His face drained of all color. "That's Colt. That's—where is he? Where the fuck is he?"
"I don't know," Jr. said, his voice shaking. "They sent this ten minutes ago."
Jake grabbed his radio. "Colt, do you copy? Louisiana, respond!"
Static.
"Colt, answer your goddamn radio!"
Nothing.
At the Beaumont house, two miles away, Robert's sat radio crackled to life with Jr.'s voice.
He and Caroline were in the kitchen, going over supply orders for their cattle operation. Normal morning work.
Then they heard: "COLT'S BEEN KIDNAPPED."
The coffee mug slipped from Caroline's hand and shattered on the floor.
Robert grabbed his radio. "Say again! What happened to Colt?"
"Ransom photo just came in. Check your tablet!"
Robert yanked his iPad from the counter. The photo loaded.
His nephew. Tied up like an animal. Beaten. Gagged.
"Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus, no." Caroline's hand covered her mouth, tears already streaming.
Robert grabbed his keys. "Caroline, come on. We're going to the ranch."
From downstairs in the main house, footsteps thundered up the stairs.
Tom and Sarah burst into the Command Center. Ray came running from his bedroom down the hall, phone still in his hand. Josh pounded up from his room off the kitchen.
The second floor hallway was suddenly packed with people, all trying to get into the Command Center at once.
"Move, move!" Tom pushed through. "Let me see it."
Jr. pulled the photo back up on the main monitor.
Sarah's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, that poor boy."
Celeb was pacing like a caged animal, hands in his hair. "We have to find him. We have to—"
"Pull up the surveillance footage," Josh said, his voice tight and controlled. "Find out when this happened."
Jr.'s fingers flew across the keyboard. "On it. Checking all perimeter cameras."
Billy leaned over his shoulder. "Start with this morning. He left around 6 AM for the north pasture."
Jr. pulled up the northern sector cameras, scrubbing through timestamps. 6:03 AM—Colt on the mule quad, heading out. 6:47 AM—Colt at the fence line, getting off the quad.
Then at 6:52 AM, movement in the frame. A pickup truck, partially hidden by trees.
"There!" Jake pointed. "Back it up!"
Jr. rewound. Three men emerged from the truck. One with a rifle. They moved toward Colt's position, off-camera.
Then at 6:54 AM, they returned. Carrying Colt's limp body. Threw him in the truck bed.
Celeb made a sound like he'd been punched. Billy grabbed his shoulder, held him steady.
The door downstairs slammed open. Footsteps pounded up the stairs—Robert and Caroline burst into the Command Center, out of breath.
Caroline saw the frozen frame on the monitor—her nephew being thrown into a truck—and her knees buckled. Robert caught her.
"Zoom in on the truck," Robert said, his voice shaking with barely controlled rage. "Get me a plate number."
Jr. enhanced the image. "Partial plate visible: TX-7... something... K4. Can't make out the middle."
"That's enough," Wade Nelson's voice came over the radio. He'd been monitoring from the sheriff's station. "I'm running it now. Stand by."
Pops keyed his radio. "Wade, soon as you got something, we're moving. I want every man with a rifle ready."
"Copy that, Pops. I'll coordinate with you when we have a location."
Jr. was already typing. "Launching all six drones now. Full search pattern, starting from last known position and expanding outward."
The other wiz kids came pounding up the stairs—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez—all with tablets already out, breathless.
"We heard," Billy Renzo said. "What do you need?"
"Drone coordination," Jr. said. "I need eyes on every road within twenty miles of the north pasture."
The Command Center was now completely packed, bodies shoulder to shoulder, everyone talking at once, the air thick with panic and rage.
Josh raised his voice. "Alright, listen up! This room is too crowded. The boys need space to work. Everyone except the tech team—downstairs. Now. We'll relay updates as they come."
"But—" Caroline started.
"You'll be able to see everything on your iPads," Jr. said, not looking away from his screens. "The whole network is linked. Every camera feed, every drone, the map—it's all on your tablets in real-time. You'll see exactly what we're seeing."
Tom nodded. "He's right. Come on. They need room to operate."
Reluctantly, the adults filed out. Pops, Tom, Sarah, Josh, Ray, Robert, Caroline—all thundering back down the stairs, iPads in hand. Billy, Jake, and Celeb hesitated.
"You too," Jr. said. "We've got this."
"Like hell—" Billy started.
"Billy, GO," Jr. said, his voice sharp. "I need to focus. You want to help? Get the rifles ready. Check the radios. Prep the trucks. Watch your iPad—the second we find these bastards, you'll see it same time we do. Then we roll out."
Billy's jaw clenched, but he nodded. "Come on."
He, Jake, and Celeb headed downstairs, leaving the four wiz kids alone in the Command Center.
Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez spread out across the workstations, fingers flying over keyboards, eyes locked on monitors.
