The Kidnapping of Billy Benson
Author's Note: The illustration in this story was my first attempt at AI-generated art using X Grok.
Chapter 1: Morning at the Frat House
The door to the frat house flew open with a bang that rattled the beer bottles hidden under the floorboards.
"Get your lazy asses out of bed!" Pops barked, his gravelly voice cutting through the morning stillness like a chainsaw. At seventy-six, the old Vietnam vet still had the lungs of a drill sergeant and the vocabulary to match.
Billy groaned from the bottom bunk, squinting against the sunlight streaming through the window. Above him, Jake didn't even stir.
"I said UP!" Pops slammed his palm against the doorframe. "You boys think this ranch runs itself? Jesus H. Christ on a cracker."
"We're up, we're up," Caleb mumbled from the other bottom bunk, his dark hair sticking up in every direction.
On the mattress wedged between the two bunk beds, Colt—Caleb's seventeen-year-old cousin—pulled a pillow over his head. "Five more minutes, Pops."
"Five more minutes, my ass. You got five seconds before I dump a bucket of water on the lot of you."
Billy Jr. swung down from the top bunk with practiced ease, his muscular sixteen-year-old frame already hardened from ranch work. "I'm up, Pops. Don't worry."
"At least one of you little shits has some sense." Pops stepped into the room, the smell of cigar smoke and black coffee following him like a cloud. "Your daddy wants Billy out checking the north fence line after breakfast. Stock's been getting through somewhere."
Jake finally cracked one eye open. "Why's it always Billy? I can check a damn fence."
"Because Josh said Billy, hothead. You got a problem, take it up with your brother."
Billy sat up, rubbing his face. "It's fine. I don't mind."
"Course you don't mind," Jake shot back, grinning now. "You're teacher's pet."
"Shut up, Jake."
"Boys, I swear to God—" Pops shook his head. "You two still bicker like you're five years old. Now get dressed and get downstairs. Your mother's got breakfast going, and if you let it get cold, she'll have my hide for not getting you down there on time."
"Yes, sir," came the chorus from all five boys.
Pops turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. "And Billy Jr.—your grandma wants those iPads and fancy-ass satellite phones out of the dining room. Command center's one thing, but she says it looks like NASA threw up in her house."
Jr. grinned. "I'll move 'em, Pops."
"Damn right you will." Pops disappeared down the hallway, still muttering. "Wiz kids. In my day, we had a rotary phone and a CB radio, and that was plenty..."
As his voice faded, Jake swung down from his bunk and punched Billy in the shoulder. "North fence line. You're gonna be out there all morning in this heat."
"Better than dealing with Ray's spreadsheets," Billy shot back.
"Fair point."
Caleb stretched, joints popping. "I'll come with you if Josh doesn't have me hauling feed."
"Appreciate it."
Within fifteen minutes, all five of them had pulled on jeans and boots. Jr. and his buddies—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—would be arriving soon to check the drone battery levels and review yesterday's surveillance footage. The command center never really slept.
Downstairs, the smell of bacon, eggs, and fresh biscuits filled the Benson ranch house. Sarah Benson moved efficiently around the kitchen while Rebecca—Josh's wife—poured coffee and orange juice.
Tom Benson sat at the head of the table, reading something on his tablet. His eldest son Josh stood nearby, gesturing at a map spread across the counter.
"Morning," Billy said, sliding into his usual seat.
Josh looked up. "Billy. After breakfast, I need you to ride out to the north fence line. Something's been pushing through—found tracks yesterday. Take your radio and check every post from the creek to the property line."
"Yes, sir. How far out?"
"About eight miles. Should take you most of the morning if you're thorough. Take water—supposed to hit a hundred today."
Jake dropped into the seat next to Billy. "Want company?"
Josh shook his head. "Need you helping Ray with the cattle inventory. We're three head short, and I want to know where they went."
Jake scowled but didn't argue.
Billy caught his brother's eye and smirked. "Spreadsheets."
"Shut up, Billy."
Pops cackled from his seat at the other end of the table, already working on his second cup of coffee—probably spiked with a little something extra. "You two are better than morning television."
Sarah set a platter of biscuits on the table. "Boys. Be nice."
"Yes, ma'am," they said in unison.
Breakfast passed in the usual chaos of a house full of ranchers—talking over each other, planning the day's work, ribbing and joking. Jr. and Colt debated which drone had the better thermal imaging. Ray complained about someone leaving a gate open. Jake stole bacon off Billy's plate when he wasn't looking.
Normal. Easy. Just another morning at the Benson Ranch.
By nine o'clock, Billy had loaded his truck with water, tools, and his radio. He waved to Jake as he pulled out of the driveway, headed north toward the fence line.
It was the last time anyone would see him for six hours.
Chapter 2: The Abduction
The Texas sun beat down mercilessly as Billy climbed out of his truck at the north fence line. By ten-thirty, the temperature had already climbed past ninety-five degrees, and the humidity made the air thick enough to chew.
He grabbed his water jug and tool belt, then paused. His shirt was already soaked through with sweat, clinging to his back. Out here, miles from anyone, there was no point in suffering.
Billy stripped off his shirt and tossed it onto the passenger seat, then clipped his radio to his belt and pocketed his phone. The breeze—what little there was—felt good against his bare skin.
He started walking the fence line, checking each post methodically. Most were solid. A few needed tightening. He made mental notes, occasionally marking problem spots with surveyor's tape from his belt.
The work was mindless, which Billy didn't mind. It gave him time to think. About Edna. About whether he wanted to stay on the ranch long-term or try something else. About Jake's endless ribbing this morning.
He was so lost in thought that he almost didn't hear the truck approaching from behind.
Almost.
Billy turned, squinting against the sun. A dusty pickup—not one he recognized—rolled to a stop about twenty yards away. Two men climbed out. Both wore bandanas pulled up over their noses and ball caps pulled low.
Something in Billy's gut twisted.
