Chapter 1: Morning at the Benson Ranch
The frat house door banged open at 5:47 AM.
"Rise and shine, you lazy sons of bitches!"
Pops stood in the doorway, seventy-six years old and meaner than a rattlesnake before breakfast. He had a lit cigar clamped between his teeth and a cup of black coffee in one gnarled hand. The smell of tobacco and Old Spice aftershave preceded him into the room like an advancing army.
"Up! Now! Daylight's burning and we got cattle that give more of a damn about this ranch than you shitheads!"
From the top bunk nearest the window, Billy groaned and threw an arm over his eyes. "Pops, the sun ain't even up yet."
"Sun's up when I say it's up, boy. Now move your ass."
Jake, on the bottom bunk below Billy, was already sitting up and pulling on his jeans. He was grinning—he was always grinning in the morning, which pissed Billy off to no end. "You heard the man, little brother. Ass. Moving. Now."
"I'm older than you by eleven months, jackass."
"And yet somehow dumber. Get up."
On the opposite bunk, Celeb swung his legs down from the top with practiced ease, his Louisiana drawl thick with sleep. "Y'all arguing already? Lord have mercy, it's too early for this shit."
"Amen to that," came a voice from the mattress wedged between the two bunks. Colt, Celeb's seventeen-year-old cousin, was already half-dressed, pulling a white undershirt over his head. The kid moved fast in the mornings—probably a survival skill from growing up in Baton Rouge with four older sisters.
Billy Jr, sixteen and somehow still able to sleep through Pops' entrance, was curled up on the bottom bunk under Celeb. Jake leaned over and yanked the blanket clean off him.
"Wake up, Junior!"
"Goddammit, Uncle Jake!" Jr bolted upright, his John Deere cap falling off his head. He'd worn it to bed again.
Pops cackled from the doorway. "That's my boy! Sleeps in his damn hat like a true cowboy. Now get your asses downstairs in five minutes or I'm eating your bacon."
He turned and stomping back down the hall, his voice trailing behind him. "Fucking millennial ranchers. In my day we were up at four..."
The door slammed.
For a moment, the five of them just sat there in the gray pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains. Then Colt grinned. "Y'all think he knows we're Gen Z, not millennials?"
"Don't correct him," Billy said, finally swinging down from his bunk. "He'll just call us something worse."
"He called me a 'TikTok-watching pussy' last week," Jr said, jamming his cap back on his head.
Celeb laughed. "What'd you do?"
"I was watching a video on hoof rot treatment!"
"Doesn't matter," Jake said, already heading for the door. "If it's on your phone, it's TikTok to Pops. Now come on—I ain't losing my bacon to that old bastard."
Twenty minutes later, the Benson ranch house kitchen was controlled chaos.
Sarah Benson moved between the stove and the counter with the efficiency of a woman who'd been feeding ranch hands for thirty years. Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, biscuits, and a pot of gravy that could resurrect the dead. The coffee pot had already been drained twice.
Tom Benson sat at the head of the long dining table, reading something on his tablet while shoveling eggs into his mouth. Next to him, Pops was working through his third cup of coffee and second cigar of the morning, much to Sarah's visible annoyance.
"Dad, I swear to God, if you ash that thing on my clean floor—"
"Then you'll what, woman? Divorce me after forty-seven years?"
"I'd divorce Tom for letting you smoke in my kitchen, yes."
Tom didn't even look up. "I'm staying out of this one."
The frat house boys filed in and took their usual spots at the table. Billy and Jake sat together, already bickering about something. Celeb and Colt flanked them. Jr slid into the chair next to Pops, who immediately mussed the kid's hair under his cap.
"There's my great-grandson. You ready to do some real work today?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Your daddy's got assignments."
Josh Benson came in from the mudroom, wiping his hands on a rag. At thirty-two, he was the general manager of the ranch—which meant he got to tell everyone else what to do and then get blamed when things went sideways. He poured himself coffee and stood at the end of the table.
"Morning, everybody. Ray's already out checking the south wells with Wilson Nelson. Rest of us got a full slate today." He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his notes. "Billy, Jake—I need you two on the fence line repair, west pasture. Horse Nelson's meeting you out there at eight with the post driver."
"Got it," Billy said.
"Celeb, you're with Dad and me moving cattle to the north grazing section. Gonna be a long day."
Celeb nodded. "Yes, sir."
Josh looked at the two youngest. "Jr, Colt—I need you two to ride out and check the water troughs in the east section. Make sure the solar pumps are all working. We've had three go out this month and I don't want the herd going thirsty."
Jr and Colt exchanged a glance and grinned. East section meant they'd be out on their own most of the day, just the two of them and the mule quad. It was the kind of assignment that felt like freedom when you were sixteen and seventeen.
"We're on it," Jr said.
"Take your sat radios," Tom added, not looking up from his tablet. "And check in every hour."
"Yes, sir."
Sarah started loading plates in front of everyone, and for a few minutes the only sound was the scrape of forks and the occasional grunt of approval. Pops reached under the table and pulled out a flask, pouring a splash of something into his coffee.
"Jesus Christ, Dad," Tom muttered. "It's six in the morning."
"And? I'm seventy-six. I'll drink when I damn well please."
Jr leaned over and stage-whispered to Colt, "Pops says age is just a number."
"And prison is just a place," Jake added.
The table erupted in laughter. Even Sarah cracked a smile as she swatted at Jake with a dish towel
Pops pointed his fork at Jr and Colt. "You boys watch yourselves out there today. Check in like your daddy said. And if anything looks off, you call it in. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," they said in unison.
"Good." Pops shoveled another forkful of eggs into his mouth. "Now finish your breakfast. Daylight's burning and we got a ranch to run."
Jr grabbed another biscuit and looked over at Colt. His best friend. His partner in crime. The guy who'd shown up from Louisiana for one week and never left.
Today was just another day on the ranch.
Or so they thought.
Chapter 2: The Abduction
The east section stretched out under the morning sun like a patchwork quilt of brown and green—pasture land dotted with mesquite and the occasional cluster of live oaks. Jr drove the mule quad with Colt riding shotgun, both of them bouncing over the rough terrain with the ease of boys who'd spent more time on four-wheelers than in classrooms.
"Check one," Jr said into his sat radio. "We're at the first trough. Everything looks good."
Tom's voice crackled back. "Copy that, Junior. Keep us posted."