"Drones one through four are airborne," Daniel reported. "Five and six launching now. Feed is live on all iPads."
"I've got the surveillance footage looping on monitor three," Ryan said. "Running facial recognition on the kidnappers through the database. Uploading to the network now."
"Partial plate TX-7-K4," Billy Renzo muttered, typing furiously. "Wade's got the full DMV search running, but I'm cross-referencing with recent sales and registrations in the region."
Jr. pulled up a tactical map, marking Colt's last position with a red pin. "Thermal imaging is online. Drones are scanning in a grid pattern. Map is synced to all devices. If that truck is out there, we'll find it."
Downstairs, in the kitchen, everyone sat around the table with their iPads open, watching the same feeds the boys were seeing upstairs.
On the screens: six different drone camera views, the tactical map with the expanding search grid, the looping surveillance footage of Colt being thrown into the truck.
Pops stood by the window, iPad in one hand, cigar in the other, watching the drone feeds like a hawk.
Robert sat at the table, staring at the map, willing a target to appear. Caroline beside him, one hand covering her mouth, the other gripping her iPad so hard her knuckles were white.
Celeb stood by the door, rifle already leaning against the wall, his iPad propped on the counter, eyes locked on the thermal imaging feed.
Billy and Jake moved between the mudroom and the kitchen, loading magazines, checking equipment, glancing at their iPads every few seconds.
Sarah sat with her iPad, watching the boys work upstairs through one of the Command Center's internal cameras Jr. had activated. Watching her sixteen-year-old grandson coordinate a manhunt.
Tom kept his iPad on the tactical map, radio in his other hand, waiting.
Josh stood at the counter, iPad showing all six drone feeds at once in split-screen.
"Drone three, northeast sector clear," Daniel's voice came through the radio and simultaneously updated on everyone's screens.
"Drone five picking up vehicle traffic on Highway 87," Ryan reported. "Checking plates now."
Everyone's eyes dropped to their iPads. They could see what Ryan was seeing—a pickup truck on the highway. Wrong color. Wrong model.
"Negative," Ryan's voice. "Not a match."
The search continued.
And upstairs, Jr. whispered to his screen, "Come on, come on. Where are you?"
Chapter 6
The sun climbed higher over the swamp. Colt lay in the dirt, every muscle screaming, working his bound hands inch by agonizing inch toward his belt.
The rope around his forearms bit deeper with every movement. Hair ripped out. Skin scraped raw. Blood made the rope slippery, which helped—barely—but the pain was blinding.
Quarter inch. Stop. Breathe through the nose. Fight the nausea from the concussion.
Quarter inch more.
His fingers were going numb. The hogtie kept constant pressure on his shoulders, his spine arched backward unnaturally. But he couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop.
The sat radio was there. Under his sweatshirt. Clipped to his belt. Maybe four inches away now.
Four inches might as well be four miles.
He kept moving.
"Got something!" Billy Renzo's voice came through everyone's radio and iPad simultaneously.
Downstairs, every head snapped up.
"Drone two, thermal hit," Billy Renzo continued. "Pickup truck, matching description, fourteen miles northeast. Sending coordinates now."
On every iPad screen, a red marker appeared on the map. The thermal imaging showed a vehicle behind an old grain silo, three heat signatures nearby.
"That's them," Pops said, already moving. "That's gotta be them."
Wade's voice crackled over the radio. "Confirmed. Plate match on the partial. That's our truck. I'm ten minutes out. Pops, you ready?"
"We're rolling now," Pops said, grabbing his rifle from where it leaned against the wall.
Tom, Josh, Ray, Robert, Celeb—all grabbed their weapons and headed for the trucks.
"Wait for Wade," Sarah said. "You can't just—"
"The hell we can't," Pops said. "That boy's been missing for three hours. Every second counts."
Billy and Jake were already in the lead truck, engines running.
"We're watching on the iPads," Jr.'s voice came through the radio. "Drones will stay overhead. You'll have eyes the whole way."
The convoy pulled out—four trucks, eight armed men, racing toward the coordinates.
On their iPads, they could see the drone feed. The truck. The heat signatures. One figure pacing. The others near the vehicle.
"Ten minutes," Robert said, knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Hold on, Colt."
Colt's fingertips brushed the edge of the sat radio clip.
So close.
He pushed through the pain, forcing his hands down another half inch. The rope around his forearms was slick with blood now. His wrists screamed. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled from their sockets.
But his fingers closed around the radio.
Got it.
Now came the hard part. Working it free from the clip. Getting his finger on the button.
His hands were shaking. Blood and sweat made everything slippery.
He heard something splash in the water nearby. Closer than before.
No time. No time.
The convoy arrived at the grain silo, trucks spreading out in a semicircle. Wade's cruiser pulled in from the opposite direction, lights off, quiet.