"Help you boys?" he called out, his hand drifting toward his radio.
"Yeah," one of them said, walking forward. "We're lost. Looking for the old Henderson place."
"Henderson place is about fifteen miles south," Billy said carefully. "You're way off course."
The men kept coming.
"Stop right there," Billy said, louder now. His fingers found the radio clip.
They didn't stop.
Billy grabbed for the radio, but the first man rushed him. They collided hard, and Billy swung, connecting solidly with the man's jaw. The guy stumbled back, cursing.
The second man tackled Billy from the side, driving him into the dirt. Billy fought—hard—twisting and throwing elbows. But the first man recovered and joined in, and suddenly Billy was pinned face-down in the dust, his arms wrenched behind his back.
"Hold still, boy, or this gets worse," one of them growled.
Rope bit into Billy's wrists as they bound his hands tightly behind him. He bucked and struggled, but a knee drove into his spine, forcing the air from his lungs.
"Easy money, they said," one muttered. "Kid fights like a damn bull."
A cloth was yanked over Billy's eyes, tied tight, plunging him into darkness. Rough hands hauled him to his feet and shoved him forward. He stumbled, disoriented.
"Move."
They marched him across the uneven ground. He heard a tailgate drop, then hands grabbed him and heaved him up into the truck bed. He landed hard on his shoulder, the breath knocked out of him again.
The tailgate slammed shut. The engine roared to life.
And Billy Benson, bound and blindfolded, disappeared into the Texas heat.
The drive felt endless. Billy lay on his side in the truck bed, bouncing and jolting over rough roads. His wrists ached where the rope bit in. Sweat poured down his face, soaking into the blindfold.
He tried to keep track of time, of turns, of anything that might help. But the heat and the adrenaline crash made it hard to think straight.
Finally, the truck slowed and stopped. The engine cut off.
"Get him out."
Hands grabbed Billy's arms and dragged him over the tailgate. His boots hit dirt. Someone cut the rope binding his wrists, and for a brief moment, he thought about fighting again—but a hard shove sent him stumbling forward.
"Inside. Move."
He was guided through a doorway. The air changed—cooler, mustier. A barn, maybe. Old wood and dust.
They pushed him into a smaller space. A room. The door slammed shut behind him, and he heard a lock click into place.
Billy yanked off the blindfold, blinking in the dim light filtering through cracks in the walls.
He was in a small, windowless room—maybe eight by ten feet. Bare wooden walls. Dirt floor. Ropes hanging on hooks along one wall.
And it was hot. Stifling.
Billy's chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. His mind raced. Where the hell was he? Who were those men? What did they want?
He moved to the door and tested it. Solid. Locked tight.
He paced the small space, sweat pouring off him, his thoughts spinning.
And then he waited.
Chapter 4: Discovery
By twelve-thirty, Sarah Benson was getting worried.
"He should've been back by now," she said, glancing at the clock for the third time in ten minutes. "Billy's never late for lunch."
Jake looked up from his plate, frowning. "He's probably just being thorough. You know Billy—he won't come back until every post is checked."
"He's not answering his phone," Josh said, lowering his own phone from his ear. "Goes straight to voicemail."
Tom Benson set down his coffee. "Try his radio."
Josh unclipped his radio from his belt. "Billy, this is Josh. Come in." He waited. Static. "Billy, do you copy?"
Nothing.
Jake was already standing. "Something's wrong."
"Let's not jump to conclusions," Tom started, but Jr. was already moving toward the stairs.
"I'll get the tracking system up," Jr. called over his shoulder. "His phone and radio both have GPS."
Five minutes later, Jake and Jr. were in Jake's truck, tearing down the dirt road toward the north fence line. Jr. had his tablet open, watching the GPS markers.
"Phone and radio are in the same spot," Jr. said. "Not moving. About six miles out."
"He wouldn't leave them behind," Jake said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Not both."
They drove in tense silence until Jr. pointed. "There. That's his truck."
Jake slammed on the brakes, and both of them were out before the dust settled.
Billy's truck sat alone on the access road, driver's door open. Jake ran to it, looking inside.
"Shirt's here on the seat," Jake called out. "Water jug's gone. Tool belt's gone."
Jr. was already scanning the ground. "Radio. Here." He held up Billy's radio, lying in the dirt twenty feet from the truck. "And his phone."
Jake's face went pale. "Billy wouldn't drop both. No way."
"Jake." Jr.'s voice was tight. He was crouching near the fence line, holding up a piece of cut rope. "There's more over here."
Jake ran over. Three short pieces of rope, cleanly cut, lay scattered in the dirt. And there were tracks—boots, multiple sets. Tire tracks from a vehicle that wasn't Billy's truck.
"Someone took him," Jr. said, his voice shaking slightly. Then his training kicked in. He grabbed his satellite phone. "We need to get everyone here. Now."
Jake was already pulling out his own phone, but Jr. stopped him. "No. Use the 911."
Jr. hit the emergency button on his phone. Immediately, a mechanical voice broadcast on all consortium frequencies: "911 Emergency. Billy Junior Benson. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior Benson. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior Benson."
Within seconds, responses started flooding in.
"This is Tom. What's your location?"
"Pops here. What the hell's going on?"
"Wade Nelson. Jr., report."
Jr. keyed his phone. "North fence line, six miles out. Billy's truck is here. Billy's gone. Found his radio, phone, and cut rope. Multiple boot prints and vehicle tracks. He's been taken."
There was a moment of stunned silence on the channel.
Then Sheriff Wade Nelson's voice cut through, all business. "Everyone stay off this channel except for critical updates. Jr., secure the scene. Don't touch anything else. I'm ten minutes out."
"Yes, sir."
Tom's voice came next, steady but tight. "Jake, Jr.—stay there. Everyone else, back to the Benson ranch. Command center. Now."
By the time Wade Nelson arrived with his deputies—his sons Wilson "Horse" and Ryan—the convoy was already forming. Pops, Tom, Josh, Ray, Caleb, and the Beaumonts were heading back to coordinate from the ranch. The other consortium families were mobilizing.