Jr clipped the radio back to his belt and hopped off the quad. The solar pump was humming quietly, water trickling into the concrete trough. Colt was already checking the connections, his practiced hands moving over the equipment.
"Panel's clean, battery's charging," Colt said. "This one's solid."
"Two down, six to go." Jr pulled out his phone and marked the location on their digital map. The command center tech they'd built made everything more efficient—GPS coordinates, maintenance logs, real-time updates. He and Colt had spent weeks programming the system.
They climbed back on the quad and headed northeast toward the next pump station. The sun was climbing higher now, and Jr could feel sweat starting to soak into his white undershirt under his work shirt. His John Deere cap kept the sun off his face, but Texas in late spring didn't mess around.
"You think Billy Renzo's got that new drone firmware working yet?" Colt asked over the engine noise.
"Probably. Kid's a genius with that stuff. We should test it tonight—"
Jr never finished the sentence.
The white panel van came out of nowhere, bursting from behind a stand of mesquite at full speed. It cut across their path so fast that Jr barely had time to yank the wheel. The quad skidded sideways, throwing up dust, and then there were men—three of them, maybe four—rushing out of the van.
"Go! Go!" Colt shouted.
Jr gunned the throttle, but a man in dark clothing grabbed the back of the quad and yanked. The vehicle tipped, spilling both boys into the dirt. Jr hit the ground hard, his hat flying off, the breath knocked out of him.
He scrambled to his feet, reaching for his sat radio.
A fist caught him in the ribs.
Jr doubled over, gasping. Strong hands grabbed his arms, wrenching them behind his back. He thrashed, kicked backward, felt his boot connect with something solid. Someone grunted in pain.
"Little bastard—"
Ten feet away, Colt was fighting like a wildcat. He'd already bloodied one man's nose and was trying to break free from two others. "Jr! Run!"
But Jr couldn't run. There were too many of them. A gloved hand clamped over his mouth, cutting off his shout. He bit down hard, tasting leather and blood, and the man cursed but didn't let go.
"Get the radios!" someone barked.
Jr felt his sat radio ripped from his belt. He heard the crunch of it being smashed under a boot. Then Colt's radio. Then their phones.
"Stupid kids and their fucking technology," one of the men muttered.
Rough hands zip-tied Jr's wrists behind his back. He kept struggling, twisting, trying to headbutt someone, anyone. His heart was hammering so hard he thought it might explode. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.
Colt was still fighting, but they had him down now, three men on top of him, forcing his arms back. Jr heard his best friend grunt in pain as the zip ties bit into his wrists.
"In the van. Now."
They were dragged across the dirt and thrown into the back of the panel van like sacks of feed. Jr's shoulder hit the metal floor hard. Colt landed next to him, breathing hard, his face red and streaked with dust and sweat.
The doors slammed shut.
Darkness.
The engine roared to life and the van lurched forward. Jr could hear Colt's ragged breathing next to him, could feel the vehicle bouncing over the rough ground.
"Colt," Jr whispered. "You okay?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Yeah."
Neither of them was okay. They both knew it.
Jr's mind raced. The sat radios were destroyed. Their phones were smashed. Nobody knew where they were. The quad was sitting out there in the middle of nowhere, and it would be—what—at least an hour, maybe two before anyone noticed they hadn't checked in?
"We're gonna be okay," Colt said quietly, like he was trying to convince himself as much as Jr. "Billy and Jake'll come looking for us."
"Yeah," Jr said. But his voice sounded hollow even to his own ears.
The van drove for what felt like forever but was probably only twenty minutes. Jr tried to track the turns, the changes in terrain—paved road to dirt road, smooth to bumpy—but he lost count. His shoulders were screaming from the angle of his arms, and his ribs ached where he'd been hit.
Finally, the van stopped.
The back doors opened and harsh sunlight flooded in. Rough hands grabbed them again, hauled them out. Jr blinked against the brightness and saw it: an old barn, weathered gray wood and a rusted tin roof, sitting alone in the middle of empty scrubland.
Middle of nowhere.
They were dragged inside. The barn smelled like dust and old hay and something else—gasoline, maybe, or kerosene. It was dim inside, hot, stifling.
"On the ground."
Jr was shoved down onto the dirt floor. He landed hard on his knees. Beside him, Colt hit the ground with a grunt.
Then came the rope.
Professional hands worked fast—cutting away the zip ties and replacing them with something worse. Jr felt his arms being wrenched back, felt the rope bite into his wrists, then his elbows. They pulled his elbows together until they were touching, and Jr bit back a shout of pain. His shoulders felt like they were going to dislocate.
"Please—" he started.
"Shut up."
More rope around his ankles. Then his ankles were pulled up behind him, bent back until his workboots were almost touching his bound wrists. Hogtied. The word flashed through Jr's mind from some old western movie, but this wasn't a movie. This was real and it hurt and he couldn't move.
Next to him, they were doing the same thing to Colt. His cousin—no, his brother in everything but blood—was being trussed up like an animal for slaughter.
A rag was shoved into Jr's mouth, rough fabric that tasted like oil and dirt. Then duct tape wrapped around his head, sealing it in. He tried to spit it out but couldn't. Tried to yell but only managed a muffled grunt.
They taped Colt too. Jr could hear him trying to shout through the gag, the sound desperate and useless.
One of the men—ski mask, couldn't see his face—walked over and picked up Jr's John Deere cap from where it had fallen. He jammed it back on Jr's head with a mocking chuckle.
"Cute," the man said.
Then he pulled out a phone and started taking pictures. Flash. Flash. Flash.
Jr squeezed his eyes shut, humiliated and terrified and furious all at once.
"That's good," another voice said. "Send them to the Bensons. Let them know we mean business."
"How much are we asking?"
"Two million. Split between the consortium families. They're loaded—they can afford it."
Two million dollars. For him and Colt. Jr's mind reeled.
"What if they don't pay?"
There was a pause. Then: "Then these kids become a liability we can't afford."
Jr's blood turned to ice.
The men checked the ropes one more time, yanking on them to make sure they were secure. Jr's shoulders screamed in protest, but he couldn't move, couldn't even shift position. The hogtie kept him locked in place, every muscle straining.
"They're not going anywhere," one man said with satisfaction.
"Good. Let's move. We'll send the photos and the demand, then lay low until we hear back."
Footsteps retreating. The barn door creaking open, then slamming shut.