Through the drone feed on their iPads, they could see the three men near the truck. One spotted the approaching vehicles and shouted.
Pops keyed his radio. "Wade, you got the loudspeaker?"
"Ready."
"Do it."
Wade's voice boomed across the open ground. "Kings County Sheriff! You're surrounded! Come out with your hands up!"
For a moment, nothing.
Then gunfire.
Muzzle flashes from behind the truck. Bullets sparked off the grain silo, punched through truck doors.
"Take cover!" Pops roared.
The consortium men returned fire. The sound was deafening—rifles, shotguns, Wade's service weapon. The kidnappers were outgunned, outnumbered, but desperate.
It lasted maybe two minutes. Felt like forever.
When the smoke cleared, all three kidnappers were down. Dead.
Wade approached carefully, weapon raised, checking each body. "Clear. All three deceased."
Pops lowered his rifle. Robert was already moving toward the truck, Celeb right behind him.
"Where is he?" Robert demanded. "Where's Colt?"
Wade searched the bodies. Cash. Car keys. A phone—burner, probably useless. Then he found a wallet that didn't belong to any of them.
He opened it. Colt's driver's license stared back at him.
"They had him here," Wade said. "This is his wallet."
"But where is he NOW?" Celeb's voice was breaking.
Wade checked the truck bed. Blood stains. Rope fibers. But no Colt.
He checked the cab. Nothing.
He looked around at the empty landscape. Miles of nothing in every direction.
"They must have dumped him somewhere," Wade said quietly. "Before they came here."
"Then make them talk!" Robert grabbed one of the dead kidnappers. "WHERE IS HE?"
"Robert—" Tom pulled him back gently.
"They're dead," Wade said. "They're all dead. We've got no intel. No phones with messages. No map. Nothing."
The silence that followed was crushing.
Wade keyed his radio. "Command Center, this is Wade. Suspects are down. All three KIA. But we've got no location on Louisiana. Repeat, no location. They dumped him somewhere before we arrived."
In the Command Center, Jr. stared at his screen, the words hitting like a punch to the gut.
"Copy," he said, his voice hollow.
Downstairs, Caroline made a sound like a wounded animal. Sarah pulled her into an embrace, both of them crying.
On the iPads, they could all see the scene at the grain silo. The bodies. The empty truck. Their men standing there, helpless.
"Expand the drone search," Jr. said into his radio, forcing his voice steady. "Full radius, fifty miles. Thermal imaging on max sensitivity. If he's out there, we find him."
"Copy that," Billy Renzo said beside him.
But fifty miles was a lot of ground. And they had no idea which direction the kidnappers had gone before doubling back to the silo.
At the grain silo, Pops stared at the empty landscape, his jaw working around his cigar. "We split up. Grid search. Every road, every path. We don't stop until we find him."
The men climbed back into their trucks, heading in different directions, eyes scanning the landscape, iPads showing drone feeds, everyone searching.
But Texas was big. And one kid, alone and hidden, was a needle in a haystack.
Colt's finger found the button.
The 911 button on the sat radio.
His hands were shaking so badly he almost lost his grip. The hogtie pulled everything tight. His vision was starting to tunnel from the pain and the heat and the dehydration.
But he had it.
He pressed the button. Once. Twice. Three times.
Nothing happened.
No sound. No vibration. No confirmation.
Please. Please work.
He pressed it again.
And again.
Was the battery dead? Was the signal blocked by the trees? Had the impact damaged it?
He didn't know. Couldn't know.
All he could do was press the button and hope.
And somewhere far away, in the Command Center, a mechanical voice suddenly broadcast across all eighteen radios:
"911 Louisiana. 911 Louisiana. 911 Louisiana."
Jr. shot up from his chair. "SIGNAL! WE'VE GOT HIM!"
On every screen, every iPad, a new red marker appeared on the map.
GPS coordinates. Exact location.
Twenty-three miles southwest. Swamp region near Cypress Creek.
"All units!" Jr.'s voice cracked with emotion. "We have Louisiana's position! Uploading coordinates now!"
The drones immediately changed course, racing toward the new marker.
Jr. looked at Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. They all had the same thought at the same time.
"We're closest," Billy Renzo said.
"Fifteen minutes if we go now," Ryan added.
Daniel was already grabbing his iPad. "Let's move."
Jr. keyed his radio. "Command Center is mobile. We're going to get him."
Downstairs, Sarah's voice came through. "Jr., you wait for—"
"We've got the coordinates, we've got the drones, and we're the closest ones to him right now. We're going."
The four boys bolted from the Command Center, boots thundering down the stairs. They burst out the front door where Josh's truck sat with the keys still in it.
Jr. jumped in the driver's seat—he'd gotten his license three weeks ago. Billy Renzo rode shotgun with his iPad showing the map. Ryan and Daniel climbed in the back, tablets open, monitoring the drone feeds.