Wade examined the scene with a practiced eye, taking photos, marking evidence. "Professional," he muttered. "They knew what they were doing."
"How long?" Jake demanded.
"Based on the heat and the way things are sitting? Two, maybe three hours." Wade looked at Jake. "We'll find him."
Back at the Benson ranch, the command center was alive with activity.
Jr. burst through the door with Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez right behind him. Colt was already pulling up drone footage on the main screens.
"Show me surveillance from this morning," Jr. snapped. "North fence line area, nine to eleven AM."
The wiz kids moved like a machine, fingers flying across keyboards and tablets. Within minutes, they had it.
"There," Daniel said, pointing at one screen. "Ten forty-seven AM. Pickup truck approaching Billy's location."
They watched in grim silence as the scene unfolded on the drone's thermal imaging. Billy, a bright heat signature, checking the fence line. The truck arriving. Two figures getting out. The confrontation. Billy fighting. Being overwhelmed. Dragged to the truck.
"Get the license plate," Tom ordered.
"Already on it," Ryan Mattern said. "Zooming in... got it. Partial, at least."
Jr. was already working his tablet. "Running it through the database now."
Sarah Benson stood in the doorway, her hand over her mouth. Rebecca was beside her, pale but steady.
"Can you track the truck?" Josh asked.
"Working on it," Jr. said. "We've got six drones. We can cover a lot of ground, but they've got a two-hour head start, and we don't know which direction they went after they left the area."
Pops stood at the window, a cigar clenched between his teeth, his jaw tight. "Find my boy," he said quietly. "Whatever it takes."
The wiz kids nodded as one.
"We'll find him," Jr. said.
They had to.
Chapter 5: The Search
The command center hummed with tense energy. Jr. and his crew worked the technology like a well-oiled machine—coordinated, focused, relentless.
"Drone One, sweeping northwest quadrant," Billy Renzo reported, his eyes locked on his screen.
"Drone Two covering northeast," Ryan Mattern called out.
"Drone Three going due north," Daniel Rodriguez added.
Jr. stood at the center console, managing the search grid on the main display. Six drones, each covering a different sector, their flight paths overlapping to ensure no gaps. "Thermal imaging?"
"Clean so far," Colt said from his station. "No vehicle matches in the first sweep."
"Expand the radius," Tom ordered from behind them. He stood with Josh, Ray, and Pops, all of them watching the screens intently. The waiting was torture.
Jr. adjusted the parameters. "They had at least a two-hour head start. Could be twenty, thirty miles out by now. Maybe more."
"Keep looking," Josh said quietly.
Colt worked the traffic camera feeds from county roads. "I've got maybe a dozen pickups that match the general description, but none with that partial plate we got from the abduction footage."
"Cross-reference with direction of travel," Jr. said. "Eliminate anything heading the wrong way."
"On it."
The hours crawled by. The wiz kids rotated through tasks—monitoring drones, checking databases, pulling footage from every camera they could access legally or otherwise. Wade Nelson coordinated with neighboring counties, putting out a BOLO on the truck and suspects.
Sarah and Rebecca brought food and coffee that mostly went untouched. The ladies sat with their iPads, watching the same drone feeds, seeing the same empty results.
Nothing. Mile after mile of Texas countryside. Hundreds of properties. Thousands of places to hide someone.
By two-thirty in the afternoon, the frustration in the room was thick enough to cut.
"They could've switched vehicles," Ray said, voicing what everyone was thinking. "Could be in a different truck by now. Could be anywhere."
"We don't stop," Jr. said firmly, though his voice was tight with strain. "We keep searching until—"
Tom's phone rang.
The entire room went silent. Every head turned.
Tom looked at the screen. Unknown number.
He met Wade's eyes. The sheriff was already pulling out his recording equipment, moving quickly to Tom's side.
"Ready," Wade said quietly, starting the recording.
Tom answered, putting it on speaker. "Hello?"
"Tom Benson?" The voice was distorted, run through some kind of voice modulator. Mechanical. Inhuman.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"I've got something that belongs to you."
Tom's jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he gripped the phone. "Where is my son?"
"He's alive. For now. Check your messages."
A notification pinged. Tom's phone lit up with an incoming image.
Jr. immediately mirrored it to the main screen so everyone could see.
The image loaded.
Billy. Bound with rope—wrists, forearms, elbows pulled together behind him. More rope circled his bare torso, around his pectorals and stomach, forcing his arms deep into his spine. His legs were tied at the thighs, calves, and boots. He was hogtied, his legs pulled back and connected to his wrists. A knotted bandanna gagged him. Duct tape was wrapped around his eyes and mouth, blindfolding him and cementing the gag in place.
He lay on his side on a dirt floor, his skin covered in sweat and grime. Every muscle in his body looked tense, strained.
Sarah gasped from the doorway, her hand flying to her mouth. Rebecca wrapped an arm around her, tears already streaming down both their faces.
Jake stood frozen, staring at the screen. His hands slowly curled into fists, his whole body trembling with barely contained rage.
Pops' cigar fell from his lips. "Those sons of bitches," he whispered.
"Five hundred thousand dollars," the distorted voice said. "Cash. You've got twenty-four hours. I'll call back with instructions for the drop."
"Let me talk to him," Tom demanded. "I need to know he's—"
"He's alive. The photo's proof. But if you involve more cops than you already have, if I see drones anywhere near me, if you try anything clever—I'll cut him up and mail him back to you in pieces. Understand?"
"Don't you dare—"
"Twenty-four hours, Benson."
The line went dead.
For a moment, no one moved. No one breathed. The image of Billy—bound, gagged, helpless—stayed frozen on the screen.
Then Jake exploded. "We're gonna find these bastards and I'm gonna—" He punched the wall hard enough to leave a dent, then punched it again.
"Jake!" Josh grabbed his brother's arm before he could hit the wall a third time.