Then silence.
Jr lay there on the dirt floor of the barn, sweat already soaking through his white undershirt, his John Deere cap askew on his head. A few feet away, Colt was in the same position—hogtied, gagged, helpless.
Their eyes met across the dim space.
And in that moment, Jr saw the same thought reflected in Colt's face:
We might not make it out of this.
Chapter 3: The Barn
Billy Jr Benson and Colt Louisiana Beaumont lay on the dirt floor of the old barn, hogtied and helpless.
Their arms were cruelly tied behind their backs, elbows touching. The rope bit deep into their skin, cutting off circulation. Their biceps were just six inches apart, pulled so tight that Jr's shoulders felt like they were being ripped from their sockets. Their workboots touched their bound wrists—legs bent back in an arch that made every muscle scream in protest.
Their white undershirts were beginning to soak with sweat. The barn was stifling, the tin roof turning it into an oven under the Texas sun. Tape gagged with rags stuffed in their mouths, they could barely breathe through their noses. And somehow—mockingly—their John Deere caps were still on their heads, knocked slightly askew but still there.
Jr tried to work his jaw, tried to push the rag out with his tongue, but the tape held firm. He made a muffled sound—half grunt, half groan—and saw Colt's eyes snap to his.
You okay?
Jr nodded slightly. It was a lie. Nothing was okay.
Colt's eyes moved, looking down at the ropes, then back to Jr. A silent question: Can you move?
Jr tried. He flexed his wrists, testing the rope. Pain shot up his arms. The knots were professional—tight, unforgiving. He tried to arch his back, to get some leverage, but the hogtie kept him locked in place. His boots were tied to his wrists, and any movement just pulled everything tighter.
Sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes. His white undershirt was plastered to his chest now, soaked through. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.
How the fuck do we get out of this?
Colt was trying too. Jr could see him squirming, his muscles straining against the ropes. For a moment, it looked like he might be making progress—his wrists shifting slightly—but then he stopped, gasping through his nose, his face red with effort.
No good. The ropes were too tight.
Jr's mind raced through possibilities. They were tech kids. Problem solvers. There had to be a way out of this.
Think, Jr. Think.
If they could get back-to-back, maybe they could work each other's knots. But they were hogtied—they couldn't even crawl. And they were six feet apart on the barn floor.
If they could find something sharp—a nail, a piece of metal—they could cut the ropes. But their hands were bound behind them, useless. They couldn't even see what was behind them, let alone grab anything.
If they could just get the gags off, they could call for help. But who would hear them? They were in the middle of nowhere. The kidnappers had made sure of that.
Jr felt panic rising in his chest. He fought it down. Panic wouldn't help. Panic would kill them.
Stay calm. Billy and Jake will come. The wiz kids will find us. They have the tracking system. They have the drones.
But his phone was smashed. The sat radios were destroyed. The kidnappers had been thorough.
Time passed. Jr didn't know how long. Minutes? Hours? The heat was unbearable. His throat was dry, his breathing labored through his nose. The rag in his mouth tasted like gasoline and made him want to gag.
He looked at Colt again. His best friend's face was slick with sweat, his eyes wide and frightened. Jr could see him trembling—not from cold, but from exhaustion and fear.
We're gonna die here, Jr thought, and immediately tried to push the thought away. But it came back, insistent. We're gonna die and nobody's gonna find us in time.
Colt made a muffled sound—urgent, desperate. He was trying to say something through the gag. Jr strained to understand, but it was useless. The tape and rag turned everything into meaningless noise.
Jr tried to scoot closer. He rocked his body, trying to use momentum to inch across the dirt floor. Pain exploded in his shoulders and legs. He moved maybe three inches before he had to stop, gasping.
Colt tried the same thing. Rocking, straining, grunting through his gag. He managed to move a little closer. Then a little more.
It took forever—ten minutes, maybe fifteen—but finally they were close enough. Close enough that if Jr stretched, he could almost touch Colt's bound hands with his own.
Almost.
Jr pushed harder. His shoulders screamed. His elbows felt like they were going to snap. But his fingers brushed Colt's wrist—
And then the rope shifted and he lost it.
He tried again. Stretched. Strained. His vision was starting to blur from the pain and the heat.
No good.
They were too tightly bound. Even together, even working as a team, they couldn't reach the knots.
Jr stopped trying. He lay there, chest heaving, sweat pouring off him. His white undershirt was completely soaked now, clinging to his skin. He could feel blisters forming where the rope cut into his wrists and ankles.
Colt stopped too. Their eyes met—just a foot apart now, close enough to see the fear and desperation mirrored in each other's faces.
Neither of them tried to speak through the gags anymore. There was nothing to say.
They were trapped. Bound. Helpless.
The barn was silent except for their labored breathing and the occasional creak of the old wood settling in the heat.
Jr thought about his dad, Josh. About his mom, Rebecca. About his uncles—Billy and Jake and Celeb—probably already out looking for them. About Pops, who'd be raising hell and ready to kill someone with his bare hands.
About Anna, his girlfriend. Would he ever see her again?
His vision blurred, but not from the heat this time. He blinked hard, refusing to cry. Cowboys didn't cry. Ranch hands didn't cry.
But he was sixteen years old, hogtied in a barn in the middle of nowhere, and he was so scared he could barely think.
Next to him, Colt's breathing had become ragged. Jr could see tears streaking through the dirt on his face. Colt wasn't trying to hide it.
They lay there, looking at each other's sweaty, gagged faces, and waited.
Waited for rescue.
Or waited to die.
Chapter 4: Discovery
Billy checked his watch for the third time in five minutes. 11:47 AM.
He was standing in the west pasture with Jake and Horse Nelson, sweating through his shirt as they worked the fence line. The post driver sat idle behind them. They'd been at it for three hours straight, and Billy's shoulders ached from swinging the sledgehammer.
But something was nagging at him.
"When did Jr and Colt check in last?" he asked.
Jake pulled off his work gloves and grabbed his sat radio. "Uh... check one was at eight-thirty. They were supposed to check in again at nine-thirty."
"It's almost noon."
"Shit." Jake keyed his radio. "Jr, you copy? Junior, come in."
Static.
"Colt, this is Jake. You boys sleeping out there or what?"
More static.
Billy felt his gut tighten. The wiz kids didn't miss check-ins. Ever. Those boys were glued to their tech like it was life support.
