Chapter 1: The Long Night
The third steer broke through the fence line just after midnight, and Jake Benson knew immediately it was going to be a long goddamn night.
"Son of a bitch," Billy muttered beside him, his flashlight beam catching the broken posts where the Hereford had busted through. "That's Big Red. He's halfway to the Nelson property by now."
Jake swung down from his horse, boots hitting the dusty ground with a thud. "Then we better move. Pops finds out we lost three head in one night, he'll skin us both."
Billy grinned despite the exhaustion already creeping into his bones. They'd been chasing strays since sundown—first the two heifers that had wandered into the creek bed, then the young bull that had somehow ended up in the equipment yard. "Pops is gonna skin us anyway when he finds out about the fence."
"Then let's at least bring his cattle home first."
They split up at the property line, Jake heading west toward the old access road while Billy cut north through the scrub. The August heat had finally broken with nightfall, but the air still hung thick and heavy. Jake's radio crackled every fifteen minutes with Billy's updates: tracks heading toward the wash, then doubling back toward the highway, then disappearing entirely into hard ground.
It was nearly 1:30am when Billy's voice came through, clearer this time. "Got him. He's bedded down in that culvert by the
turnoff. Stubborn bastard doesn't want to move."
"I'm ten minutes out."
It took both of them another forty minutes to coax Big Red out of the culvert and back toward the Benson property. The steer was ornery, well-fed, and in no particular hurry. By the time they had him back through the temporary fence line Jake had rigged with spare wire and sheer determination, it was pushing 2am.
Billy dismounted and leaned against his horse, tilting his head back to stare at the stars. "I am too tired to function."
"You and me both." Jake secured the last section of wire and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "Pops is gonna be up in three hours screaming his head off."
"Let him scream. I earned this sleep."
They rode back to the barn in companionable silence, the kind of quiet that only came from twenty-one years of being brothers who might as well have been twins. They'd shared a room since Billy was born, shared chores and beatings and secrets. Jake was a year older, a few inches taller, and had the temper that got them both in trouble. Billy was steadier, quicker to laugh, but just as stubborn when it counted.
The barn lights were off when they arrived. They unsaddled the horses, mucked the stalls quickly, and stumbled across the yard toward the main house. The frat house, as everyone called it now, was on the second floor—two bunk beds crammed into a room that had once held just one, plus a mattress squeezed in between for Louisiana. Beer cans hidden under the floorboards. Boots piled by the door. The smell of teenage boys and ranch work.
Jake pushed the door open as quietly as he could. Celeb was snoring softly in the top bunk across from them, one arm hanging over the side. Jr. was curled up in the bottom bunk beneath him, dead to the world. Louisiana—Colt, as they all called him now—was sprawled on the mattress between the bunks, his long frame taking up every inch of space.
Billy kicked off his boots and climbed into the bottom bunk without a word. Jake took the top, groaning as his body finally relaxed into the thin mattress. His muscles ached. His hands were raw. He smelled like dirt and cow and sweat.
"Jake," Billy whispered from below.
"What."
"Next time, you chase Big Red by yourself."
Jake smiled in the darkness. "Deal."
Within minutes, both brothers were asleep.
Chapter 2: Morning Comes Early
"GET YOUR ASSES OUT OF BED! DAYLIGHT'S BURNING!"
Pops' voice exploded through the second floor like a grenade at exactly 5:15am, followed by the bang of his walking stick against the frat house door.
Celeb jerked awake, nearly hitting his head on the ceiling. "Jesus Christ, Pops."
"DON'T JESUS CHRIST ME, BOY! THOSE HORSES AIN'T GONNA FEED THEMSELVES!"
Jr. groaned from the bottom bunk and threw his pillow at the door. "We're up, we're up."
Louisiana rolled off his mattress onto the floor with a thud, blinking in the dim light filtering through the curtains. "What time is it?"
"Too damn early," Celeb muttered, swinging his legs over the side of his bunk.
Pops pushed the door open, all seventy-six years of him filling the doorframe like a drill sergeant. His white hair stood up in every direction, and he was already dressed—worn jeans, flannel shirt, boots that had seen more miles than most trucks. A cigar hung unlit from the corner of his mouth.
"Where the hell are Jake and Billy?"
"Out all night chasing Big Red," Jr. said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Didn't get back till two."
Pops grunted. "They get him?"
"Yeah. Fixed the fence too."
"Well, shit. Let 'em sleep then." Pops pointed the walking stick at the three of them. "But you boys? You got work. Move it."
He stomped back down the hall toward his bedroom, muttering curses that would've made Grandma Sarah cross herself if she'd heard them.
Celeb pulled on his jeans and grabbed a t-shirt from the pile on the floor. "One of these days, that old man's gonna give himself a heart attack yelling like that."
"Nah," Jr. said, lacing up his boots. "Pops is too mean to die."
Louisiana laughed and kicked the mattress back into place between the bunks. The frat house was already warming up despite the early hour—five bodies in one room did that. Empty soda cans lined the windowsill. A deck of cards sat abandoned on the floor next to someone's work gloves. The beer stash under the loose floorboard by Jake's bunk stayed hidden, untouched.
They filed out into the hallway, past the command center room where the lights were already on—Jr. must've left the equipment running overnight—and down the stairs.
Downstairs, the house was waking up in its usual rhythm.
Tom Benson stood in the kitchen in his undershirt and jeans, pouring coffee into a thermos. He looked up when the boys came through. "Morning, boys."
"Morning, Grandpa," Jr. said.
"Pops get you up?"
"Like always."
Tom smiled slightly. "Your grandma's still asleep. Keep it quiet."
From the extension, they could hear Josh's voice, low and steady, probably on the phone already with one of the other consortium families. Rebecca would be getting ready for her shift at Kings County Hospital, moving through their room with the practiced efficiency of a nurse who'd worked double shifts more times than she could count.
Ray was already in the business office off his bedroom, door cracked open, the glow of his computer screen visible. He ran the financial side of the consortium like clockwork—purchase orders, market prices, inventory. If it had a number attached to it, Ray knew it.
Jr. grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and tossed one to Louisiana. Celeb was already out the door, heading toward the barn.
The radio on the kitchen counter crackled to life.
"Benson Ranch, this is Beaumont. Morning check-in."
Tom picked up the handset. "Morning, Robert. All good here. You?"
"All good. We're moving the herd to the south pasture today if you want to send anyone over."
"Will do. Jr.'s got the morning free."
The radio went quiet for a moment, then clicked again. "Nelson Ranch checking in. Wade here. Everyone accounted for?"
"We're good," Tom said. "Jake and Billy are sleeping in—had a late night with strays."
"Heard about that. Tell them Big Red's a son of a bitch."
Tom laughed. "Will do."
One by one, the other families checked in—Renzo, Mattern, Rodriguez. The consortium had been running this system for over a year now, and it worked like clockwork. Six families, covering a third of Kings County, watching each other's backs.
Jr. drained his water bottle and tossed it in the recycling bin. "I'm gonna check the horses, then head over to Beaumont's."
"Take Louisiana with you," Tom said. "And grab breakfast first."
"Yes, sir."
Outside, the sun was just starting to edge over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The ranch was coming alive—trucks starting up, dogs barking, the distant sound of Pops yelling at someone about something.
Just another morning on the Benson Ranch.
Jr. and Louisiana crossed the yard toward the horse barn, the day stretching out ahead of them, routine and predictable.
Neither of them noticed the dust cloud on the access road, miles out, barely visible in the early light.
Chapter 3: 9:30am - The Kidnapping
Jake drifted up from sleep slowly, his body still heavy with exhaustion. The floorboards creaked somewhere nearby—soft, deliberate footsteps.
Billy, he thought groggily. Probably heading to the bathroom.
He kept his eyes closed, trying to sink back into sleep. His muscles still ached from the long night. Big Red. The fence. The—
The footsteps stopped.
Something felt wrong.
Jake opened his eyes.
Four masked figures stood around his bunk, black ski masks, dark clothing. The nearest one held a Glock pointed directly at his face.
"Don't move," the man whispered. "Don't make a sound."
Jake's heart slammed against his ribs. His hand twitched toward the edge of the mattress—instinct, not plan—but another masked figure grabbed his wrist and yanked it back.
"I said don't move."