"I'll kill them," Jake said, his voice shaking with fury. "I swear to God, I'll kill them with my bare hands."
"We'll get him back," Tom said, his voice like iron. But his eyes never left the screen. Never left the image of his youngest son.
Wade was already working. "I got a ping location from the call. It's not exact—tower triangulation gives us a general area, not a specific address."
Jr. was at his console before Wade finished speaking. "Show me."
Wade sent the data. Jr. pulled it up on the map. A circle appeared on the screen, covering several square miles of rural territory northeast of the ranch.
"That's a lot of ground," Daniel said quietly.
"Then we cover it," Jr. said. "All of it. Systematically."
"They said no drones," Ryan Mattern pointed out.
Jr.'s expression hardened. "They said no drones near them. We go high altitude. Thermal imaging still works. They won't see us. Won't hear us."
"Do it," Tom ordered.
The wiz kids launched into action, redirecting drones toward the target area.
Miles away, in the stifling heat of the abandoned barn, Billy had no idea help was closing in.
He'd been working at the ropes for what felt like hours. His wrists were raw and bleeding now, the rope burns screaming with agony every time he moved. The ropes had cut through the outer layers of skin on his forearms where he'd been twisting and pulling.
His shoulders felt like they were being torn from their sockets. The way his elbows were bound together, his forearms pressed tight, his biceps pulled close—the position was unnatural, agonizing. Every muscle in his upper body burned and cramped.
The hogtie was the worst. It kept his back arched, his legs pulled up toward his wrists. He couldn't straighten out. Couldn't find any position that didn't hurt.
But he didn't stop trying.
Billy twisted his wrists again, ignoring the fresh blood that made the ropes slick. He strained against the binding around his elbows, trying desperately to create even a millimeter of slack. His muscles trembled with exhaustion.
Nothing gave. The knots held firm. Whoever tied him knew what they were doing.
Billy's chest heaved against the ropes circling his torso, making it even harder to breathe. Sweat poured off him in the stifling heat, mixing with the dirt caked on his skin. The gag made him want to retch. The duct tape pressed so tight against his eyes that every pulse of his heartbeat throbbed against it.
Terror churned in his gut, cold and sharp beneath the pain. What if they couldn't find him in time? What if the ransom wasn't paid? What if those men came back and made good on their threat?
He'd seen the knife. Felt it scraping across his chest and belly. The memory made him shudder.
No. Don't think about that. Focus.
Jake would be looking. Jr. would be tracking. His whole family—the whole consortium—would be searching. He just had to hold on. Had to stay alive.
Billy forced himself to keep working the ropes despite the agony, despite the exhaustion, despite the fear threatening to overwhelm him.
He pulled at his wrists. Twisted them. The rope bit deeper, cutting fresh lines into already raw flesh. Pain shot up his arms like fire.
He tried bending his fingers back to reach the knots. His shoulders screamed in protest, cramping viciously. He gasped against the gag, tears soaking into the duct tape blindfold.
Still the ropes held.
He tried using his bound legs for leverage, pushing against the dirt floor. The hogtie pulled tighter, yanking his arms further back. He cried out behind the gag, the sound muffled and desperate.
Nothing worked. He was trapped.
Billy finally stopped struggling, his body trembling and spent. He lay on his side in the darkness, chest heaving, every breath an effort through his nose with the gag filling his mouth.
Rope burns covered his wrists and forearms. His shoulders throbbed. His back ached from the unnatural arch of the hogtie. Sweat and blood and dirt covered his bare torso.
And he was terrified. Deep-in-his-gut, bone-deep terrified.
But he was still alive.
Hold on, he told himself. Just hold on. They're coming. They have to be coming.
Jake. Jr. Dad. Pops. Please.
Please find me.
Billy closed his eyes behind the blindfold and tried to breathe. Tried to conserve his strength.
And waited in the darkness for rescue or death—whichever came first.
Chapter 6: Closing In
The drones had been searching for two hours when Tom's phone buzzed again.
Everyone in the command center froze.
Another message. Another video file.
"Don't open it yet," Wade said, moving quickly to Tom's side with his recording equipment. "Let me get this on record first."
Tom waited, every muscle in his body tense, until Wade gave him the nod.
He tapped the file.
The video loaded—shaky footage shot on a phone. It showed Billy, still bound exactly as in the first photo. Wrists, forearms, and elbows tied together behind him. Ropes circling his bare, sweaty torso. Legs tied at thighs, calves, and boots. Hogtied. The knotted bandanna gag and duct tape blindfold still in place.
He lay on his side on the dirt floor, his chest heaving with labored breaths, his skin slick with sweat and streaked with grime.
Then one of the kidnappers stepped into frame.
He held a large hunting knife. The blade glinted in the dim light filtering through cracks in the walls.
"You've got eighteen hours left, Benson," came the distorted voice from off-camera. "In case you're thinking about being clever."
The man with the knife knelt beside Billy.
Billy flinched violently at the touch, his entire body going rigid.
The knife touched his chest. Slowly, deliberately, the man dragged the flat of the blade across Billy's sweaty skin—over his pectorals, down across his ribs, circling his stomach and belly.
Billy's breathing exploded into rapid, panicked gasps. His chest rose and fell frantically. Muffled sounds escaped from behind the gag—desperate, terrified pleas that couldn't form words through the bandanna and tape.
His whole body trembled uncontrollably.
The man angled the blade and scraped it slowly across Billy's chest. A few body hairs came away, falling onto his dirt-covered skin.
Not cutting. Not yet. But the message was crystal clear.
Billy thrashed suddenly, violently, trying to twist away even though the ropes held him completely immobile. His muffled cries became more frantic, more desperate. Pure terror radiated from every inch of his bound body.
"Eighteen hours," the voice repeated coldly. "Or we start cutting for real. And we'll send you back the pieces."
The video ended.
For a moment, no one in the command center could move. Could breathe.