The engine roared to life.
"Hold on, Colt," Jr. whispered, throwing the truck into gear. "We're coming."
The truck tore down the driveway, kicking up dust, heading southwest toward Cypress Creek.
And in trucks scattered across Kings County, engines roared as everyone turned and converged on the same point.
Robert saw the marker appear on his iPad, then saw another icon moving fast—Josh's truck, with four sixteen-year-olds racing ahead of everyone.
"Those crazy kids," he muttered. But his foot pressed harder on the gas pedal.
Because right now, crazy might be exactly what Colt needed.
Chapter 7
Jr. drove like a man possessed, the truck bouncing over dirt roads, taking turns too fast, engine screaming.
"Three miles out," Billy Renzo said, eyes locked on his iPad. "Drone one has visual on the heat signature. Still not moving much."
"Is he alive?" Jr.'s voice cracked.
Ryan checked the thermal feed in the back seat. "Heat signature is strong. He's alive."
"Two miles," Billy Renzo said. "Road ends in half a mile. We'll have to go on foot."
"How far on foot?"
"Quarter mile through swamp. Maybe less."
Jr. keyed his radio. "All units, we're two minutes from Louisiana's position. Going in on foot. Drones show he's alive."
Robert's voice came back immediately. "We're eight minutes behind you. Wait for us."
Jr. looked at his friends. Billy Renzo shook his head. Ryan and Daniel leaned forward from the back seat.
"We're not waiting," Jr. said into the radio. "Sorry, Mr. Beaumont. Every second counts."
He didn't wait for a response. The road ended and he slammed on the brakes, throwing the truck into park.
All four boys jumped out, iPads in hand, and started running toward the coordinates.
At the ranch house, Sarah, Caroline, and Rebecca sat at the kitchen table, iPads in front of them, watching the drone feeds.
They could see the wiz kids' truck stop. See the four boys jump out and run into the swamp.
"They're going in," Sarah said, her hand over her mouth.
Caroline gripped her iPad so tight her knuckles were white. "Please, God. Please let him be okay."
Rebecca kept her eyes on the screen, her nurse's training helping her stay focused even as her heart raced.
The ground got softer. Mud sucked at the boys' boots. Cypress trees closed in around them, Spanish moss hanging low. The smell of stagnant water and decay filled the air.
"This way!" Billy Renzo shouted, checking his iPad. "One hundred yards!"
They crashed through undergrowth, branches whipping their faces. Jr.'s heart pounded in his chest.
Please be okay. Please be okay.
"Fifty yards!" Ryan called out.
Then they saw him.
Colt lay on his side in the mud, body arched backward in a severe hogtie, arms locked behind him, grey sweatshirt dirty and torn. Duct tape across his face. Completely still.
"COLT!" Jr. ran forward, dropping to his knees beside him.
Colt's eyes opened. Unfocused at first, then registering recognition. He made a muffled sound through the gag.
"We got you, man. We got you." Jr.'s hands were shaking as he pulled out his pocket knife. "Hold still."
Daniel keyed his radio. "All units, we have Louisiana. He's alive. Repeat, he's alive. Starting rescue now."
At the ranch house, Caroline's sob of relief echoed through the kitchen. Sarah pulled her into an embrace, both of them crying.
On the iPad screen, they could see Jr. cutting ropes. The other boys helping. Colt moving.
"He's moving," Caroline whispered. "Oh thank God, he's moving."
Rebecca leaned closer to her screen, assessing what she could see. The rope burns. The way Colt's arms hung limp. His confusion.
She grabbed her radio. "Jr., this is Rebecca. I can see the feed. When you get him free, assess for concussion, dehydration, and circulation in his extremities. Over."
"Copy that," Jr.'s voice came back.
Billy Renzo dropped down on Colt's other side. "Jesus Christ. Look at his arms."
The rope had torn into Colt's bare forearms, leaving raw, bloody marks where he'd struggled. His wrists were purple, circulation nearly cut off.
Jr. started cutting. The rope connecting Colt's ankles to his wrists came free first, releasing the hogtie. Colt gasped through the gag as his spine finally straightened.
"Easy, easy," Ryan said, helping support Colt's legs.
Jr. moved to the ankle ropes, cutting through them quickly. Then the thighs, knees. Billy Renzo worked on the torso ropes, the ones that had locked Colt's arms against his spine.
"This is really tight," Billy Renzo muttered. "They really didn't want him getting loose."
Finally, the torso ropes came free. Then the rope around Colt's biceps. His elbows. His forearms.
When Jr. cut the rope around Colt's wrists, Colt's arms fell limply to his sides. He couldn't move them. Couldn't feel them.
"Gag next," Jr. said gently. He carefully peeled back the duct tape, trying not to tear Colt's skin. Then pulled out the oil-soaked rag.
Colt sucked in a huge breath, then started coughing. Gagging. Spitting.