The Glock pressed against his lips, cold metal forcing his mouth open. Jake tasted steel and oil. His mind raced—Celeb, Jr., Louisiana, they're right here, they're—
But the other bunks were empty. How long had he been asleep? Where was everyone?
Rough hands grabbed him, flipping him onto his stomach. His face pressed into the thin mattress. Rope bit into his wrists, pulled tight behind his back. He tried to twist away, tried to shout, but the Glock pressed harder against the back of his head.
"Stay quiet or I pull the trigger."
They yanked him upright, sitting him on the edge of the bunk. Jake saw Billy's empty bunk below his. Panic spiked through him. Where's Billy? Did they already—
One of the masked men pulled out a roll of duct tape and tore off a strip. Before Jake could react, the tape sealed his mouth shut. Another strip. Another. His breathing came hard and fast through his nose.
A gag—cloth, rough—was shoved into his mouth beneath the tape, making him want to retch. More duct tape wrapped around his head, holding the gag in place.
"Get up. Walk."
The Glock pressed against his spine. Jake's legs shook as he stood, his wrists bound tight behind his back but his ankles free. They shoved him toward the door.
The command center door stood open—dark, equipment humming but no one there. Pops' room—door open, empty. The whole second floor was silent.
They moved fast, steering him toward the back staircase—the one that led directly to the kitchen's back door. Jake tried to slow down, tried to stumble and make noise, tried to slam into the walls, but the Glock dug harder into his back and the man's voice was flat and cold.
"Do that again and you're dead."
They forced him down the narrow stairs, step by step. Jake's heart hammered. The house was empty—completely empty. No voices. No movement. Everyone was gone.
At the bottom, the back kitchen door was propped open. Early morning light spilled through.
And there, on the floor by the door, was Billy.
His brother was kneeling, wrists bound behind his back, duct tape over his mouth, eyes wide with terror and rage. Two more masked men stood over him, one holding a Glock to the back of Billy's head.
Billy's eyes locked on Jake's. Even through the fear, Jake saw the question: What do we do?
Jake had no answer.
One of the kidnappers pulled out a white cloth and a small bottle. The chemical smell hit Jake's nose immediately—sharp, sickly sweet.
Chloroform.
"This'll keep you quiet for the ride," the man said.
The cloth pressed against Jake's face, covering his nose. He tried to hold his breath, tried to thrash, but his lungs were already screaming for air. He saw them forcing Billy down onto his side, pressing another cloth over his face, the same panic in his brother's eyes.
Jake's vision started to blur. The edges of the room went soft. His body felt heavy, distant.
The last thing he saw before everything went black was Billy's hand, fingers twitching, trying to reach toward him.
When the four masked men carried the brothers out through the back kitchen door, the ranch was busy but the house was empty.
Rebecca was already two hours into her shift at Kings County Hospital. Sarah was at the market in town, picking up supplies for the week. Pops and Tom were out at the fence line, inspecting the damage Big Red had caused the night before. Ray was in town at a meeting with the bank president, going over the consortium's quarterly numbers. Josh was over at the Beaumont Ranch coordinating the herd move.
Jr., Louisiana, and Celeb were still mucking out the horse barn, working through the morning chores.
No one was in the house to hear the back door open and close.
No one heard the truck engine start up in the back lot.
No one saw it speed away down the access road, kicking up dust.
By the time it disappeared over the hill, Jake and Billy Benson were gone.
The only thing left behind was a white cloth on the kitchen floor, reeking of chloroform.
Chapter 4: Discovery
Jr., Louisiana, and Celeb trudged across the yard toward the main house, boots caked with dust and horseshit. The August sun was already climbing, promising another brutal afternoon. They'd been mucking out the barn for the last two hours, and Jr.'s shirt was soaked through with sweat.
"I need a gallon of water," Louisiana muttered, pulling off his work gloves as they reached the back door.
"You and me both," Celeb said.
Jr. pushed open the back kitchen door and stepped inside, grateful for the shade and the promise of cold water from the fridge. Louisiana and Celeb followed right behind him.
Jr. stopped.
On the floor, just inside the door, was a white cloth.
He bent down, picked it up, brought it to his nose. The chemical smell hit him instantly—sharp, sickly sweet, unmistakable.
"What the hell?" Louisiana said, staring at the cloth.
Jr.'s stomach dropped. "Chloroform."
They looked at each other for half a second, then all three of them were running—through the kitchen, down the hall, up the stairs two at a time.
The frat house door was wide open.
Jr. burst through. His bunk—empty. Celeb's bunk—empty. Louisiana's mattress on the floor—pushed aside.
And Jake and Billy's bunk—empty.
"Jake! Billy!" Jr. shouted, spinning around. Nothing. No one.
He grabbed his radio from his belt. "Jake, Billy, you copy?"
Static.
"Jake! Billy! Come in!"
Nothing.
Jr. didn't hesitate. He pressed and held the 911 button on his radio.
The mechanical voice echoed through the encrypted network, broadcasting on every radio, every phone, every device connected to the consortium system:
"911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr."
Jr. keyed the mic, his voice tight and urgent. "This is Jr. at Benson Ranch. Something's wrong. Jake and Billy are gone. Found a chloroform rag by the back kitchen door. House is empty. They're not answering radio. Repeat—Jake and Billy are missing. Possible kidnapping."
The encrypted frequency exploded with voices.
"Jr., this is Pops! What the hell is going on? We're at the fence line—heading back now!"
"Tom here. We're with Pops. Five minutes out. Stay put, boy."
"This is Rebecca. I'm leaving the hospital now. Oh God, my brothers—"
"Sarah here. I'm in town—leaving now. Jr., are you safe?"
"Nelson Ranch responding. Wade here. I'm calling in Ryan and Wilson. We're on our way."
"Benson Ranch, this is Beaumont. We're ten minutes out. Repeat, ten minutes out."
"Renzo Ranch. Copy that. Mobilizing now."
"Mattern. We're coming."
"Rodriguez. En route."
Jr. clipped his radio back to his belt and looked at Louisiana and Celeb, both of their faces gone pale.
"We need to get armed," Jr. said. "Now."
All three of them moved to the lockbox mounted in the corner of the frat house. Jr. punched in the code and pulled out three Glocks—his own, plus Jake and Billy's. He tossed one to Celeb, one to Louisiana, kept one for himself. They'd all been shooting since they were kids. The weight of the weapon in his hand was familiar, grounding.
They grabbed their holsters from the hooks by the door and strapped them on. Standard procedure on the ranch—everyone carried when there was trouble.
Louisiana pulled out his satellite phone and started texting the other wiz kids—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez. Within seconds, all three responded: On our way.
Jr. checked his Glock's magazine, then holstered it. His hands were shaking. Jake and Billy—his uncles, his friends, the guys he'd grown up with in this very room—were gone. Taken.
He thought about the chloroform rag. The empty bunks. The silence.
How long have they been gone? An hour? Two?
The sound of engines roared up the driveway. Pops' truck skidded to a stop in the gravel, followed immediately by Tom's. Both men jumped out, Pops already yelling before his boots hit the ground.
"WHERE THE HELL ARE THEY?"
Jr. ran downstairs, Celeb and Louisiana right behind him, Glocks holstered at their hips. Pops stormed through the front door, Tom close behind. The old man's face was red, his jaw clenched, veins standing out on his neck.
"Show me," Pops growled.
Jr. led them to the back kitchen door. The chloroform rag was still on the floor where he'd dropped it. Pops bent down, picked it up, smelled it. His face went darker.
"Sons of bitches," he muttered. "They drugged them."
Tom was already on his phone, calling Ray. "Get back here now. Jake and Billy are gone."
The roar of a mule quad tore through the yard. Jr. looked out the window and saw Billy Renzo at the wheel, Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez hanging on. All three were armed—Glocks holstered at their hips. The quad skidded to a stop and the boys jumped off, running for the house.
"Upstairs!" Jr. shouted to them as they burst through the door. "Command center!"
More trucks pulled up outside—Wade's sheriff's vehicle, followed by his deputy sons Ryan and Wilson Nelson. Then the Beaumonts. Then the rest of the Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez families, all arriving within minutes of each other.
The Benson Ranch was transforming into a command center.