Then Sarah collapsed into a chair, her hands over her face, sobbing.
Rebecca wrapped her arms around her, tears streaming down her own face.
Jake's face had gone white, then deep crimson with pure rage. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white and cracked. "I'm gonna kill them," he said, his voice shaking with barely controlled fury. "I swear to God, I'm gonna rip them apart with my bare hands."
"We got a ping location," Wade said, forcing himself to stay focused. He was working his equipment, pulling data. "Tower triangulation from the video call. It's not exact—gives us a general area, maybe three to five square miles."
Jr. was already at his console. "Show me."
Wade sent the coordinates. Jr. pulled them up on the main display. A large circle appeared on the map, covering rural territory about fifteen miles northeast of the ranch.
"That's a lot of ground," Daniel said quietly.
Colt pulled up satellite imagery. "Lots of old structures in that zone. Barns, silos, abandoned houses, storage sheds. Could be any of them."
"Then we search every single one," Tom said, his voice like steel. "Jr., pack up the portable command center. You and your crew are coming with us. We need you running those drones in real-time from the field."
"Yes, sir." Jr. and the wiz kids immediately began disconnecting equipment and packing it into ruggedized cases—the portable satellite uplink, laptops, tablets, drone controllers, extra batteries, everything they'd need to operate remotely.
"Five minutes!" Jr. called out.
"Everyone else, gear up," Josh ordered. "Weapons, water, radios. Full convoy. We move in five."
Sarah grabbed Tom's arm as he headed for the door. "Bring him home."
Tom met her eyes. "I will. I promise."
Rebecca hugged Josh tightly. "Be careful. All of you."
"We will," Josh said.
Within ten minutes, the convoy was rolling out of the Benson ranch. Fifteen trucks carrying Tom, Josh, Jake, Ray, Caleb, Colt, Pops, Robert and Caroline Beaumont, Wade Nelson and his deputies Horse and Ryan, and armed men from all six consortium families—the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes, and others.
Jr. and the wiz kids—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—rode in a modified pickup with the portable command center set up in the reinforced truck bed. Laptops, tablets, satellite equipment, and drone controllers all ran off heavy-duty battery packs and a compact generator.
Sarah and Rebecca watched the convoy disappear down the road, then turned back into the house. They settled in the command center with their iPads, pulling up the same feeds the wiz kids would be monitoring. They could see everything—every drone camera, every thermal scan, every piece of data.
They would wait. And watch. And pray.
"Command center is mobile and operational," Jr. reported over the encrypted convoy radio as they drove northeast. "All six drones repositioned to the search area. Bringing them to high altitude—thermal imaging still functional, but they won't be able to hear us from the ground."
"Roger that," Tom responded from the lead truck.
The convoy spread out across the rural area, moving methodically along back roads. Jr. and his crew coordinated from the mobile command center, their screens glowing in the truck bed as they worked.
"Beginning systematic thermal scans," Billy Renzo announced, his fingers flying across his tablet.
"Drone One—old barn, northwest quadrant. Clear," Ryan Mattern reported.
"Drone Two—metal silo. No heat signatures," Daniel called out.
"Drone Three—abandoned farmhouse. Clear," Colt added.
They kept searching. Structure after structure. Barn after barn. Nothing.
Back at the ranch, Sarah and Rebecca watched the same feeds on their iPads, seeing each empty building, each failed search. Sarah's hands trembled. Rebecca held her tight.
"They'll find him," Rebecca whispered. "They will."
Inside one of those structures—an old barn with a sagging red roof, half-collapsed on the north end—the kidnappers had been monitoring the news on their phones, confident they were far enough out to be safe.
Until one of them stepped outside to smoke and heard it.
A faint whirring sound. High overhead.
He looked up, squinting into the afternoon sun. There—a small dark shape, hovering.
A drone.
"SHIT!" He threw down his cigarette and bolted back inside. "We got drones! They're searching the area! They found us!"
His partner cursed viciously, grabbing his rifle. "How the hell—" He looked around frantically. "We gotta go. Right now!"
"What about the kid?"
The first man hesitated for only a second. "We can't take him. Can't let him talk either. Make it look like an accident."
They ran to the locked room and slammed the door open.
Billy lay on the dirt floor, exhausted and trembling from hours of struggling against the ropes. When the door burst open, he jerked, his body tensing with fresh terror.
One of the men knelt down and pulled out a knife. Billy's muffled cries became frantic behind the gag.
But the man only cut the rope connecting Billy's bound ankles to his wrists. The hogtie released.
For one desperate, hopeful moment, Billy thought they were freeing him.
Then new rope—rough and thick—looped around his neck.
Billy's eyes went wide behind the duct tape blindfold. He tried to scream, but only muffled sounds escaped through the gag. He thrashed as hard as he could, but rough hands grabbed him and hauled him upright. His arms were still bound tight behind his back, his legs still tied together at the thighs, calves, and boots.
They dragged him stumbling to the center of the room. Billy felt them throwing the other end of the rope upward—heard it scrape over a beam in the ceiling above.
Then they pulled.
The noose tightened around Billy's throat like a vice. They hauled him upward until his feet barely touched the ground—just his toes, forcing him to balance on tiptoe with his legs bound together.
Billy couldn't breathe. The pressure on his windpipe was crushing, strangling. He strained upward on his toes, desperate to relieve even a fraction of the pressure, but with his legs tied together he couldn't balance. Couldn't hold the position.
His leg muscles trembled violently.
The kidnappers tied off the rope to a thick support post, pulling it tight.
"Twenty minutes, maybe," one of them said coldly. "His legs'll give out. He'll strangle slow. They'll find a body, not a witness."
"Let's go!"
They grabbed their bags and ran.
Billy hung there, stretched on his toes, the noose crushing his throat. He couldn't get air. Couldn't breathe. Black spots exploded behind the duct tape covering his eyes.
His bound legs shook uncontrollably, burning with the effort of holding him up. But he was already weakening. Every second, his muscles gave out a little more.