Horse Nelson had stopped working too, his face concerned. "Try again."
Jake did. "Junior, Colt—this is Jake. Check in now or I'm telling Pops you're slacking."
Nothing.
Billy was already moving toward his truck. "We're going out there."
"Billy—"
"Now, Jake. Something's wrong."
They loaded up fast—Billy, Jake, and Celeb, who'd been working cattle in the north section and heard the radio calls. Tom Benson's voice crackled over the sat radio as they drove.
"Billy, what's going on?"
"Jr and Colt haven't checked in since eight-thirty. We're heading to the east section now."
A pause. Then: "Keep me posted. I'm heading back to the house."
The drive to the east section felt like it took forever, even though Billy was pushing the truck hard over the rough terrain. His mind kept running through possibilities—equipment failure, dead batteries, the boys goofing off and losing track of time—but none of it felt right.
Jr was responsible. Colt was reliable. They knew the rules.
"There," Celeb said, pointing ahead.
The mule quad sat abandoned in the middle of the pasture, about fifty yards from one of the solar pump stations. No sign of the boys.
Billy brought the truck to a skidding stop and was out before the engine even died. Jake and Celeb were right behind him.
"Jr!" Billy shouted. "Colt!"
Nothing. Just the sound of the wind through the mesquite and the quiet hum of the solar pump.
Billy reached the quad first. The key was still in the ignition. One of the handlebars was bent, like the quad had been knocked over. There were tire tracks in the dirt—fresh ones, and not from the quad.
"Over here," Jake called.
Billy turned. Jake was crouching in the dirt about twenty feet away, holding something. Billy's stomach dropped when he saw what it was.
A sat radio. Smashed. The screen was shattered, the casing cracked open like someone had stomped on it.
"Here's another one," Celeb said, his voice tight. He was holding up the second radio—just as destroyed.
Billy's heart was hammering now. He scanned the ground, reading the story written in the dirt: scuff marks, boot prints that didn't belong to Jr or Colt, signs of a struggle.
And then he saw it.
Cut pieces of rope. White nylon, the kind used for tie-downs. Scattered in the dirt like discarded trash.
"Oh God," Billy whispered.
Jake was on his feet now, his face pale. "Billy—"
"They were taken." Billy's voice sounded strange in his own ears—cold, flat, certain. "Someone took them."
Celeb was already pulling out his phone, his hands shaking. "We need to call—"
"Wait." Billy unclipped his sat radio with one hand and reached for the emergency button on his belt with the other. The 911 system. The one Jr and Billy Renzo had built into the consortium network.
He pressed it.
Three seconds later, every sat radio, every phone, every device connected to the consortium network came alive with the same mechanical voice:
"911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Billy Benson."
The automated alert repeated three times, then switched to open frequency. Billy could already hear voices crackling through—Tom, Josh, Ray, the Nelsons, the Beaumonts, everyone.
"This is Billy," he said into his radio, his voice steady despite the ice in his veins. "East section, coordinates..." He rattled off the GPS location from his phone. "We found Jr and Colt's quad. Both sat radios destroyed. Signs of a struggle. Cut rope. No sign of the boys."
Silence on the radio for two heartbeats.
Then Josh's voice, raw and urgent: "I'm on my way. Don't touch anything else—could be evidence."
"Sheriff Nelson's rolling now," came Wade Nelson's gravelly voice. "Billy, secure the scene. I'll be there in fifteen."
Tom Benson came on next: "Everyone converge on the ranch house. We need to coordinate. Billy, Jake, Celeb—stay there until Wade arrives, then get back here."
"Copy that," Billy said.
He looked at Jake. His brother—his twin in everything but name—looked like he'd been punched in the gut. Celeb was staring at the cut ropes, his face gray.
"They took them," Celeb said quietly. "They took my baby cousin."
Billy wanted to say something reassuring. Wanted to promise they'd find them. But his throat was too tight.
He looked down at the smashed sat radios in the dirt. At the tire tracks from a vehicle that had no business being on Benson land. At the abandoned quad with Jr's John Deere cap missing from where it should have been hanging on the handlebar.
Whoever had taken them had been professional. Fast. Thorough.
Billy pulled out his phone and started taking pictures of everything—the scene, the tracks, the evidence. His hands were steady, but his mind was racing.
Hold on, Jr. Hold on, Colt. We're coming for you.
Fifteen minutes later, Sheriff Wade Nelson arrived with his sons Wilson and Ryan in tow. They worked the scene like the professionals they were—photographing, measuring, bagging evidence. Billy, Jake, and Celeb stood by their truck and watched, feeling useless.
"Looks like a professional snatch," Wade said grimly, standing up from where he'd been examining the tire tracks. "Multiple subjects, coordinated attack. They knew what they were doing."
"How long ago?" Billy asked.
Wade checked his watch. "Based on the timeline and the condition of the scene? I'd say three hours, give or take. Maybe 8:45, 9:00 AM."
Three hours. The boys had been gone for three hours.
"We need to get back to the house," Billy said. "The wiz kids can track Jr's phone, pull surveillance footage—"
Wade's face darkened. "If these were professionals, first thing they'd do is ditch the phones."
"Maybe," Billy said. "But maybe they made a mistake."
He climbed back into his truck, Jake and Celeb following. As they drove back toward the ranch house, Billy could see the dust trails from a dozen other vehicles all heading the same direction.
The consortium was gathering.
And God help the people who took those boys, because when the Bensons, Nelsons, and Beaumonts came together, there wouldn't be anywhere to hide.
Chapter 5: The Consortium Gathers
The Benson ranch house had never seen this many vehicles parked in the yard at once.
Trucks lined the driveway, spilling out onto the grass. The Nelsons arrived first—Wade, Mary, Wilson, Ryan, and Horse. Then the Beaumonts—Robert and Caroline, their faces already stricken with worry. The Renzos pulled in right behind them, followed by the Matterns and the Rodriguezes.
Six families. Half of Kings County. All united by the consortium and by blood—some by birth, some by choice.
Sarah Benson stood on the front porch, her face pale but composed. She'd been through ranch emergencies before—droughts, fires, cattle disease—but this was different. This was her grandson.
"Inside," she said quietly as people approached. "Everyone inside."
The living room and dining room quickly filled. Men stood shoulder to shoulder, grim-faced. The women gathered near the kitchen, supporting each other. Rebecca Benson sat at the dining table, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. Next to her, Caroline Beaumont was openly crying.