Jr., Louisiana, Celeb, and the three wiz kids pounded up the stairs to the command center. Jr. pulled up the surveillance feeds on the main monitor—twelve cameras covering different angles of the property.
"What are we looking for?" Billy Renzo asked, already at another terminal, fingers flying over the keyboard.
"Anything from this morning. Nine to nine-thirty," Jr. said.
Ryan Mattern brought up the drone control interface. "I'm launching Drone One and Two. We can start a grid search."
Daniel Rodriguez was reviewing the radio logs. "No transmissions from Jake or Billy since last night at 1:47am. That was Jake reporting they got Big Red back."
Jr. scrolled back to 9:30am on the main feed.
And there it was.
A black pickup truck, parked behind the house near the back kitchen door. Four masked men. Two of them carrying Jake's limp body—hands tied behind his back with rope, duct tape wrapped around his mouth and head, completely unconscious. Two more carrying Billy the same way—bound, gagged, knocked out cold.
"There," Jr. said, his voice tight. "Got them."
All four wiz kids leaned in, studying the footage. The image was crystal clear: the brothers' arms pulled back at unnatural angles, the silver gleam of duct tape covering their mouths, their heads lolling as the kidnappers manhandled them into the truck bed.
"They're tied up," Louisiana said quietly. "Rope and tape."
"And drugged," Celeb added, his voice hard. "Chloroform knocked them out."
"Sending this to all eighteen iPads now," Jr. said, already uploading the footage. "SOP."
Within seconds, the surveillance video was pushed out to every iPad in the consortium network—each family had at least two, plus extras in key vehicles and locations. It was their standard operating procedure in emergencies: get critical intel to everyone immediately.
"Zoom in on the plates," Billy Renzo said.
Jr. enhanced the image. The license plate was partially visible—Texas tags, but mud-covered, deliberate.
"Can you clean that up?" Daniel asked.
"Working on it," Jr. muttered, running the image through enhancement software.
The small command center was getting crowded. Wade Nelson pushed through the door, his sheriff's hat low over his eyes, his hand resting on his sidearm. Pops and Tom were right behind him. Then Josh came in, his face pale, followed by Ray who'd just arrived from town. Robert Beaumont squeezed in next, then the elder Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguez patriarchs.
The room, designed for maybe four people comfortably, now had fifteen bodies packed in, all staring at the monitors.
Wade's eyes went straight to the screen showing the kidnapping footage. "That them?"
"Yeah," Jr. said. "Four masked men. Black pickup. Took them out the back. They're bound and gagged—hands tied behind their backs with rope, duct tape over their mouths. Chloroformed."
Sarah pushed through the doorway, her face tear-streaked, Rebecca right behind her supporting her mother-in-law. "Show me," Sarah said, her voice breaking. "Show me my boys."
Jr. hesitated, but Tom nodded. Jr. played the footage again.
Sarah's hand went to her mouth as she watched Jake and Billy's limp, bound bodies being carried to the truck. The rope. The tape. The way their heads lolled, unconscious. Rebecca held her tight, tears streaming down her own face—those were her brothers-in-law, her sons' uncles.
"Oh God," Sarah whispered. "My babies."
"We're gonna get them back, Grandma," Jr. said quietly.
Pops put his arm around Sarah, his jaw working. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, on the image of his grandsons tied and gagged. "Damn right we are."
Wade studied the screen. "Can you track that truck?"
"We're trying," Ryan Mattern said from the drone station. "Drones are up. We've got thermal imaging and GPS tracking active."
"Got a partial on the plate," Billy Renzo said, pulling up the enhanced image on a secondary monitor. "Texas tags. Last three digits are 4-7-something. First three are obscured."
Wade pulled out his radio. "Wilson, Ryan, you getting this footage on your iPads?"
"Copy, Dad. We got it," Deputy Ryan Nelson's voice came back. "Running the partial plate now. Every black pickup in Kings County with plates ending in 4-7. Cross-referencing with priors."
Robert Beaumont leaned over Daniel Rodriguez's shoulder. "Can you pull up property maps? Abandoned buildings, foreclosed ranches within fifty miles?"
"On it," Daniel said, opening another window.
The command center was buzzing now—multiple conversations, keyboards clacking, drone feeds streaming, radio chatter crackling. The six consortium families working as one machine.
Pops moved closer to the main screen, staring at the frozen image of his grandsons—bound, gagged, helpless—being carried away. His hands clenched into fists.
"Find them," he said quietly, but everyone heard him. "I don't care what it takes. Find my boys."
"We will, Pops," Jr. said, his fingers never stopping on the keyboard.
The hunt had begun.
Chapter 5: The Ransom Demand
The encrypted satellite phone on the command center desk buzzed at 11:47am.
Unknown number.
Jr. looked at Wade, who nodded. Jr. put it on speaker.
"Benson Ranch," Jr. said carefully.
"You want your boys back?" The voice was digitally distorted, mechanical and cold. "Check your email. You've got twenty-four hours."
The line went dead.
Jr. was already pulling up the ranch's main email account on the monitor. One new message. No subject line. Sender: anonymous encrypted account.
He clicked it open.
Two photos loaded.
The command center went silent.
Jake and Billy sat bound to steel ladder-back chairs in what looked like an old barn or warehouse. Concrete floor. Corrugated metal walls. Harsh overhead light casting deep shadows.
Their arms were pulled behind the chair backs, wrists tied together with rope. More rope lashed their biceps tight to the vertical slats of the chairs. Their ankles were pulled back under the chairs and hogtied to their wrists, forcing their backs to arch and their bodies into painful positions.
Duct tape covered their mouths, wrapped multiple times around their heads. Their eyes were open—conscious now, awake, terrified.
Below the photos, a message:
$1,000,000 per brother. $2,000,000 total. Cash. Non-sequential bills.
You have 24 hours to deliver. Instructions will follow.
If you contact law enforcement beyond Sheriff Nelson, they die.
If you attempt a rescue before payment, they die.
If you do not pay, we will torture them to death and send you the video.
Your consortium has the money. We know you do.
The clock is ticking.
Sarah's knees buckled. Tom caught her before she hit the floor, lowering her into a chair. Rebecca was at her side immediately, checking her pulse, her training as a nurse kicking in even as tears streamed down her face.
"Breathe, Sarah. Breathe," Rebecca whispered, her voice shaking.
The other mothers crowded around—Caroline Beaumont, Maria Rodriguez, Linda Mattern, Elena Renzo—all of them pale, holding Sarah's hands, their own tears falling.
Pops stood frozen, staring at the screen. His face had gone from red to white. His hands trembled as they gripped his walking stick.
"Those sons of bitches," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Then louder: "THOSE SONS OF BITCHES!"
He slammed the walking stick against the wall so hard it cracked. Tom grabbed his father's shoulder.
"Pops. We're getting them back."
"Look at them!" Pops pointed at the screen with a shaking finger. "Look at what they did to my boys! Tied up like animals! They're hurting them!"
Wade stepped forward, his sheriff's training overriding his rage. "Everyone, listen to me. We're going to get Jake and Billy back alive. But we need to stay calm and work the problem."
Josh was staring at the photos, his face ashen. Those were his little brothers—the same boys he'd taught to ride, to shoot, to work cattle. Ray stood beside him, fists clenched, barely breathing.
Jr. forced himself to focus. "I'm saving these photos and running them through analysis. Background details, lighting angles, anything that might tell us where they are."
"Good," Wade said. "Billy, Ryan, Daniel—help him. Pull apart every pixel."
Billy Renzo was already zooming in on the background. "Metal walls. Could be a barn, storage facility, old industrial building."
"Look at the light," Daniel said, pointing. "Single overhead bulb. But there's natural light coming from the left—see the shadow angle? There's a window or door off-camera."
Ryan Mattern studied the concrete floor. "Stains. Oil maybe? Could be an old garage or equipment shed."
Louisiana leaned closer to the screen, his face tight. "They're awake. That means they woke up from the chloroform. How long does that take?"
"Couple hours," Rebecca said quietly, still holding Sarah's hand. "They've been conscious for a while now. Tied up like that... the pain..."
Her voice broke. Sarah squeezed her hand.
Robert Beaumont stepped forward. "Two million dollars. We can raise it. Between the six families, we can have it in twelve hours."