Every time he dropped even a millimeter, the noose choked him harder.
Outside, the truck engine roared to life. Tires spun, kicking up dirt and gravel as the kidnappers fled.
Billy was alone. Dying slowly. His consciousness starting to fade.
"Got movement!" Daniel's voice crackled urgently over the convoy radio. "Pickup truck, moving at high speed south on County Road 47!"
"That's them!" Wade barked. "All units, converge and intercept! Go, go, go!"
The convoy split into coordinated groups. Jr. tracked the fleeing truck on his screens, feeding real-time coordinates.
"They're turning east on Miller Road," Jr. called out. "Convoy Two, you can cut them off at the crossroads!"
Tom's truck roared forward, Jake gripping the dashboard, his face murderous.
Within three minutes, the kidnappers' truck was boxed in on a narrow dirt road with vehicles blocking every escape route.
The two men bailed out and tried to run, but Wade's deputies were on them instantly. Horse and Ryan Nelson tackled them hard to the ground, slamming them face-first into the dirt. They zip-tied both men's wrists behind their backs with brutal efficiency.
Tom was out of his truck before it stopped moving, striding toward the kidnappers with cold fury in his eyes.
"Where is he?" Tom's voice was like thunder. "WHERE IS MY SON?"
The men said nothing. One of them actually smirked.
"WHERE IS BILLY?" Tom roared.
Silence. Defiant, arrogant silence.
Wade looked at Tom. Then at Jake. An unspoken understanding passed between them.
"Jake," Wade said quietly, his voice flat. "Take these two somewhere private. Find out where Billy is. We don't have time to wait."
Jake's expression went stone cold. His eyes were ice. "Yes, sir."
Wade turned to his deputies. "Horse. Ryan. You didn't see anything. Nobody here saw anything. Is that clear?"
Both deputies nodded and turned away, walking back to the trucks.
Jake grabbed the first kidnapper by his collar and hauled him to his feet, dragging him behind the line of trucks and out of sight into a clearing. Tom, Josh, and Ray followed without a word, their faces grim and set.
Caleb started to follow, but Pops caught his arm firmly. "Stay here, son."
Pops lit a cigar slowly, his weathered face carved from stone. He'd seen interrogations in Vietnam. He knew what was about to happen. "Do what needs doing, Jake," he muttered quietly.
Jr. and the wiz kids stayed by the mobile command center, still monitoring the drones, scanning for any sign of Billy. Back at the ranch, Sarah and Rebecca watched the drone feeds on their iPads, not knowing what was happening just out of view.
Then the screaming started.
Raw. Agonized. Echoing across the empty fields.
It went on and on. Stopping briefly. Then starting again. The sound of fists hitting flesh. Something cracking—bone breaking. More screaming.
Jr.'s jaw was tight, but he kept his eyes on his screens, kept working.
"He deserves every second of it," Billy Renzo said quietly. "For what they did to Billy."
The others nodded in silent agreement.
The screaming shifted to the second kidnapper. More impacts. More agony. More breaking.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, it stopped.
Jake emerged from behind the trucks several minutes later.
His knuckles were split open and bleeding. His shirt was spattered with red. There was blood on his jeans. His face was carved from granite, eyes still blazing with cold fury—but his voice was steady and clear.
"Old Morrison barn," Jake said. "Three miles east off Route 9. Dirt access road on the left side. Red roof, half-collapsed on the north end."
Wade didn't ask what Jake had done. Nobody did.
"Move out!" Wade ordered. "NOW!"
Tom gripped Jake's shoulder briefly. "Good work."
The convoy roared back to life, engines screaming as they tore east toward Route 9.
Jr. was already redirecting drones. "Sending Drone Two to the coordinates now. Stand by for visual confirmation."
The seconds felt like hours as the trucks raced down the road.
"Got it!" Daniel suddenly shouted. "Abandoned barn, red roof, matches the description perfectly! One heat signature inside—stationary, elevated position near center of the structure!"
Tom's blood went ice cold. "Elevated? What does that mean?"
Jr.'s voice cracked with panic. "He's... he's hanging. Oh God, they hung him up!"
"DRIVE!" Tom roared. "DRIVE!"
The trucks flew down Route 9, then skidded onto the dirt access road, sending up massive clouds of dust.
Inside the barn, Billy's legs had finally given out completely. He hung by his neck now, his toes barely scraping the ground, unable to hold himself up anymore.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Everything had gone dark and distant and cold.
His body had stopped fighting.
He thought—maybe—he heard engines. Far away. Or maybe he was imagining it. Maybe he was already dead.
Jake... Jr.... Dad... Pops...
The thought drifted away into nothing.
The convoy roared up to the barn in a storm of dust and squealing brakes.
Truck doors flew open.
"GO! GO! GO!" Wade shouted.
Tom, Jake, Josh, Ray, Pops, and a dozen armed men hit the barn at a dead run.
Chapter 7: The Rescue
The barn door exploded inward as Tom kicked it with everything he had.
"BILLY!"
They poured into the dark interior—Tom, Jake, Josh, Ray, Pops, Wade, and half a dozen others, weapons drawn, flashlights cutting through the dim light.
"Help!" The voice was hoarse, strangled, desperate. "Help me!"
"There!" Jake shouted, pointing.
In the center of the main room, a smaller door hung open. Beyond it, they could see a figure suspended in the air.
Billy.
"Oh God," Tom breathed.
They ran.
Billy hung stretched on his toes, the rope around his neck pulled tight to an overhead beam. His legs—still bound together—trembled violently as they struggled to hold him up. The gag was hanging loose around his neck—he'd managed to work it free with his tongue. The duct tape blindfold was still wrapped around his eyes.
"Help!" Billy's voice was raw, barely more than a rasp. "Please! I can't—I can't hold on!"
His legs were giving out, shaking uncontrollably.
"CUT HIM DOWN!" Jake roared.