"Water," Ryan said, pulling a bottle from his pack. "Here."
Jr. held the bottle to Colt's lips. Colt drank desperately, water spilling down his chin.
"Slow down, you'll make yourself sick."
Colt stopped, gasping. His voice came out as a croak. "How... how'd you find me?"
"You hit the button, man. The 911 button. Your signal came through."
Colt's eyes filled with tears. "I didn't... I didn't know if it worked."
"It worked." Jr. gripped his shoulder. "You saved yourself."
Jr. keyed his radio. "Rebecca, he's conscious. Severe rope burns on both forearms and wrists. Can't move his arms—no feeling. Probable concussion. Dehydrated. Over."
Rebecca was already moving, grabbing her medical bag from the mudroom. "Bring him to the ranch house. It's closer than the hospital. I'll have everything ready. Over."
She turned to Sarah. "I need towels, water, bandages. And call Doc Peterson. Tell him to get here now."
Sarah was already moving. Caroline stood, steadying herself.
Rebecca pulled out her phone and dialed. It rang three times.
"Peterson."
"Doc, it's Rebecca Benson. We have an emergency. Colt Beaumont—kidnapped this morning, just found him. Severe rope burns, probable concussion, dehydration, possible nerve damage in his arms. They're bringing him to the ranch house now. Can you come?"
There was a pause. Then the sound of a chair scraping back. "I'm twenty minutes out. Keep him stable. I'm leaving now."
"Thank you, Doc."
She hung up and looked at Caroline. "Doc's on his way. Colt's going to be okay."
Caroline nodded, tears streaming down her face.
The sound of engines roared in the distance. Doors slamming. Voices shouting.
"COLT!"
Robert's voice, frantic, getting closer.
"Over here!" Daniel shouted. "We got him!"
Footsteps crashing through the swamp. Then Robert burst through the trees, Celeb right behind him, followed by Tom, Josh, Pops, Wade, Billy, Jake.
Robert dropped to his knees beside Colt, his face crumbling. "Oh God. Oh thank God."
"Uncle Robert," Colt whispered.
Robert pulled him into his arms as carefully as he could, mindful of the rope burns and the injuries. Colt collapsed against him, finally safe, finally able to let go.
Celeb was there too, one hand on Colt's shoulder, his face wet with tears. "You scared the shit out of us, cousin."
"Sorry," Colt managed.
Wade keyed his radio. "Rebecca, we have him. What's the plan?"
"Bring him to the ranch house," Rebecca's voice came back. "It's closer. Doc Peterson is on his way. ETA twenty minutes."
Pops grunted his approval. "Doc Peterson patched me up in 'Nam. Patched up all of us for thirty years. Boy's in good hands."
"Can you walk?" Tom asked Colt.
Colt tried to move his legs. Winced. "I... I don't know."
"We'll carry you," Billy said. He and Jake had already moved into position.
They lifted Colt carefully—Billy and Jake taking his legs, Robert and Celeb supporting his upper body. The four wiz kids led the way back through the swamp, iPads lighting the path.
As they reached the trucks, Colt looked back toward the water.
"There was... I heard something. In the water."
Wade followed his gaze and froze. "Nobody move."
Twenty yards away, half-submerged in the dark water, a massive alligator watched them. Easily twelve feet long.
"Get him in the truck," Wade said quietly. "Now."
They moved fast but carefully, loading Colt into the back of Robert's truck. Celeb climbed in beside him, cradling his cousin's head.
The gator slipped deeper into the water and disappeared.
"Five more minutes," Josh said quietly. "If those boys had been five more minutes..."
He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
Jr. stood with his friends—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez—all of them muddy, exhausted, but victorious.
Pops walked over and put a hand on Jr.'s shoulder. "You did good, kid. Real good."
"We all did," Jr. said.
"Yeah, but you led 'em. That's what leaders do." Pops squeezed his shoulder. "Your grandpa would be proud. Hell, I'm proud."
The convoy formed up again, this time with Colt safe in the middle of it, and headed back toward the ranch.
In Robert's truck, Colt lay across the back seat, drifting in and out of consciousness. Celeb sat beside him, one hand on his cousin's shoulder, not letting go.
"You're okay now," Celeb whispered. "We're taking you home. Doc Peterson's meeting us there."
And for the first time in hours, Colt believed it.
The trucks roared down the road toward the Benson ranch, kicking up dust in the fading daylight.
It was 6:47 PM.
Chapter 8
The convoy pulled into the Benson ranch just as the last light faded from the sky. Every light in the house blazed. Sarah, Caroline, and Rebecca stood on the porch, waiting.
Robert's truck hadn't even stopped before Caroline was running toward it. The door opened and Celeb helped Colt sit up.
"I'm okay, Aunt Caroline," Colt said, his voice hoarse. "I'm okay."