"No." Wade's voice was hard. "We don't negotiate with kidnappers. It never ends well."
"Those are my brothers on that screen!" Josh said, his voice rising. "You want us to just let them die?"
"I want us to find them and bring them home," Wade shot back. "Paying ransom doesn't guarantee their safety. Once these bastards have the money, what's to stop them from killing Jake and Billy anyway? Dead men can't identify them."
Pops turned on Wade, his eyes blazing. "So what the hell do you suggest, Sheriff? We sit here and do nothing while they torture my grandsons?"
"No. We find them. Fast." Wade looked at Jr. and the wiz kids. "You've got the best tech in the county. Use it. Drones, thermal imaging, traffic cameras, satellite tracking—everything. We've got twenty-four hours. Let's not waste a second."
Jr. nodded, his jaw set. "Already on it."
Tom pulled out his phone. "I'm calling an emergency consortium meeting. All six families, all hands on deck. We mobilize everyone."
Sarah stood up slowly, supported by Rebecca and Caroline. Her face was tear-streaked but her voice was steady.
"Bring my boys home," she said quietly. "Whatever it takes. Bring them home."
Pops looked at the screen one more time—at Jake and Billy bound and gagged in those chairs, eyes wide with fear and pain.
"We're coming for you, boys," he said softly. "Hold on. We're coming."
The command center erupted into coordinated chaos—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, radios crackling, the six families of the consortium converging into a single focused machine.
The clock was ticking.
Twenty-four hours to find them.
Twenty-four hours to bring them home alive.
Chapter 6: War Council
The command center was too crowded. Wade made the call to move downstairs to the dining room, where they could spread out. Within minutes, the long oak table was covered with laptops, iPads, radios, and maps.
The six consortium families gathered—Bensons, Nelsons, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguez. Pops sat at the head of the table, Tom on his right, Wade on his left. The other patriarchs lined the sides. Jr. and the wiz kids set up their tech station at the far end, monitors glowing.
Sarah sat with the other mothers in the living room, just beyond the doorway. They could hear everything, but they gave the men space to plan.
Wade stood, commanding the room. "Listen up. Here's what we know: Jake and Billy were taken at approximately 9:30 this morning. Four masked men, black pickup truck, Texas plates partially obscured. They drugged them with chloroform, bound and gagged them, and transported them to an unknown location. As of 11:47am, we received ransom photos showing them alive but restrained. The demand is two million dollars, twenty-four hour deadline."
He paused, looking around the table. "Here's what we're not going to do: pay that ransom. And we're not calling in state police, FBI, or any outside law enforcement."
Robert Beaumont leaned forward. "Wade, with all respect—why the hell not? We've got the money. We can have it by tonight."
"Because kidnappers don't keep their word," Wade said flatly. "You pay, they take the money, and then what? They still have two witnesses who can identify their voices, their builds, their methods. The safest play for them is to kill Jake and Billy and disappear. Paying guarantees nothing except we're two million poorer and my nephews are still dead."
Josh slammed his hand on the table. "So we just let them die?"
"No," Wade said, his voice cold and steady. "We find them. And we get them back."
Pops spoke up, his voice gravelly but controlled. "Wade's right. We handle this ourselves. Family only. No outsiders."
"But Dad," Tom said carefully, "if we don't involve the FBI or state police, we're on our own. That's a hell of a risk."
"It's a bigger risk to bring in outsiders," Pops said. "The ransom note said they'd kill the boys if we contacted law enforcement beyond Wade. I believe them. These bastards have been watching us. They knew when the house would be empty. They knew Jake and Billy would be alone. They know about the consortium, about our money. They've done their homework."
Wade nodded. "Which means someone local either talked, or these guys have been scouting us for weeks. Either way, the fewer people who know what we're doing, the better."
"What about your deputies?" Ray asked, looking at Wade. "Ryan and Wilson?"
"They're family," Wade said. "Rebecca's brothers. They're in. But they go off-duty as of now. Officially, they're taking personal time. Unofficially, they're working this case with us."
"So it's just us," said Marcus Renzo, the patriarch of the Renzo family. "Six families. However many men that takes."
Wade turned to Jr. and the wiz kids. "What have you got?"
Jr. looked up from his laptop. "We've got two drones in the air now. Launching the other four in the next ten minutes. That'll give us full coverage—thermal imaging, night vision, GPS tracking. All six drones will feed directly to the eighteen iPads."
"Show me," Wade said.
Billy Renzo tapped his iPad and held it up. The screen showed a split view—six quadrants, two active with aerial feeds, four waiting. "Once all six are up, everyone with an iPad will see the same feeds in real-time. We can coordinate search grids, mark points of interest, share intel instantly."
"How big an area can you cover?" Pops asked.
"Each drone has about a forty-mile range," Ryan Mattern said. "Flying them in overlapping patterns, we can cover roughly a hundred and twenty square miles in the first sweep. After that, we refine based on what we find."
Daniel Rodriguez pulled up a map on the main monitor. "I've been filtering properties that match the ransom photo—corrugated metal buildings, concrete floors, isolated locations. So far I've got sixty-three possibles within fifty miles. I'm narrowing it down to foreclosures, abandoned ag buildings, defunct industrial sites."
"Prioritize by access roads," Wade said. "They had to get a truck in and out without being seen. Look for properties with private access, away from main highways."
"On it," Daniel said, typing rapidly.
Louisiana was working another terminal. "I'm pulling traffic cam footage from every route out of the ranch. If we can track which direction that truck went after they left here, we can narrow the search radius."
"Good," Wade said. "How long?"
"Give me twenty minutes," Louisiana said.
Celeb was synchronizing the iPads, his fingers flying across the screen. "All eighteen iPads are on the network now. Everyone's synced. When the drones go live, you'll all see it."
Tom looked around the table. "So we wait for the drones to find something?"
"We wait for intel," Wade corrected. "The drones are our eyes. Once we get a hit—thermal signatures, the black pickup, anything that matches—then we move."
Pops leaned forward. "And when we find them? What's the plan?"
Wade met his eyes. "We plan the extraction. Fast, quiet, lethal if necessary. But we don't move until we know exactly where Jake and Billy are and how many hostiles we're dealing with."
"What if we don't find them in time?" Josh asked quietly.
Pops' jaw tightened. "We will."
Jr. called out from the tech station. "Drones Three and Four are up. Feeds coming online now."
The iPads around the table lit up, the split screens now showing four aerial views—rolling ranch land, access roads, scattered buildings in the distance.
"Drones Five and Six launching in five minutes," Ryan Mattern said.
Wade picked up one of the iPads, studying the feeds. "Spread the search pattern. Focus on the northwest and northeast quadrants first—those have the most abandoned properties."
"Copy that," Billy Renzo said.
The room settled into focused tension. Men watched their iPads. Keyboards clacked. Radio chatter crackled softly. The wiz kids coordinated the drones, adjusting flight paths, scanning thermal signatures.
Pops sat back in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests. His eyes never left the iPad in front of him.
"Hold on, boys," he muttered under his breath. "We're coming."
In the living room, Sarah sat with her hands folded, Rebecca beside her. They'd heard every word.
"They'll bring them home," Rebecca whispered.
Sarah nodded, tears streaming down her face. "They have to."
The hunt was on.
Chapter 7: Punishment
Jake's wrists burned. The rope had rubbed his skin raw hours ago, and now every small movement sent fresh waves of pain up his arms. His shoulders screamed from being pulled back at this angle, his spine ached from the forced arch created by the hogtie connecting his ankles to his wrists under the chair.
He couldn't see Billy. The chairs had been placed facing away from each other, maybe ten feet apart. But he could hear his brother's breathing—ragged, strained, fighting through the gag just like Jake was.
The duct tape covering his mouth was suffocating. The cloth gag underneath pressed against his tongue, making him want to retch. He forced himself to breathe slowly through his nose, fighting down the panic.
How long have we been here?
Hours. It felt like days.
The kidnappers had left them alone after taking the photos. Jake had heard the door slam, heard a vehicle start up and drive away. Maybe all four of them left. Maybe just some of them.
He didn't know. But the silence gave him a sliver of hope.
Jake tested the rope around his wrists again. Thick, tight, expertly tied. But rope could stretch. Rope could loosen. If he worked it long enough...