Tom Benson stood at the head of the table, his jaw set. Pops sat next to him, cigar forgotten in the ashtray, his weathered face harder than granite.
Josh paced near the window, unable to sit still. His son was out there. Somewhere.
Billy, Jake, and Celeb came through the door last, Wade Nelson right behind them. The room fell silent as everyone turned to look.
"Tell us," Tom said.
Billy stepped forward. His voice was steady, but his eyes told a different story. "East section, near pump station four. We found their quad abandoned. Both sat radios smashed—deliberately destroyed. Both phones appeared to be gone or destroyed. There were tire tracks from what looks like a panel van or truck. Multiple boot prints that don't match Jr or Colt's. Cut pieces of rope. Signs of a struggle."
"How long ago?" Robert Beaumont asked, his Louisiana accent thick with emotion.
"Sheriff Nelson estimates around nine AM," Billy said. "Maybe three and a half hours ago now."
Caroline made a small sound, burying her face in her hands.
Wade stepped forward. "I've got an APB out for any suspicious vehicles. Highway patrol's been notified. We're checking traffic cameras on every road within fifty miles."
"We need the command center up," Tom said. "Get the wiz kids on it."
"Already there," came a voice from the hallway.
Billy Renzo appeared in the doorway, laptop under his arm. Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez were right behind him, their faces serious. The three sixteen-year-olds looked like they'd aged five years in the last hour.
"We've got the system booting up," Billy Renzo said. "We're going to try tracking both their phones. If either one is still on, we'll find it."
"What about the drones?" Jake asked.
"Standing by. We'll deploy as soon as we have coordinates."
The wiz kids disappeared upstairs toward the command center. The room filled with voices—people suggesting theories, making plans, offering help.
And then Robert Beaumont's phone rang.
The sound cut through the noise like a gunshot. Everyone froze.
Robert pulled out his phone, looked at the screen. His face went white.
"It's Colt's number," he whispered.
"Answer it," Wade said immediately, pulling out his own phone. "I'll try to trace it."
Robert's hand shook as he swiped to answer and put it on speaker. "Hello?"
Silence. Then a mechanical voice: "Check your messages."
The line went dead.
Robert stared at his phone. A notification appeared: New message from Colt.
His thumb hovered over it for a second. Then he opened it.
The first thing he saw was a photograph.
And the world stopped.
Jr and Colt. Hogtied on a dirt floor in what looked like an old barn. Their arms were wrenched behind their backs, elbows touching, their workboots bent back and tied to their wrists. White undershirts soaked with sweat. Tape wrapped around their heads, gagging them. And somehow—heartbreakingly—their John Deere caps were still on their heads.
The boys' eyes were wide with fear.
"Oh God," Robert breathed. "Oh God, no—"
Caroline was at his side instantly, looking at the screen. She let out a sob and collapsed against him.
"Let me see," Tom demanded.
Robert handed him the phone with shaking hands. Tom looked at the photo and his face turned to stone. He passed it to Josh without a word.
Josh stared at the image of his son—his boy—bound and helpless on a barn floor. His hands began to shake. Rebecca appeared at his shoulder, looked at the screen, and made a sound like she'd been stabbed.
Pops took the phone next. He looked at the image of his great-grandsons—both of them, because Colt was his great-grandson too, blood or not—and something terrible flickered across his face. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and deadly.
"I'm going to kill them."
The phone was passed around. Billy took one look and had to turn away, his jaw clenched. Jake punched the wall, hard enough to dent the drywall. Celeb stared at the photo of his baby cousin, tears streaming down his face.
Wade took the phone and examined the photo professionally, though his hands were trembling. "There's more," he said quietly.
Robert scrolled down. Another message:
$2,000,000. Instructions to follow. You have 24 hours. Tell the police and the boys die.
"Two million dollars," Tom said flatly.
"Split between the consortium families," Wade said. "They know who we are. They know we're together."
"This was planned," Robert added, his voice hollow. "Professional job. They've been watching us."
Sarah spoke from the kitchen doorway, her voice shaking. "Can we get the money?"
"Yes," Tom said immediately. "We can liquidate assets. The consortium account has enough if we pool resources."
"We'll pay," Robert agreed. "Whatever it takes."
"But we don't just pay," Pops growled. "We find these sons of bitches and we get our boys back."
From upstairs, Billy Renzo's voice shouted down: "We've got a signal! Colt's phone is still on!"
The room exploded into motion.
Wade was already moving toward the stairs. "Where?"
"Tracking now—it's moving, heading west on County Road 47—wait, it just stopped. Location is... old Henderson property, about forty miles northwest."
"That's abandoned," Horse Nelson said. "Been empty for years."
Tom was pulling on his jacket. "How many vehicles do we have?"
"Enough," Josh said, his voice hard. He looked like a different person—not the general manager, but a father whose child had been taken. "We're bringing them home."
Wade held up a hand. "Let me be clear—this is now an active kidnapping investigation. I'm calling in backup from county and state. We do this by the book."
"The hell we do—" Jake started.
"By the book," Wade repeated firmly. "But fast. We gear up, we move now, and we get those boys back. Together."
Pops stood up, every one of his seventy-six years suddenly visible and yet somehow more dangerous than any man in the room. "Then let's go get my great-grandsons."
The men filed out, moving with purpose. Billy, Jake, Celeb, Ray, Josh, Tom, Pops, Wade, Wilson, Ryan, Horse, Robert, and a dozen others. The fathers, uncles, brothers, and friends who would burn down the world to get Jr and Colt back.
At the stairs to the command center, the three wiz kids were already pulling up satellite imagery and deploying drones.
Sarah stood in the doorway and watched them go, Rebecca and Caroline beside her. Mary Nelson put her arm around Rebecca's shoulders.
"Bring our boys home," Sarah whispered.
And every man there heard it like an order from God himself.
Chapter 6: The Command Center
The command center had never felt so empty.
Billy Renzo sat at the main console, his fingers flying across three keyboards at once. Beside him, Ryan Mattern was pulling up satellite imagery on two monitors while Daniel Rodriguez worked the drone controls. The room that usually held five tech-obsessed sixteen-year-olds now only had three.
And the two missing were the ones they were trying to save.
"Got it," Billy Renzo said, his voice tight. "Colt's phone is pinging. They must have missed it—probably fell out of his pocket or something."
"Location?" Ryan asked.