She pulled him into a careful hug, sobbing into his shoulder. "Don't you ever scare me like that again."
"Yes, ma'am."
Sarah was there too, one hand on his cheek. "Let's get you inside. Come on."
They helped him out of the truck. Colt tried to walk but his legs were unsteady. Billy and Jake moved in immediately, supporting him on either side.
"We got you, Louisiana," Billy said.
They brought him into the kitchen where Rebecca had transformed the space into a makeshift hospital. Clean towels stacked on the counter. Medical supplies laid out. A chair pulled into the center with good light.
"Sit him here," Rebecca directed.
They eased Colt into the chair. He winced as his arms hung uselessly at his sides.
The front door opened and Doc Peterson walked in, medical bag in hand. He was in his seventies, gray-haired, but his eyes were sharp and his hands steady. He'd been patching up consortium families since before most of them were born.
"Let me see him," Doc said, setting his bag down.
Rebecca stepped aside as Doc crouched in front of Colt, checking his pupils with a penlight. "You know what day it is?"
"Wednesday," Colt said.
"Who's the president?"
Colt told him.
"Good. Concussion, but not severe." Doc moved to Colt's arms, examining the rope burns carefully. The skin was raw, bloody, torn in places where Colt had scraped against the ropes. "Can you feel this?" He touched Colt's forearm.
"Barely."
"This?" His wrist.
"Little bit."
"Fingers?"
Colt tried to move them. They twitched. "Yeah. Sort of."
"Good. Circulation's coming back. Nerve damage is temporary—probably." Doc looked at Rebecca. "We need to clean these burns. It's going to hurt."
"I'm fine," Colt said quickly.
From behind him, Jake snorted. "He says now."
Pops had been standing by the counter, watching. Now he moved to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels and a stack of glasses.
"If we're doing field medicine," Pops said, pouring generously, "we're doing it right."
He poured eight glasses—one for himself, Tom, Josh, Robert, Wade, and three more.
"Pops," Sarah said warningly.
"They earned it." Pops handed glasses to Jr., Billy Renzo, and Ryan Mattern. Daniel Rodriguez got one too. "You boys just saved a life. That deserves a drink."
The wiz kids looked at their glasses, then at Sarah.
She sighed. "One. And don't tell your mothers."
"Yes, ma'am," they chorused.
Pops raised his glass. "To the wiz kids. And to Louisiana, tough son of a bitch."
"Hear, hear," everyone echoed, and drank.
Colt watched, then looked at Doc Peterson. "Can I get one of those before you start?"
Doc considered, then nodded. "Actually, might help. Small one."
Pops poured half a glass and handed it to Colt. Colt drank it in two gulps, grimacing.
"Alright," Doc said. "Let's get started. Rebecca, I need saline and gauze."
Rebecca began cleaning the rope burns on Colt's forearms. The moment the saline touched raw skin, Colt's jaw clenched.
"Doing okay?" Rebecca asked gently.
"Fine," Colt said through gritted teeth.
"You're turning red," Billy observed from where he leaned against the counter.
"I'm fine."
"He's totally fine," Jake said, grinning. "Can't even feel it."
"Shut up, Jake."
Doc worked on the other arm. Colt's breathing got faster.
"You want to take a break?" Doc asked.
"No. Keep going."
Jr. watched his friend, impressed despite himself. "You're actually pretty tough for a guy who cried during Marley & Me."
"That was a sad movie!" Colt protested, then winced as Doc hit a particularly raw spot.
"There it is," Celeb said. "The wince."
"I didn't wince."
"You totally winced."
"Boys," Rebecca warned, but she was smiling slightly.
Doc continued working, cleaning each burn methodically, applying antibiotic ointment, wrapping gauze. Colt kept his jaw clenched, determined not to make a sound.
"You know," Pops said, relighting his cigar, "I've seen grown men cry over less. Kid's got spine."
"He gets it from his aunt and uncle," Tom said, nodding toward Robert and Caroline.
Robert stood with his arm around Caroline, both of them watching Colt with obvious relief.
Doc moved to Colt's wrists, which were worse—deep rope burns where the circulation had been cut off for hours. The skin was purple and swollen.
"This is the worst of it," Doc said. "I'm sorry, son."
He started cleaning. Colt's hands gripped the sides of the chair, knuckles white.
"Still fine?" Billy asked innocently.
"Yep," Colt managed.
"Doesn't look fine."
"I said I'm fine."
Jake leaned over. "Your eye's twitching."
"Is not."
"Totally is."
Rebecca bit back a smile as she helped Doc wrap the wrists. "You're doing great, Colt."
"I know," Colt said, and everyone laughed.
Doc finished wrapping, then stood back to examine his work. "Alright. Both arms bandaged. Keep them clean and dry. Change the dressings twice a day. I'll check on you tomorrow."