He started small. Twisting his wrists back and forth, feeling for any give in the knots. The pain was excruciating, but he gritted his teeth against the gag and kept going. Pull. Twist. Rotate. Pull again.
Minutes passed. Maybe ten, maybe twenty. His hands were slick with sweat—or blood, he couldn't tell. But he felt something. A fraction of movement. The tiniest bit of slack.
Behind him, he heard Billy making similar sounds—the creak of the chair, the strain of rope, labored breathing. His brother was working the ropes too.
Good. Keep going, Billy. Don't stop.
Jake focused on the hogtie connecting his ankles to his wrists. If he could loosen that, if he could get his feet flat on the floor, he'd have leverage. He twisted harder, ignoring the way the rope bit deeper into his skin.
The knot shifted. Just barely, but it shifted.
His heart pounded. Come on. Come on.
He pulled his wrists down and forward as hard as he could, trying to create space between them and his ankles. The chair creaked. The rope burned. His back screamed in protest.
But the knot loosened another fraction of an inch.
Almost. Almost.
Behind him, Billy's chair scraped against the concrete floor—just an inch or two, but audible. Jake froze, listening.
More scraping. Billy was trying to move his chair.
Jake started working faster. If they could just get loose before—
The door slammed open.
Heavy footsteps. Multiple sets. Angry voices.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Rough hands grabbed Jake's chair and slammed it forward, nearly tipping him over. He grunted through the gag, eyes watering from the sudden jolt.
A masked figure moved into his line of sight—same black ski mask from the morning, same cold eyes staring through the holes.
"You think you're clever?" the man growled. "Think you can get out of those ropes?"
Jake stared back at him, defiant.
The man looked at Jake's wrists, saw the raw, bloody skin where the rope had been moving. His eyes narrowed.
"Bad idea, kid."
The punch came without warning—a closed fist slamming into Jake's face, snapping his head to the side. Pain exploded across his cheek and nose. Blood poured down over the duct tape covering his mouth, hot and metallic. His vision went white for a second.
Another punch. This one to his jaw. Jake's head whipped back, his ears ringing.
"You stay put," the man snarled. "You don't move. You don't try shit. Understand?"
Jake's eyes watered. Blood ran from his nose, soaking into the duct tape. He could taste it seeping under the gag.
Behind him, he heard the same sounds—fists hitting flesh, Billy's muffled groan, the thud of knuckles connecting with bone.
"Same goes for you!" another voice shouted. "You try to escape again, we'll break your fingers. Got it?"
More punches. Jake heard Billy's chair scrape as his brother took the blows.
Then the hands were on Jake again—checking the ropes, yanking them tighter. The slack he'd worked so hard to create disappeared in seconds. The man pulled the hogtie knot tighter, forcing Jake's ankles even closer to his wrists, arching his back further.
"There," the man said. "Try getting out of that."
Jake's vision swam. His face throbbed. Blood dripped steadily from his nose onto his lap.
"Get the camera," one of the kidnappers said.
No. No.
A phone appeared in front of Jake's face. Flash. Another picture. Then the sound of the kidnappers moving behind him—another flash, capturing Billy.
"Send them to the family," the lead kidnapper said. "Let them see what happens when their boys don't cooperate."
The door slammed shut again. The lock clicked. Footsteps faded.
Silence.
Jake sat in the chair, blood running down his face, every muscle in his body screaming. He heard Billy's labored breathing across the room—harsh, pained, but alive.
They'd tried. They'd failed.
But they were still alive.
Hang on, Billy. Pops is coming. They're all coming.
He just had to stay alive long enough for them to get here.
Back at the Benson Ranch, Jr.'s phone buzzed at 1:52pm.
Another email. Same anonymous account.
He opened it with shaking hands.
Two new photos loaded.
Jake and Billy, still bound to the chairs. But now their faces were covered in blood—noses broken or bleeding, lips split, bruises already forming on their cheeks and jaws. Their eyes were still open, still conscious, but filled with pain and fear.
Below the photos, a message:
Your boys tried to escape. This is what happens when they don't cooperate.
23 hours left.
Pay up, or it gets worse.
Jr. stared at the screen, his stomach twisting.
"POPS!" he shouted. "WADE! GET UP HERE NOW!"
Within seconds, the command center was packed again. Everyone stared at the new photos in horror.
Sarah's scream echoed through the house when she saw her sons' battered faces.
Pops stood frozen, staring at the screen. His hands trembled. His face had gone white.
Then red.
Then a cold, deadly calm settled over him.
"Find them," he said quietly. "Find them now."
The hunt became an obsession.
Chapter 8: The Hunt Intensifies
The photos of Jake and Billy's bloodied faces changed everything.
Pops stood at the head of the dining room table, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge. His voice was low, controlled, but everyone in the room could hear the rage simmering beneath.
"Those bastards laid hands on my boys. Beat them. Made them bleed." He looked around the table at the assembled families. "We find them. Today. Now. I don't care what it takes."
Wade stepped forward. "Jr., what do we have? Any new intel from the drones?"
Jr. was back at the tech station, all six wiz kids surrounding him, fingers flying across keyboards. "All six drones are operational. We're running systematic grid searches—northwest, northeast, and north sectors based on the traffic cam data."
"Narrow it down," Wade said. "They're within fifty miles. They have to be."
Daniel Rodriguez pulled up the refined property list. "I've got it down to twenty-eight possibles. All foreclosed or abandoned, all with metal structures matching the photos, all with isolated access."
"That's still too many," Tom said. "We can't check twenty-eight locations before the deadline."
"We don't have to check them all," Billy Renzo said, zooming in on the map. "We can eliminate based on the timing. They grabbed Jake and Billy at 9:30am, sent the first ransom photos at 11:47am. That's two hours and seventeen minutes. They had to drive there, secure them to the chairs, take photos, and transmit. Figure at least thirty minutes for setup. That means they drove for maybe an hour and a half, max."
"So we're looking at a forty-five mile radius, accounting for back roads," Ryan Mattern added.
Louisiana was pulling up traffic camera footage on another screen. "The stolen pickup was last seen heading north on County Road 14 at 10:15am. After that, nothing. But County Road 14 splits three ways—"
"Focus there," Wade interrupted. "Every property within ten miles of that split. How many?"
Daniel recalculated. "Eleven."
"That's manageable," Josh said. "We can check eleven."
Jr. redirected the drones. "Drones Two, Four, and Five—converge on County Road 14 corridor. Thermal imaging active. I want every structure scanned."
The iPads around the table lit up with new feeds. Aerial views of ranch land, scattered buildings, dirt roads cutting through scrub brush.
"First property—old Weaver place," Billy Renzo said, watching the thermal feed. "No heat signatures. Structure's empty."
"Second property—Martinez equipment shed," Ryan Mattern reported. "Wait. I've got heat signatures. Two of them. Stationary."
Everyone leaned forward.
The drone descended, circling a small metal building at the end of a long access road. Corrugated walls. Concrete pad. A vehicle partially hidden behind the structure.
"Can you ID that vehicle?" Wade asked.
Jr. enhanced the image. "Dark pickup. Could be black. Can't see the plates from this angle."
"Two heat signatures," Pops said, his voice tight. "That's them. Has to be."
"Or it could be squatters," Wade cautioned. "We don't move until we're sure."
"How do we get sure?" Ray demanded. "Knock on the door and ask?"
Louisiana spoke up. "I can get the drone lower. Try to get a visual through any openings—vents, cracks, anything."
"Do it," Wade said.
The drone dropped altitude, moving slowly around the building. The feed showed metal walls with no windows. A single door on the south side—closed. But near the roofline, a ventilation gap.
Ryan Mattern adjusted the camera angle, zooming in on the gap.
For a moment, all they saw was shadow. Then—
A flash of silver. Duct tape. Wrapped around something—someone's head.
Jr. froze the image and enhanced it.
A face. Partially visible. Young. Male. Blood on his cheek.
Sarah gasped from the doorway. "That's Billy. That's my Billy."
Pops was already on his feet, strapping on his holster. "We go. Now."
Wade grabbed his arm. "We plan this. Five minutes. We go in smart or we don't go in at all."
"They're beating my grandsons!"
"And if we storm in blind, those kidnappers will put bullets in their heads before we get through the door," Wade shot back. "Five minutes, Pops. We plan the approach."