"Still moving... westbound on County Road 47... speed is consistent with highway travel..." Billy's eyes were locked on the tracking screen. "Wait. It's slowing down. Turning off the main road."
Daniel had the drone feed up now. "Deploying Drone One. Should have visual in three minutes."
Downstairs, they could hear the controlled chaos of the consortium mobilizing—men gathering weapons, loading vehicles, Sheriff Wade coordinating with county and state backup. But up here, it was just the three of them and their technology.
The technology they'd built with Jr and Colt.
"Come on, come on," Billy Renzo muttered, watching the tracking dot on his screen. "Stop moving. Give us a location."
"Signal's stopped," Ryan called out. "Coordinates locked. Old Henderson property, forty miles northwest."
Billy Renzo was already pulling up property records on another screen. "Henderson place has been abandoned for eight years. Foreclosed. Bank owns it now. Main house, two outbuildings, and a barn."
"Barn," Daniel said quietly. "That's where they'll be. The photo showed a barn."
They all fell silent for a moment, remembering the image. Jr and Colt, hogtied and gagged, sweaty and terrified.
"Drone One approaching target area," Daniel said, breaking the silence. His hands moved over the controls with practiced precision. "Switching to thermal imaging."
The main monitor flickered, then showed an aerial view in grayscale heat signatures. The old Henderson property came into focus—a dilapidated house, a collapsed shed, and standing off to the side, a weathered barn.
"There," Ryan pointed. "Heat signatures in the barn. Two sources, low to the ground. Not moving much."
Billy Renzo felt his chest tighten. Two heat signatures. Jr and Colt. Still alive.
"What about the kidnappers?" he asked.
Daniel adjusted the drone's position, scanning the area. "One vehicle parked behind the barn. White panel van. Two—no, three heat signatures near it. Looks like they're... loading something."
"They're getting ready to run," Ryan said. "The phone signal spooked them."
Billy Renzo grabbed his sat radio. "This is Command to all units. We have visual confirmation. Two targets in the barn, alive. Three hostiles near a white panel van behind the structure. Hostiles appear to be preparing to flee."
Tom Benson's voice crackled back immediately. "Good work, son. We're fifteen minutes out. Keep eyes on them."
"Yes, sir." Billy Renzo switched channels. "Sheriff Nelson, are you seeing this feed?"
"Affirmative," Wade's voice came through. "State troopers are moving to cut off County Road 47 at both ends. They won't get far if they run."
Billy Renzo pulled up another screen—traffic camera footage from earlier in the day. "Ryan, help me with this. We need to ID that van."
They worked in tandem, scrubbing through hours of footage. Ryan found it first: "There! White panel van, no plates, heading northwest on 47 at 9:17 AM."
"Twenty minutes after Jr and Colt should have checked in," Daniel noted.
Billy Renzo enhanced the image, zoomed in. The van's side window showed a partial view of the driver—male, dark jacket, ski mask. Professional. Careful.
But not careful enough. They'd left Colt's phone on.
"Drone Two deploying," Daniel announced. "Positioning for secondary angle."
The second monitor lit up with another aerial view, this one focused on the barn itself. The heat signatures inside hadn't moved.
"Why aren't they moving?" Ryan asked, his voice worried. "Jr and Colt—they're just... lying there."
Billy Renzo's jaw tightened. He knew why. He'd seen the photo. "They're tied up. Hogtied. They can't move."
The weight of that settled over the command center like a heavy blanket.
"Command, this is Jake." Jake's voice came through the radio, rough with emotion. "How are my boys?"
Billy Renzo keyed his mic. "Heat signatures are stable. They're alive. But they're not mobile—they can't get out on their own."
"We're coming," Jake said. "Ten minutes. Tell them to hold on."
"They can't hear me," Billy Renzo said quietly, though Jake had already clicked off.
On the screen, the heat signatures near the van were moving with more urgency now. One of the hostiles kept looking at his phone—probably realizing they were being tracked.
"They know," Ryan said. "They're about to bolt."
"Wait." Daniel leaned forward, adjusting the thermal imaging. "New heat signature. Inside the barn. Moving fast. One of the hostiles just went inside."
All three boys watched the screen. The new heat signature moved toward the two prone figures in the center of the barn. Then stopped. Stood there for a moment.
"What's he doing?" Ryan whispered.
Then the heat signature moved again—quickly, back toward the barn door. He rejoined the others at the van.
"They're leaving," Daniel said. "All three hostiles, getting in the van."
Billy Renzo's stomach twisted. They were leaving. Leaving Jr and Colt behind. That should be good news—the boys would be safe when the consortium arrived—but something felt wrong.
"Command to all units, hostiles are moving. Repeat, hostiles are fleeing the scene."
"We see them," Wade responded. "State troopers are in position to intercept."
On the screen, the white van tore out from behind the barn, throwing up dust as it raced toward the main road.
"They're running," Ryan said. "We've got them."
But Billy Renzo was still watching the barn. Something about the way that hostile had gone inside, then left so quickly...
"Enhance thermal on the barn," he said suddenly.
Daniel made the adjustment.
And then they all saw it.
A new heat bloom. Small at first, then rapidly expanding. Orange and red on the thermal imaging.
Fire.
"Oh my God," Ryan breathed. "They set the barn on fire."
Billy Renzo's hand was already on the radio, his voice urgent: "Command to all units! The barn is on fire! Repeat, the barn is on fire! Jr and Colt are still inside!"
The command center erupted into controlled chaos. Daniel brought both drones lower, getting closer. Ryan was pulling up fire response protocols. Billy Renzo kept his eyes locked on those two heat signatures in the center of the barn.
They still weren't moving.
Because they couldn't move. They were tied up, helpless, while fire spread around them.
"How far out are they?" Daniel asked, his voice shaking.
Billy Renzo checked the GPS tracking of the convoy. "Eight minutes. Maybe seven if they floor it."
"The boys don't have seven minutes," Ryan said, watching the fire spread on the thermal imaging.
Downstairs, they could hear Sarah Benson crying out, Rebecca's sobbing, Caroline's screaming. The women had seen the drone feed too.
Billy Renzo keyed his radio one more time, his voice steady despite the terror clawing at his chest. "Command to convoy lead. You need to go faster. The fire is spreading fast. They're running out of time."
Josh's voice came back, and there was something in it that Billy Renzo had never heard before—raw, primal fear. "We're coming, son. Tell me they're still alive."