He closed his medical bag and looked around the kitchen. Then his eyes landed on the bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter and the empty glasses.
"Wait a goddamn minute," Doc said, his voice rising. "No Jack for me? I just spent thirty minutes doing field surgery and you didn't pour me one?"
Pops looked up, cigar between his teeth, completely unrepentant. "You were working, Doc. Didn't want to distract you."
"Distract me? I've done surgery in the jungle with mortar rounds going off! I think I can handle a glass of whiskey!"
"Well, you should've said something."
"I shouldn't have to say something! It's called common courtesy, you old bastard!"
Pops grinned and poured a generous glass. "There. Happy now?"
Doc took it and drained half in one gulp. "Better. Jesus Christ, Pops. Forty years I've known you and you still have no manners."
"And you're still bitching about it."
"Because you never learn!"
Everyone was trying not to laugh. These two had been friends since Vietnam, and this was apparently how they showed affection.
Doc finished his drink and set the glass down with satisfaction. "Alright. Now I'm done. Keep those bandages clean, son. And get some rest."
"Yes, sir," Colt said. "And thank you."
Doc patted his shoulder. "You did good today. Real good. Not many men could've done what you did."
Colt sat there for a moment, exhausted, bandaged, but safe. Then his stomach growled. Loudly.
Everyone looked at him.
"Sarah," Colt said, "I'm starving."
The kitchen erupted with laughter. Sarah wiped her eyes and moved to the stove. "Well, we can't have that. Rebecca, is he okay to eat?"
"More than okay. He needs to eat. Dehydration, blood sugar's probably low."
"Leftover breakfast casserole, or I can make fresh," Sarah said, already pulling out pans.
"Fresh," Pops declared. "Boy's earned a proper meal."
Within minutes, Sarah had eggs cracking, bacon sizzling, biscuits going in the oven. Rebecca made coffee. Caroline cut up fruit. The kitchen filled with the smell of food and the sound of voices—the boys recounting the rescue, Pops and Doc arguing about Vietnam, Jr. showing Robert the drone footage on his iPad.
They set the big kitchen table. All of them. The Bensons, the Beaumonts, the wiz kids, Wade, Doc Peterson. Plates and glasses and coffee mugs. Pops put the Jack Daniels bottle in the middle of the table, just in case.
When the food was ready, they ate like a family that had almost lost one of their own and gotten him back. Colt ate with bandaged arms, occasionally needing help cutting something, which Jake provided while making comments about "the invalid."
"I can still kick your ass," Colt said around a mouthful of eggs.
"Not with those arms you can't."
"Give me a week."
"You're on."
Pops watched them all, cigar between his teeth, and felt something that might have been contentment. These kids. These crazy, brave, loyal kids.
Sarah refilled coffee cups. Tom read the paper, pretending he wasn't listening to every word. Josh planned tomorrow's work assignments, already factoring in that Colt would be out of commission for a few days.
And slowly, as plates emptied and coffee cups drained, the terror of the day began to fade.
Colt sat there, exhausted, hurting, but surrounded by the people who'd moved heaven and earth to find him. His family.
It was 11:47 PM.
Chapter 9
After the plates were cleared and goodbyes said, the boys made their way upstairs. Doc Peterson had left with instructions to check on Colt in the morning. Wade headed back to file reports. The adults were finally starting to breathe again.
But the boys weren't ready to sleep yet.
The five frat house residents—Billy, Jake, Celeb, Jr., and Colt—filed into their room, followed by the other three wiz kids: Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez.
"Grab the floorboard," Billy said.
Jake knelt down and lifted the loose board under the window. Inside sat the remaining Shiner Bock bottles, cold and waiting.
"Magic beer strikes again," Colt said from where he sat carefully on his mattress, arms still bandaged.
They passed out bottles. Jake had to open Colt's for him and hold it while he took the first sip.
"This is humiliating," Colt muttered.
"Should've thought about that before you got kidnapped," Jake said.
"I didn't exactly volunteer for it."
"Details."
They settled in—some on bunks, some on the floor, Colt propped against pillows on his mattress. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, replaced by exhaustion and relief.
"So," Billy Renzo said, taking a long pull from his beer. "That was a day."
"Understatement," Ryan said.
Jr. looked at Colt. "You really scraped your arms raw to reach that radio?"
"Didn't have much choice."
"Badass."
"Thanks."
Daniel shook his head. "And we got to Josh's truck and just... went. Didn't even think about it."
"Good thing Sarah didn't catch us before we left," Jr. said. "She would've made us wait."
"Would've cost us ten minutes," Billy Renzo added. "Maybe more."
They fell quiet, thinking about what ten more minutes might have meant. The gator. The swamp. The heat.
"Well," Celeb said, raising his bottle. "We got him back. That's what matters."
"Hear, hear," they murmured, and drank.