Pops' jaw worked, but he nodded.
Wade turned to the tech station. "Jr., how many heat signatures total in that building?"
"Two stationary—Jake and Billy. I'm scanning for others." He adjusted the thermal filters. "Wait. There's a third signature. Southeast corner. Not moving much, but it's there."
"One guard," Wade said. "Maybe more outside we can't see."
Deputy Wilson Nelson's voice came over the radio. "Dad, we're fifteen minutes from that location. Ryan and I can approach from the east, get eyes on the building."
"Negative," Wade said. "You spook them, they kill the boys. We all go together. Coordinated approach."
Tom spread a satellite map of the property on the table. "Single access road from the north. Building's about two hundred yards from the road. Open ground—no cover."
"We can't drive up," Josh said. "They'll hear us coming."
"We go on foot," Pops said. "Park half a mile out, approach through the brush."
Celeb spoke up. "What about the back of the building? If there's only one door on the south side, we could breach from the north while they're watching the road."
Wade considered it. "That could work. Split into two teams. Team One approaches from the north, quiet. Team Two holds position on the road as backup in case they try to run."
"Who goes in?" Tom asked.
"Me, Pops, Josh, Ray," Wade said. "Wilson and Ryan on Team Two with Robert Beaumont. The rest of you stay here on comms and drones. If this goes sideways, we need real-time intel."
Jr. looked up. "I'm keeping Drone Two overhead. You'll have eyes from above the whole time."
"Good," Wade said. He looked at Pops. "We do this quiet. Suppressed weapons. We get in, neutralize the hostiles, cut the boys loose, and get out. Fast and clean."
Pops checked his Glock, his face hard as stone. "And if they resist?"
"Then they don't walk out," Wade said simply.
Sarah stepped into the room, Rebecca supporting her. Her face was pale but her voice was steady. "Bring my boys home. Please."
Pops moved to her, cupped her face in his weathered hands. "I'm bringing them home, Sarah. I promise."
She nodded, tears streaming.
Wade grabbed his tactical vest and radio. "We roll in five. Everyone check your gear. Weapons hot, safeties on until we're in position. Jr., you keep that drone feed live. Any changes, any movement, you radio us immediately."
"Yes, sir," Jr. said.
The room erupted into motion—men grabbing gear, checking magazines, pulling on vests. The iPads stayed active, the drone feed showing the metal building where Jake and Billy were being held.
Pops strapped his knife to his belt alongside his Glock. His hands were steady now, his face calm. The Vietnam vet was back, ready for war.
"Let's go get my boys," he said quietly.
And they moved out.
Chapter 9: Second Escape Attempt
Jake had lost track of time. The pain from the beating had settled into a dull, constant throb across his face. His nose felt broken. His lip was split. Every breath through his nose was harder now, the blood crusted around the duct tape making it difficult to pull in air.
But the rage kept him focused.
They're not going to break us. They're not.
He heard Billy shift in his chair across the room—a deliberate movement, not just adjusting for pain. Then the scrape of wood on concrete.
Billy was moving his chair.
Jake's heart quickened. He tested his own chair. The legs weren't bolted down. He could rock it, shift it. Slowly, inch by inch, he began working his chair backward.
The sound of Billy's chair scraping again. Closer.
Jake kept going. Rock. Shift. Slide. His muscles screamed, his back arched at the painful angle from the hogtie, but he didn't stop.
Minutes passed. Maybe ten. Maybe fifteen.
Then he felt it—the back of Billy's chair bumping against his.
They were back-to-back.
Jake's bound hands, tied behind the chair, were now within reach of Billy's. He felt his brother's fingers immediately, searching, finding his.
And then Billy traced a letter on Jake's palm.
O
K
You okay?
Jake traced back: Y
U
Yeah. You?
Billy: Y
It was their game from when they were kids—tracing letters on each other's palms when they were supposed to be quiet in church, or when they didn't want anyone else to hear what they were saying. Even gagged and bound, they could still talk.
Billy traced again: W
O
R
K
K
N
O
T
S
Work the knots.
Jake traced: Y
Their fingers found the rope connecting Jake's ankles to his wrists—the hogtie knot. Billy's fingers worked from one side, Jake's from the other. It was awkward, painful, their hands slick with blood and sweat, but they didn't stop.
Billy traced: A
L
M
O
S
T
Jake felt it too. The knot was loosening. If they could just get their ankles free from their wrists, they'd have leverage. They could work on the wrist bindings next.
His fingers pulled at the rope, feeling it give another inch. Billy was doing the same on his own hogtie.
Jake's knot slipped. His ankles came free from his wrists.
The relief was immediate. His back could straighten. His legs could move. He wanted to shout, but the gag muffled everything.
Billy's chair shifted—he'd gotten his ankles free too.
Now for the wrists.
Billy traced: M
Y
W
R
I
S
T
S
Jake's fingers found Billy's wrist bindings, working the knots blind. It was harder—these were tied tighter, more deliberately. But rope was rope. It could be undone.
He felt the knot shift.
Then the door exploded open.
"WHAT THE HELL?!"
Hands grabbed Jake's chair and ripped it forward, away from Billy. Jake's head snapped back as the chair was thrown sideways, crashing to the concrete floor. Pain shot through his shoulder where he landed.
"You little shits!" the lead kidnapper roared. "You don't learn, do you?"
Jake tried to roll, tried to move, but his wrists were still bound behind him and his biceps were still lashed to the chair. He was helpless.
The kidnapper hauled him upright, slamming the chair back into position. Jake's vision swam.
Another masked man had Billy's chair, doing the same—checking the ropes, retying the hogtie even tighter than before.
"This time," the lead kidnapper said, his voice cold, "you're gonna learn what happens when you don't listen."
He pulled out a hunting knife.
Jake's eyes widened.
The blade pressed against Jake's bare chest, just below his collarbone. Then it sliced—shallow but deliberate. Jake grunted through the gag as blood welled up from the cut, running down his chest.
Another cut. This one across his ribs. Pain flared, hot and sharp.
"There," the man said. "Now you've got something to remember us by."
Jake heard Billy's muffled shout—rage and fear mixed together. The same deliberate cuts being made to his brother's bare chest.
"Get the camera," the lead kidnapper ordered.
No. Not again.
The phone appeared. Flash. Jake's bloodied chest on display—the cuts fresh and bleeding, his face still swollen and bruised from the earlier beating.
Another flash behind him—Billy getting the same treatment.
"Send these to the family," the man said. "Let them know their boys are running out of time."
Jake sat in the chair, chest heaving, blood running down his torso from the cuts. His face throbbed. His wrists burned. Every part of him hurt.
But he was still alive.
Then he heard it.
A low hum. Distant but distinct.
A drone.
The kidnappers heard it too. All four of them froze, looking up.
"What the hell is that?" one of them said.
The lead kidnapper moved to the door, cracked it open, looked up at the sky.
"Shit. It's a drone. They found us."
"How?!"
"Doesn't matter. We're out of here. NOW."
"What about them?" one of the others asked, gesturing at Jake and Billy.
"Leave them. We've got the photos, we've got the ransom demand out. Let the family sweat it. We'll regroup and contact them later."
"But—"
"I SAID NOW!" the lead kidnapper barked. "Move!"
The four masked men grabbed their gear and bolted for the door. Jake heard the truck engine start up outside, tires spinning in gravel, the vehicle tearing away down the access road.
And then—silence.
Just the hum of the drone overhead.
Jake's heart pounded. They were gone. The kidnappers were gone.
He and Billy were alone.
Still tied to the chairs. Still gagged. Still bleeding.
But alone.
Jake tested the ropes on his wrists again. Looser now—they'd been working them when the kidnappers interrupted. He pulled hard, twisting, ignoring the pain.
The rope stretched.
He pulled harder.
One hand slipped through.
Then the other.
His wrists were free.
Back at the Benson Ranch, Jr.'s phone buzzed at 2:34pm.
Another email. Same anonymous account.
Two new photos.
Jake and Billy, bare chests bleeding from fresh knife wounds. Their faces still battered. Duct tape still covering their mouths.
Below the photos:
Final warning. 22 hours left. Pay or they die.
Sarah collapsed when she saw the images. Rebecca caught her, lowering her to the floor, checking her pulse.