Billy Renzo looked at the two heat signatures, now surrounded by rapidly expanding flames.
"They're still alive," he said. "But you need to hurry."
Chapter 7: Desperation in the Barn
Time had lost all meaning.
Jr didn't know if they'd been in the barn for one hour or three. His body was a symphony of pain—shoulders screaming, wrists raw and bleeding under the ropes, legs cramping from the unnatural arch of the hogtie. His white undershirt was soaked through, clinging to his skin. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging, blurring his vision.
Next to him, Colt wasn't doing any better. His best friend's face was red and slick, his breathing coming in ragged gasps through his nose. They'd both given up trying to reach each other's knots. It was useless. The ropes were too tight, the hogtie too effective.
Jr closed his eyes, trying to conserve energy. Trying to think. The command center. Billy Renzo, Ryan, Daniel—they'd realize something was wrong. They'd track the phones. They'd—
Wait.
The phones.
Jr's eyes snapped open. He'd heard them smash his phone. Heard it clearly. But had they gotten Colt's? He tried to remember the chaos of the abduction. The kidnappers grabbing their sat radios first, then going for their phones...
Had Colt's phone fallen out during the struggle? Was it still in the van? Was it—
It didn't matter. Even if the phone was on, even if they were being tracked, what good would it do? By the time anyone found this barn, it might be too late. The kidnappers had made it clear: if the families didn't pay, Jr and Colt were liabilities.
Jr made a muffled sound through his gag, trying to get Colt's attention. His friend's eyes opened, focusing on him.
Jr tried to communicate with his eyes. Stay strong. They're coming.
Colt nodded slightly, but Jr could see the doubt there. The fear.
And then Jr heard it.
The barn door opening.
His heart leaped. Were they back? Were they going to untie them? Demand a proof of life video? Move them somewhere else?
Footsteps. Quick. Urgent. Someone moving fast through the barn.
Jr tried to crane his neck to see, but the hogtie kept him locked in place. He could only stare at the dirt floor and wait.
The footsteps came closer. Stopped a few feet away.
Jr heard liquid splashing. The sharp smell hit him immediately—gasoline.
His blood turned to ice.
More splashing. The sound moving around the barn, dousing the old wooden walls, the hay bales stacked in the corners. The kidnapper was working fast, methodical, like he'd done this before.
Jr's heart was hammering so hard he thought it might explode. He tried to shout through the gag, tried to thrash against the ropes. Pain shot through his shoulders but he didn't care. He had to do something, had to—
The footsteps retreated. Running now. Back toward the door.
Jr heard the scrape of a match.
Then the whoosh of flames catching.
The barn door slammed shut.
For a moment, there was just the crackle of fire. Then it grew louder. Hungry. Consuming the old, dry wood like it had been waiting decades for this moment.
Jr twisted his head, finally able to see. Orange flames were climbing the far wall, spreading fast. Smoke was beginning to fill the upper part of the barn, thick and black.
He looked at Colt. His best friend's eyes were wide with terror, his whole body straining against the ropes. Colt was trying to scream through his gag, the sound muffled and desperate.
They were going to burn alive.
Jr pulled at the ropes with everything he had. His shoulders felt like they were tearing apart, but he didn't stop. He rocked his body, trying to loosen something, anything. His wrists were slick with blood now, but the ropes held firm.
Colt was doing the same thing—thrashing, squirming, fighting with the last of his strength. But the hogtie was too perfect. Too professional. They couldn't move. Couldn't crawl. Couldn't escape.
The flames were spreading faster now, racing along the walls, jumping to the old hay. The heat was intensifying. Jr could feel it on his face, his arms. The smoke was getting thicker, lower, harder to breathe even through his nose.
He coughed against the gag, choking. His eyes were watering from the smoke. He could barely see Colt now through the haze.
This is it, Jr thought. This is how we die.
Not from bullets or knives or even the kidnappers' hands. But from fire. Tied up like animals, unable to fight, unable to run.
He thought about his dad. About his mom. About Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake and Uncle Celeb. About Pops, who'd be devastated. About Anna, his girlfriend, who he'd never get to kiss again.
About all the things he'd never do. Never see. Never become.
Sixteen years old. That's all he got.
The flames were everywhere now. The barn was an inferno. Jr could feel the heat blistering his skin. The smoke was so thick he couldn't breathe. His lungs were burning.
He looked one more time at Colt—just a shadow now through the smoke and flames. His brother in everything but blood.
At least they were together.
Jr closed his eyes.
And then he heard it.
Engines. Trucks. Lots of them.
Shouting. Men's voices.
"IN HERE! THE BARN!"
The barn door exploded inward.
Dark shapes burst through the flames and smoke. Strong hands grabbed Jr, lifting him, ropes and all. He was being carried, fast, rough, but he didn't care.
Fresh air hit his face and he gasped, coughing, trying to breathe through his nose.
He was dropped onto grass. Someone was cutting the ropes—sawing through them with a knife. His wrists came free. Then his ankles. Then his elbows.
The tape was ripped off his face and the rag yanked from his mouth.
Jr gasped, sucking in air, coughing so hard he thought he'd vomit. His throat was raw, his lungs screaming.
"I got you, son. I got you."
It was his dad. Josh was holding him, his face covered in soot, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Colt—" Jr croaked.
"They got him. He's out. You're both out."
Jr looked over. Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake were cutting Colt free about ten feet away. Robert Beaumont was there too, gathering his nephew into his arms. Celeb was right beside them, his hand on Colt's shoulder, tears streaming down his face.
Behind them, the barn was fully engulfed. Flames shot fifty feet into the air. The structure was collapsing, timber crashing down.
Another thirty seconds and they would have been dead.
Tom Benson appeared, his face grim. Pops was right behind him, his weathered face wet with tears he wasn't bothering to hide.
"My boys," Pops said, his voice breaking. "My boys."
Jr was shaking. He couldn't stop. His whole body was trembling, adrenaline and terror and relief all crashing together.
"We got you," Josh said again, holding him tight. "You're safe. You're safe now."
Jr buried his face in his dad's shoulder and finally let himself cry.
Chapter 8: Justice and Recovery
The convoy back to the Benson ranch moved slowly, carefully. Jr and Colt rode in Josh's truck, wrapped in blankets despite the Texas heat. Both boys were still coughing, their throats raw from the smoke. Rebecca sat between them, her arm around her son, checking his breathing every few minutes with a practiced nurse's eye.