Josh was already there, pulling out his knife. He slashed at the rope tied to the support post. The tension released instantly.
Billy dropped. Tom and Jake caught him before he hit the ground, lowering him carefully.
"We got you," Tom said, his voice thick with emotion. "We got you, son."
Billy was coughing and gasping, his chest heaving as he tried to pull in air. His whole body shook.
"Get that rope off his neck!" Wade ordered.
Tom's fingers worked frantically at the noose, loosening it, pulling it over Billy's head. The rope came away, revealing an angry red mark circling Billy's throat.
Jake peeled the duct tape away from Billy's eyes. Billy blinked in the sudden light, tears streaming down his face, his vision blurred.
"Jake?" Billy's voice cracked.
"Yeah, little brother. I'm here. We're all here." Jake's voice was thick with emotion, his own eyes wet.
Billy tried to move his arms and winced. They were still bound tight behind his back—wrists, forearms, elbows, all tied together. Ropes still circled his torso. His legs were still tied.
"Let's get these ropes off him," Josh said, already cutting.
They worked quickly but carefully, cutting away rope after rope. The bindings around his torso. His legs. His arms.
When the ropes finally fell away, Billy groaned in agony. His shoulders screamed as his arms came forward for the first time in hours. His wrists and forearms were raw and bleeding, covered in deep rope burns. His chest and back were marked with angry red welts where the ropes had cut into his skin.
"Jesus," Pops muttered, seeing the damage.
Billy tried to sit up, and this time Tom helped him. Billy sat there for a moment, arms wrapped around himself, shaking and coughing.
"You're okay," Tom said, his hand on Billy's shoulder. "You're safe now."
"Thought I was gonna die," Billy rasped, his voice breaking. "My legs... couldn't hold on much longer."
"But you did hold on," Jake said fiercely. "You held on long enough. That's all that matters."
"We need to get you to a hospital," Wade said, examining the rope burns on Billy's wrists.
"No," Billy said hoarsely. "No hospital. Home. I want to go home."
"Billy, you need—"
"Home," Billy insisted, looking at his father with desperate eyes. "Please, Dad."
Tom looked at Wade, then at Josh and Jake. Finally, he nodded. "Okay. We'll take you home. But Rebecca's checking you over the minute we get there."
"Okay," Billy whispered.
Jake and Josh helped Billy to his feet. He swayed, his legs barely holding him after being bound for so long. His whole body shook with exhaustion and shock.
"I got you," Jake said, wrapping an arm around Billy's shoulders.
Tom took Billy's other side. Together, they walked him out of the barn and into the bright Texas afternoon.
The convoy was waiting. Jr. and the wiz kids were still at the mobile command center, but when they saw Billy—alive, walking on his own, supported by his family—relief flooded their faces.
"He's alive!" Jr. called into his radio, his voice cracking with emotion. "We got him! He's alive!"
Back at the ranch, Sarah and Rebecca had been watching the drone feed on their iPads. They'd seen the convoy arrive at the barn, seen the men rush inside, seen them emerge minutes later with Billy walking between them.
Sarah collapsed into Rebecca's arms, sobbing with relief.
"Thank God," Rebecca whispered. "Thank God."
The convoy made it back to the Benson ranch in record time.
Sarah and Rebecca were waiting outside. When Tom's truck pulled up and Billy climbed out—pale, shaking, covered in rope burns and dirt, but alive and on his feet—Sarah ran to him.
"Billy. Oh, my baby." She wrapped her arms around him carefully, mindful of his injuries.
"I'm okay, Mom," Billy said hoarsely. "I'm okay now."
"Let's get you inside," Rebecca said, her nurse training kicking in. "I need to look at those wounds."
They got Billy into the house and into the kitchen. Rebecca had already laid out medical supplies. She worked efficiently, cleaning the rope burns on Billy's wrists and forearms with antiseptic. Billy hissed at the sting but didn't pull away.
"These are deep," Rebecca said gently, applying antibiotic ointment and wrapping them in gauze. "You've got some serious abrasions here. If they don't start healing in a couple days, we're going to the hospital whether you like it or not."
"Yes, ma'am," Billy said.
She checked his throat, felt the bruising gently. Billy winced. "You're lucky. The rope didn't crush your windpipe, but it came close. You're going to be sore for days. And your voice is going to be rough."
"I can live with that," Billy whispered.
Rebecca moved to his shoulders and back, checking the rope marks there. "You're going to be bruised all over. Ice, rest, and pain medication. That's doctor's orders."
Billy managed a weak smile. "Yes, ma'am."
When Rebecca was done, Sarah brought Billy a glass of water and some food. He drank carefully, his throat still raw, and ate slowly.
The rest of the family gathered in the living room—Tom, Josh, Ray, Jake, Caleb, Colt, Pops, Jr., and the wiz kids. They were exhausted but overwhelmingly relieved.
Wade Nelson stopped by briefly to take Billy's statement. Billy told him everything in his hoarse voice—the abduction, the barn, the threats, the knife, the hanging. Wade recorded it all.
"They're going away for a long time," Wade assured them. "Kidnapping, attempted murder, extortion. They'll die in prison."
After Wade left, Tom sat down next to Billy. "You sure you're okay?"
Billy nodded, though his hands still trembled slightly. "I'm sure. Just... really tired."
"Then rest," Tom said. "We'll be right here."
Jr. pulled up the drone footage on one of the tablets and showed Sarah and Rebecca the full rescue—the convoy arriving, the men rushing in, cutting Billy down, bringing him out.
Sarah watched with tears streaming down her face, holding Billy's hand the whole time.
"You found him," she whispered. "You brought him home."
"Always will," Tom said.
By evening, word had spread through the consortium. People started arriving—bringing food, offering support, wanting to see Billy with their own eyes.
"We're having a barbecue," Pops announced, puffing on his cigar. "Proper celebration. Billy's home safe. That deserves a damn good party."
Sarah smiled through her tears. "A barbecue it is."