Pops stared at the screen. His face was a mask of pure fury.
"Drone Two just reported movement," Jr. said, his voice tight. "The truck's leaving the location. They're running."
Wade grabbed his radio. "All units, move in NOW. They're abandoning the site. Go, go, go!"
Pops was already out the door, Glock in hand, heading for his truck.
The rescue was on.
Chapter 10: Escape and Shootout
"They're leaving the boys behind," Jr. said, watching the thermal feed. "The kidnappers just peeled out. The two heat signatures are still in the building—they're not moving."
Wade was already in motion, grabbing his radio. "All units, the hostiles are mobile, heading south from the Martinez property. We intercept on County Road 14. Do NOT let them get away."
Pops was out the door, Tom and Josh right behind him. Ray grabbed his keys.
Jr. looked at the other wiz kids. "We're going. Bring the iPads. We coordinate from the field."
All six of them—Jr., Louisiana, Celeb, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—grabbed their gear and iPads, Glocks still holstered at their hips. They piled into Jr.'s truck and Celeb's, engines roaring to life.
The convoy tore down the driveway—Pops leading, Wade and his deputies next, then Tom, Josh, Ray, and the wiz kids bringing up the rear.
Rebecca's voice came over the radio from the ranch. "I've got all the drone feeds here. You boys stay safe. Bring them home."
"Copy that, Mom," Jr. said, his iPad mounted on the dash showing the aerial view. "Drone Two, stay on that truck. Drone Three, get overhead on the intercept point."
The black pickup appeared on the feed, tearing down the dirt access road, dust billowing behind it.
"They're going to hit the main road in two minutes," Billy Renzo said from the passenger seat, watching his iPad. "Wade and Pops are three minutes out."
"Deputies Ryan and Wilson are closer," Daniel added from the back seat of Celeb's truck, coordinating over the radio. "They can block the road."
"Do it," Wade's voice came back. "Block County Road 14 at the intersection. Don't let them through."
Inside the warehouse, Jake's hands were free.
He tore at the duct tape covering his mouth, ripping it away. The gag came out next, wet and disgusting. He gasped for air, his lungs burning.
"Billy!" he rasped, his voice hoarse.
He heard his brother's muffled response behind him.
Jake's fingers flew to the ropes binding his biceps to the chair slats. The kidnappers had tied them tight, but they'd been in a hurry. He found the knot, worked it frantically. His hands were shaking, slick with blood from the cuts on his chest, but he didn't stop.
The rope loosened. He pulled his arm free. Then the other.
He was loose from the chair.
Jake stumbled to his feet, legs weak from hours of being restrained. His ankles were still tied together. He bent down, fingers working the knot. Come on. Come on.
The rope came free.
He could move.
Jake spun around. Billy was still in his chair, wrists bound behind him, ankles hogtied, duct tape over his mouth, eyes wide and desperate.
"Hold on," Jake said, dropping to his knees behind Billy's chair. His fingers found the hogtie knot connecting Billy's ankles to his wrists. They'd been working this knot together—it was already loose. He pulled, twisted, yanked.
The rope came free. Billy's ankles dropped to the floor.
Now the wrists. Jake worked the knot, his hands shaking with adrenaline. The rope was tight, cutting into Billy's skin, but Jake found the loop and pulled.
One hand came free. Then the other.
Billy tore the duct tape from his mouth and ripped out the gag, gasping. "Jesus Christ."
Jake moved to the ropes binding Billy's biceps to the chair. "Almost there. Hold still."
The knots came loose. Billy pulled his arms free, stood up on shaky legs.
They were free.
Both brothers stood in the warehouse, bare-chested, bleeding, battered, but free.
"We gotta move," Jake said. "They could come back."
Billy nodded, grabbing Jake's shoulder for support. "Can you walk?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Yeah."
They stumbled toward the door, pushed it open. Sunlight hit them, blinding after hours in the dim warehouse. Jake squinted, looking around.
The drone hummed overhead.
And in the distance, the sound of engines. Shouting. Then—
Gunfire.
County Road 14 was chaos.
The black pickup had hit the intersection at full speed, only to find Deputy Wilson Nelson's patrol car blocking the road. The truck skidded, tried to swerve, but Deputy Ryan Nelson's vehicle boxed it in from the other side.
The kidnappers bailed out, all four of them, guns drawn.
That's when Pops, Wade, Tom, Josh, and Ray arrived, tires screaming. The wiz kids' trucks pulled up seconds later, the boys jumping out with their iPads still in hand, Glocks drawn.
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS!" Wade shouted, his Glock trained on the nearest masked man.
The kidnappers opened fire instead.
The consortium fired back.
It was over in seconds. Four against thirteen, and the consortium had the training, the position, and the fury. Pops put two rounds center mass in the lead kidnapper. Wade took down another. Tom and Josh dropped the third. Ray and Deputy Wilson got the fourth.
The kidnappers hit the ground, dead before the echoes faded.
Silence.
Pops stood over the bodies, his Glock still raised, his chest heaving. "Sons of bitches."
Wade keyed his radio. "Rebecca, hostiles are down. All four. We're secure."
"Copy that," Rebecca's voice came back from the ranch, tight with emotion. "The boys. Jr., check the drone feed. Are they—"
Jr. was already looking at his iPad. "The heat signatures. They're moving. Out of the building."
"What?" Pops spun around.
"They're walking," Billy Renzo said, staring at his screen in disbelief. "They freed themselves."
Everyone turned toward the dirt access road.
And there, in the distance, two figures stumbled into view.
Jake and Billy. Bare-chested, bloodied, limping, supporting each other, but walking.
"Oh my God," Tom whispered.
Jr. stared, his iPad forgotten in his hand. "They did it. They actually did it."
Louisiana let out a shaky laugh. "Those crazy bastards."
Pops broke into a run, his Glock still in his hand. Tom was right behind him, then Josh, then Ray.
The wiz kids ran too, all six of them sprinting down the road.
Jake and Billy saw them coming. Billy's legs gave out and Jake caught him, both of them sinking to their knees in the dirt.
Pops reached them first, dropping down beside them. "Boys. Oh, my boys."
He pulled them both into his arms, not caring about the blood, the cuts, the bruises. Just holding them.
Tom was there next, then Josh and Ray, all of them surrounding the brothers. Jr. and the wiz kids crowded in, Celeb's hand on Jake's shoulder, Louisiana gripping Billy's arm.
"You're alive," Jr. said, his voice cracking. "You're actually alive."
Jake looked up at him, exhausted, battered, but managing a weak smile. "Takes more than four assholes to kill a Benson."
Billy leaned against his brother, too tired to even speak.
Wade keyed his radio. "Rebecca, we've got them. They're alive. Beat up, but alive."
Rebecca's voice came through, shaking with tears. "Bring them home. I'm calling Dr. Peterson now. Bring my brothers home."
Pops helped Jake to his feet. Tom lifted Billy. The brothers leaned heavily on their family as they walked back toward the trucks.
The wiz kids walked alongside them, still in awe.
"You freed yourselves," Daniel said. "How?"
Billy managed a weak grin. "Rope's just rope. You work it long enough..."
Jake finished: "It comes loose."
They loaded the brothers into Pops' truck, wrapped blankets around them despite the heat. The convoy turned around, heading for home.
The kidnappers lay dead on County Road 14.
Jake and Billy Benson were going home.
Chapter 11: Homecoming
The convoy pulled into the Benson Ranch just after 4pm. Sarah was on the porch before the trucks even stopped, Rebecca right beside her.
Pops' truck barely rolled to a halt before Sarah yanked open the door. Jake and Billy, wrapped in blankets despite the heat, looked up at their mother with exhausted, bloodshot eyes.
"My babies," Sarah whispered, tears streaming down her face. She reached in, touching their faces gently, careful of the bruises and cuts. "My babies."
"We're okay, Mama," Billy said, his voice hoarse.
"We're home," Jake added.
Rebecca was already in full nurse mode, assessing them with clinical efficiency even as her own tears fell. "Inside. Both of you. Now."
The brothers stumbled out of the truck, still shirtless, still covered in blood and dirt. The wiz kids hovered close, ready to catch them if they fell. Pops and Tom flanked them as they made their way into the house.