From his mattress, Colt looked around at his brothers—blood and chosen both. "Thank you. All of you. I mean it."
"That's what we do," Jr. said simply. "One of us goes down, we all come running."
"Damn right," Billy said.
They drank in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Jake glanced at the floorboard.
"You know," he said slowly, "we've been doing this for six months. The beer just appears. We pretend we snuck it. Pops pretends he's pissed."
"It's a good system," Celeb agreed.
"But has anyone ever actually confirmed it's him?" Jake asked.
They looked at each other.
"I mean, it has to be," Billy said. "Who else would it be?"
"Sarah would murder us," Jr. pointed out.
"Tom doesn't drink beer," Ryan added.
"Josh would just tell us to buy our own," Daniel said.
"So it's Pops," Billy Renzo concluded. "Has to be."
"But he doesn't know we know," Jake said, grinning. "Right?"
The grin spread around the room.
"Oh, this is gonna be good," Celeb said.
They heard Pops' door open down the hall. His heavy footsteps approaching. He always did a final check before bed—old military habit, probably.
The footsteps stopped outside their door.
"You boys better be going to sleep," Pops called through the door. "It's almost midnight and you've had one hell of a day."
"Yes, Pops," they chorused, trying not to laugh.
"And I better not hear about any beer—"
"Hey Pops?" Billy interrupted.
A pause. "What?"
"Thanks for the Shiner Bock. Really appreciate it."
Silence.
Long silence.
Then: "What the hell are you talking about?"
"The beer in the floorboard," Jake said, barely containing his laughter. "We know it's you. We've known for like six months."
More silence. They could practically hear Pops processing this.
"You little shits," Pops finally said, but there was something that might have been amusement in his voice. "How long?"
"Since the second six-pack appeared," Jr. admitted. "Nobody else would do it."
"And you let me think I was being sneaky?"
"It was more fun that way," Celeb said. "For everybody."
The door flew open. Pops stood there in his undershirt and suspenders, cigar between his teeth, trying to look angry but failing.
"Six months," he said. "Six goddamn months I been sneaking beer in here like some kind of... and you knew the whole time?"
"Yep," they said in unison.
Pops stared at them. Then he started laughing—a deep, raspy laugh that shook his whole frame. "You sneaky little bastards. Takes after your old man, Billy. And you, Jake. Hell, all of you."
He stepped into the room and grabbed an unopened beer from the floorboard. Cracked it open and took a long drink.
"Alright, here's the deal," Pops said. "I been buying you beer because I remember being your age. And I'd rather you do it here, safe, than go sneaking off somewhere stupid and get hurt. But your grandma finds out..." He pointed his cigar at them. "We all die. Understood?"
"Understood," they said.
"Good." He took another drink. "And for the record, you boys did real good today. Real good. That was some quick thinking, Junior. And you three—" He nodded at Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel. "Driving out there without waiting for the adults? Your parents are gonna kill you when they find out. But it was the right call."
"Thanks, Pops," Jr. said.
Pops looked at Colt. "And you. Toughest thing I ever saw, kid. Scraping yourself bloody to hit that button. That's the kind of grit that keeps you alive."
"Learned from the best," Colt said.
"Damn right you did." Pops finished his beer and set the empty bottle on the floor. "Now get some sleep. All of you. Sun's gonna be up in six hours and this ranch doesn't run itself."
"Yes, Pops."
He started to leave, then paused at the door. "And boys? We don't talk about the beer thing. To anybody. Especially not Sarah."
"What beer thing?" Billy asked innocently.
Pops grinned. "That's my boys." He pointed at the light switch. "Lights out. Now."
Jr. flicked off the lights. The room went dark except for the moonlight through the window.
Pops' footsteps retreated down the hall. His door closed.
They waited a beat, then burst out laughing.
"He knew we knew," Jake whispered.
"No, he didn't," Billy argued. "Not until tonight."
"Either way, it's still happening," Celeb said. "That's what matters."
They finished their beers in the dark, talking quietly—about the drones, the rescue, the look on those kidnappers' faces when the consortium rolled up armed. About the gator. About how Jr. drove like a maniac and nobody said a word because it was the right call.
About how close they'd come to losing Colt.
"Never again," Billy finally said into the darkness. "We're not losing anybody. Not ever."
"Agreed," they all said.
One by one, they settled into their bunks and mattresses. Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel crashed on the floor with spare pillows.
Colt lay on his mattress, arms throbbing despite the medication, but surrounded by his brothers.
"Hey," Jr. whispered from the bunk above him. "You good?"
"Yeah," Colt whispered back. "I'm good."
And he was.
Outside, the ranch settled into night. The cattle quiet in their pastures. The drones on their charging stations. The consortium at peace.
The day that started at 5:30 AM with Pops banging on the frat house door was finally ending at midnight, the five boys right where they belonged.
Together.
Safe.
Home.