The ranch came alive with activity. Grills were fired up. Food was prepared. Music started playing. The whole consortium showed up to celebrate.
And Billy—exhausted, battered, bandaged, but alive—sat on the porch with Jake by his side, watching his family celebrate.
"Thanks," Billy said quietly to his brother, his voice still rough.
"For what?" Jake asked.
"For finding me. For not giving up. For..." Billy's voice broke. "For saving my life."
Jake looked at him, his eyes serious and wet. "I would tear this whole state apart to find you. You're my brother. My twin. I'd never give up on you. Never."
Billy nodded, too emotional to speak. He leaned against Jake's shoulder, and Jake wrapped an arm around him.
The celebration continued into the night.
Chapter 8: The Frat House
By midnight, most of the guests had gone home. The barbecue had been a success—good food, good company, and most importantly, Billy was safe.
Jr. looked at his buddies—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. "You guys staying over?"
"Hell yeah," Billy Renzo said. "After a day like today? We're not going anywhere."
"Frat house?" Daniel grinned.
"Frat house," Jr. confirmed.
Billy, Jake, Caleb, and Colt were already heading upstairs. The wiz kids followed, the whole crew filing into the room that had started this entire ordeal just that morning—though it felt like a lifetime ago.
They'd barely settled in when heavy footsteps came down the hall. The door swung open.
Pops stood there, a box of cigars under one arm and a bottle of Jack Daniels in his other hand. His weathered face creased into a grin.
"Figured you boys could use some proper celebration," Pops said, stepping inside. "After the day we've had."
"Pops, you're the best," Jr. said.
Tom appeared in the doorway behind Pops, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed and a small smile on his face.
"Now, your mothers and Rebecca don't need to know about this," Pops said, setting the bottle down on the makeshift table between the bunks. "What happens in the frat house stays in the frat house. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," came the chorus.
Caleb was already on his knees, prying up the loose floorboard. He pulled out the hidden stash of beers, cold from being stored against the cool ground beneath. "Who wants one?"
"Pass 'em around," Jake said.
Billy Renzo grabbed two, tossing one to Ryan Mattern. Daniel Rodriguez caught one mid-air. Jr. took one and handed another to Colt.
Pops opened the Jack Daniels and took a pull straight from the bottle, then passed it to Jake. "You earned this today, boy. What you did to get that information—" He shook his head. "Your old Pops is proud."
Jake took a drink, the whiskey burning down his throat, then passed the bottle to Josh, who'd appeared in the doorway next to Tom.
The bottle made its way around. When it got to Billy, he hesitated, looking at his bandaged wrists, then at the bottle.
"Go on," Tom said from the doorway, his eyes warm. "You've earned it more than anyone."
Billy took the bottle and raised it. "To family," he said, his voice still rough and raspy.
"To family," they all echoed.
Billy took a shot, grimacing as the whiskey burned his raw throat. Then another. The warmth spread through his chest, loosening the tension that had been coiled there for hours.
He passed the bottle to Caleb, who took his turn.
Tom caught Billy's eye and smiled. A small, knowing smile that said I won't tell if you won't.
Billy smiled back.
Pops lit one of his cigars, the rich smell filling the room. "Damn fine day," he muttered. "Could've gone a hell of a lot worse, but we got our boy back. That's what matters."
"Couldn't have done it without the tech," Tom said, nodding toward Jr. and the wiz kids. "You boys and those drones—that's what found him."
"Teamwork," Jr. said, raising his beer. "The whole consortium working together."
"Damn right," Pops said.
The bottle continued making rounds. The beers flowed. Pops' cigar smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.
"So Billy," Ryan Mattern said with a grin. "When you gonna check that north fence line again?"
Billy shot him a look. "Shut up, Mattern."
Everyone laughed.
"Too soon?" Ryan asked innocently.
"Way too soon," Billy said, but he was smiling.
"At least you got a good story out of it," Daniel added. "The day Billy Benson got kidnapped and the whole consortium went to war."
"More like the day Jake went to war on those kidnappers," Caleb said. "I heard the screaming from where we were standing."
Jake took another pull from the bottle. "They deserved every second."
"Damn right they did," Pops agreed.
Tom finally stepped fully into the room. "You boys did good today. All of you. Jr., your tech work was flawless. Jake, you got the information we needed. Everyone worked together." He looked at Billy. "And you held on long enough for us to find you. That took guts."
"Didn't feel like guts," Billy said quietly. "Felt like being scared out of my mind."
"Being brave doesn't mean you're not scared," Tom said. "It means you keep going even when you are."
Billy nodded, his throat tight with emotion.
Jake punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Besides, you're too stubborn to die. I know. I've been trying to get rid of you for twenty-one years."
"Shut up, Jake," Billy said, but he was grinning.
"Make me."
"Boys," Tom said, but he was smiling too.
The bottle made another round. Pops told a story about Vietnam that had everyone laughing. Jr. and his buddies started debating which drone had performed best during the search. Caleb and Colt argued about whether thermal imaging or night vision was more useful.
Billy sat on the bottom bunk, Jake next to him, and just listened. Let the voices and laughter wash over him. Let himself feel safe again.
He was home. His family had found him. He was alive.
That was enough.
"Another round?" Caleb asked, pulling more beers from the floorboard.
"Hell yes," Jake said.
The Jack Daniels bottle made another lap. Pops' cigar burned down to a stub, and he lit another. Tom leaned against the wall, watching his sons and the boys who'd become like family, a contented look on his face.
"To Billy," Jr. said, raising his beer. "Welcome home, uncle"
"To Billy!" everyone chorused, raising bottles and the whiskey.
Billy raised his beer, his bandaged wrists reminding him of how close he'd come to never seeing this moment. "Thanks, guys. For everything."
"Anytime, little brother," Jake said. "Anytime."
The night stretched on—stories, laughter, the warmth of family and brotherhood filling the frat house.
And for the first time in six hours, Billy Benson felt truly, completely safe.
THE END