Rebecca pointed to the dining room table. "Sit. Don't move."
Dr. Peterson's car pulled up the driveway—Rebecca had called him from the ranch while they were en route. The elderly doctor grabbed his bag and hurried inside.
"Good Lord," he muttered when he saw them. "Let's see what we're working with."
Rebecca had already laid out supplies—gauze, antiseptic, bandages, ice packs. She worked on Billy while Dr. Peterson examined Jake. Sarah hovered nearby, hands clasped, praying under her breath.
"Broken nose," Dr. Peterson said, gently probing Jake's face. Jake winced. "Not displaced, though. It'll heal on its own. Split lip, bruised jaw, possible mild concussion." He moved to Jake's chest, examining the knife cuts. "These are shallow. Clean them well, bandage them. They'll scar, but they'll heal."
Rebecca was doing the same for Billy, cleaning the cuts on his chest with antiseptic. Billy hissed through his teeth.
"Ouch!"
"Hold still," Rebecca said, not unkindly but firmly. "This is going to sting."
"You're not exactly gentle, you know that?" Billy muttered.
"Would you rather they get infected?" Rebecca dabbed more antiseptic on a particularly deep cut. Billy jerked.
"OW! Jesus, Becca—"
"Stop being a baby."
Jake snorted from the other side of the table, then winced when Dr. Peterson pressed too hard on his ribs.
"Ouch!"
"Bruised, not broken," Dr. Peterson said. "You boys are lucky."
"Don't feel lucky," Jake said.
Sarah brought over two glasses of water. "Drink. Both of you."
They drank, grateful. The cold water felt like heaven.
Twenty minutes later, both brothers were cleaned, bandaged, and given clean shirts to wear. Jake's nose was taped. Billy had butterfly bandages on his split lip. The cuts on their chests were covered with gauze and medical tape.
"Rest," Dr. Peterson said. "Lots of rest. Liquids. No heavy lifting for at least a week. And if either of you starts vomiting or feeling dizzy, you call me immediately. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," they both said.
Dr. Peterson packed up his bag and left. Sarah hugged him on the way out, thanking him profusely.
Inside, Pops surveyed his grandsons, now patched up and sitting at the table looking exhausted but alive. He nodded once, satisfied.
"Tom," he said. "Get the steaks out of the freezer. All of them."
Tom blinked. "All of them?"
"All of them. We're having a goddamn barbecue."
Within an hour, the backyard was alive with activity. The grill was fired up, loaded with steaks that had been speed-defrosted and were now sizzling. The consortium families had all stayed—no one wanted to leave. The Beaumonts brought potato salad. The Renzos brought beans. The Matterns had coleslaw. The Rodriguez family brought tortillas and salsa.
It was a celebration of leftovers and survival.
Jake and Billy sat in lawn chairs near the grill, still moving slowly but refusing to go inside. Louisiana and Celeb hovered nearby, making sure they had everything they needed. Jr. and the other wiz kids stood around them, still processing what they'd seen.
"You really freed yourselves," Ryan Mattern said, shaking his head. "I still can't believe it."
"Believe it," Jake said, taking a bite of steak. "We weren't gonna sit there and wait to die."
"How'd you do it?" Jr. asked.
Billy and Jake exchanged a look. Billy held up his hand, traced an invisible letter on his palm.
"Old game we used to play," Billy explained. "When we were kids. Trace letters on each other's palms when we couldn't talk out loud."
"Worked pretty well when you're gagged and tied to a chair," Jake added with a grim smile.
Celeb laughed. "You two are crazy."
"Crazy and alive," Billy said.
Pops appeared with a bottle in his hand—Jack Daniel's, the good stuff from his special reserve. He set it on the table with a thunk and started pouring shots into small glasses he'd brought out on a tray.
"Every man gets a shot," Pops announced. "Including you boys." He looked at Jr., Louisiana, Celeb, and the other wiz kids. "You earned it today."
He poured shots for all of them, then turned to Jake and Billy. He poured three fingers into each of their glasses—double what everyone else got.
"You two get extra," Pops said. "For what you went through."
Wade raised his glass. "To Jake and Billy. Tough as nails."
"To Jake and Billy," everyone echoed.
They drank. The whiskey burned going down, but it was a good burn. Jake coughed. Billy grinned.
"Pops, this is the good stuff," Billy said.
"Damn right it is," Pops said. "Today deserved the good stuff."
Tom raised his glass. "To family. All of us."
"To family!"
They ate and drank and talked as the sun started to set. Stories were told—how Jr. had coordinated the drones, how Wade had planned the intercept, how Pops had taken down the lead kidnapper without hesitation. The wiz kids recounted watching Jake and Billy walk out of that warehouse on the thermal feeds, free and alive.
Sarah sat with the other mothers, watching her sons laugh and joke despite their injuries. Rebecca sat beside her, holding her hand.
"They're home," Rebecca whispered.
"They're home," Sarah agreed.
By 9pm, the families had started to leave, heading back to their own ranches. Hugs were exchanged. Promises to check in tomorrow were made. The consortium had come together and won.
Jake and Billy stood to head inside, but Pops stopped them.
"Not yet," he said. "One more thing."
He gestured to Tom, Josh, Ray, Jr., Louisiana, and Celeb. "Everyone upstairs. Frat house."
They all climbed the stairs—Pops, Tom, and the boys. The frat house looked exactly as it had that morning, before everything went to hell. The bunk beds. The mattress on the floor. The beer stash hidden under the floorboards.
Pops looked at Jake and Billy. "You two. Show me where you hide it."
Jake grinned despite his split lip. He knelt by his bunk and pried up the loose floorboard. Underneath was their stash—cans of beer, carefully hidden from sight.
"I knew about that the whole time," Pops said with a smirk.
"No you didn't," Billy said.
"The hell I didn't. You think I don't know every inch of this house?" Pops reached down and grabbed a beer. "Tonight, we're drinking these."
He tossed cans to everyone—Tom, Josh, Ray, Jr., Louisiana, Celeb, Jake, Billy. Then he cracked his own open and took a long drink.
"To the frat house," Pops said. "Where it all started this morning. And where we're ending it tonight. Together."
They all drank. The beer was warm, but no one cared.
Jake leaned back against his bunk, exhausted but content. Billy sat beside him, their shoulders touching like they had a thousand times before.
"Hell of a day," Jake said.
"Hell of a day," Billy agreed.
Jr. looked at his uncles, then at Pops and his grandfather Tom. "We got you back. That's what matters."
"Damn right," Pops said. He raised his beer. "To this family. Toughest sons of bitches in Kings County."
"To family," they all said.
They drank in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the weight of the day finally settling over them.
Pops finished his beer and stood, stretching his back. He looked down at the loose floorboard, then at Jake and Billy with a knowing smile.
"You know," Pops said, "guess who's been loading up those beers every morning?"
Jake and Billy froze, their cans halfway to their mouths.
"What?" Billy said.
"Santa Claus," Pops said with a straight face. Then he grinned. "That's right, boys. You think Tom didn't tell me about your little stash? I've been keeping it stocked for six months."
Jake's jaw dropped. "You've been—"
"Every damn morning," Pops said. "Someone's gotta make sure you boys don't drink piss-warm Natty Light. You're Bensons. You drink better than that."
Jr. burst out laughing. Louisiana and Celeb joined in. Tom was shaking his head, grinning.
"I can't believe it," Billy said.
"Believe it," Pops said. He headed for the door, then paused and turned back. His face was serious again, but there was warmth in his eyes.
"Reveille is at 5:15am. Sharp." He looked directly at Jake and Billy. "And you two? No excuses. I don't care if you got kidnapped, beat up, and carved on. Those horses need feeding, and Big Red probably busted through another fence by now."
Jake and Billy stared at him, then slowly grinned.
"Yes, sir," they said in unison.
"Good." Pops nodded once. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's a work day."
He left, his boots heavy on the stairs. Tom followed, clapping both his sons on the shoulders as he passed.
The boys sat in the frat house, exhausted and battered but home. Jr. raised his beer.
"To 5:15am," he said with a grin.
"To 5:15am," they all echoed.
And in the frat house, where the nightmare had started that morning, the Benson family—bloodied, exhausted, but unbroken—drank warm beer and celebrated being alive.
Life on the ranch would go on.