"You're okay," she kept saying, as much to herself as to them. "You're both okay."
Behind them, the other trucks followed in a loose formation. Tom and Sarah. Pops with Billy and Jake. The Beaumonts—Robert, Caroline, and Celeb. The Nelsons, the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. The entire consortium, bringing their boys home.
Wade Nelson's voice crackled over the sat radio. "All units, this is Sheriff Nelson. State troopers intercepted the suspects on County Road 47, approximately twelve miles from the Henderson property. Three adult males in custody. White panel van impounded. No shots fired. Repeat, all suspects in custody."
A cheer went up across the radio frequency.
"Outstanding work, Wade," Tom's voice came through. "We'll meet you at the ranch for statements."
Jr leaned his head against his mother's shoulder, exhausted beyond measure. His wrists were wrapped in gauze—Rebecca had bandaged them in the truck, her hands gentle but efficient. His shoulders still screamed with pain from the hogtie, and every breath felt like sandpaper in his lungs.
But he was alive.
Next to him, Colt looked just as rough. His face was streaked with soot and tears, his wrists bandaged like Jr's. But Robert had gotten his John Deere cap back on his head—someone had grabbed both caps before the barn collapsed completely—and somehow that small gesture made everything feel a little more normal.
The Benson ranch house yard was packed when they arrived. Vehicles everywhere, people spilling out onto the porch and lawn. The moment Josh's truck rolled to a stop, Sarah was there, yanking the door open.
"Oh my boys," she sobbed, reaching for Jr and Colt both. "Oh thank God."
She pulled them into a fierce hug, and suddenly everyone was there. Pops with tears streaming down his weathered face. Tom with his hand on Jr's shoulder, unable to speak. Caroline Beaumont holding Colt like she'd never let go. Billy, Jake, and Celeb surrounding them, their faces raw with emotion.
"You scared the shit out of us," Jake said, his voice rough.
"Language," Sarah said automatically, but she was smiling through her tears.
Pops pushed forward and grabbed both boys by their shoulders, looking them over with fierce intensity. "You're tough. Both of you. Fought like hell, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir," Jr managed.
"That's my great-grandsons." Pops' voice cracked. "Thought I lost you boys."
"We're okay, Pops," Colt said hoarsely.
From the porch, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez came running down. The three wiz kids looked like they'd aged a decade in one day.
"Jr! Colt!" Billy Renzo grabbed them both. "Man, we tracked Colt's phone—it must have fallen out during the struggle. That's how we found you."
"The drones," Jr croaked. "You used the drones."
"Thermal imaging," Daniel said, grinning despite the tears on his face. "Saw everything. We guided them right to you."
"The system worked," Ryan added. "Everything we built—it worked."
Jr felt a surge of pride despite his exhaustion. Their tech had saved their lives.
Wade Nelson pulled up in his cruiser, Wilson and Ryan Nelson with him. The sheriff climbed out, his face satisfied.
"Boys," he said, tipping his hat to Jr and Colt. "Glad you're safe. We'll need statements, but that can wait. Right now, you should know—we got all three of them. They're looking at kidnapping, attempted murder, arson. They're not seeing daylight for a very long time."
"Who were they?" Tom asked.
"Small-time criminals who thought they could score big off the consortium," Wade said. "They'd been watching the ranches for weeks, tracking routines. Picked Jr and Colt because they were young, out alone. Professional enough to be dangerous, but stupid enough to leave a phone on."
"That mistake cost them everything," Josh said grimly.
"And saved our boys," Robert Beaumont added, his arm still around Colt.
"All right, everybody," Rebecca announced. "These two need proper medical attention, and I'm doing it right here. Then they need to eat."
She herded Jr and Colt inside to the living room, commandeering the couch. Her nurse's bag appeared from somewhere, and she went to work with professional efficiency. Checking their lungs, listening to their breathing, examining the rope burns on their wrists and ankles, applying antibiotic ointment and fresh bandages.
"Smoke inhalation isn't too bad," she said, more to herself than anyone else. "No wheezing, no respiratory distress. You boys are damn lucky."
"Best cure for smoke inhalation," Pops announced from behind her, "is Jack Daniels."
"Dad—" Tom started.
"I'm serious." Pops appeared with two glasses and his bottle of Jack. He poured a generous two fingers into each glass and handed them to Jr and Colt. "Drink. Burns the smoke right out of your throat."
Rebecca opened her mouth to object, then closed it. She looked at her father-in-law, at the boys, and shook her head with a small smile. "One glass. That's it."
Jr took a sip and immediately coughed. The whiskey burned going down, but Pops was right—it did something to the rawness in his throat. Beside him, Colt was making a similar face but drinking anyway.
"There you go," Pops said with satisfaction. "Tough ranch hands drink whiskey."
From the kitchen, the smell of food was overwhelming. Sarah had gone into overdrive—fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, corn, biscuits, and what looked like three different pies cooling on the counter.
"All right," Sarah called out. "Everyone to the table. These boys need to eat."
Jr and Colt were installed at the dining table, and the moment the food was placed in front of them, they attacked it like they were starving. Because they were. Jr couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten—breakfast felt like a lifetime ago. He piled his plate high and ate with single-minded focus.
Colt was doing the same, shoveling food into his mouth between coughs. The families crowded around the table, watching them eat with relief and satisfaction.
"That's it," Sarah said, beaming. "Eat as much as you want. There's plenty more."
Pops poured himself a generous splash of brandy and raised his glass. "To Jr and Colt," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "The toughest damn ranch hands in Kings County."
"To Jr and Colt," everyone echoed.
Jr paused long enough to look around the table. His dad, Josh, sitting beside him with his hand on Jr's shoulder. His mom, Rebecca, watching him with fierce protective love. Tom and Sarah. Pops with his cigar and brandy. Billy and Jake, his uncles and protectors. Ray. The Beaumonts—Robert, Caroline, and Celeb surrounding Colt with the same fierce love. The Nelsons—Wade, Mary, Wilson, Ryan, Horse. Anna Nelson standing behind Jr's chair, her hand on his back.
The wiz kids—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez—crowded in at the end of the table, grinning and talking excitedly about the drone footage and the tracking system.
The Matterns. The Rodriguezes. The Renzos.
Six families. The consortium. All here because two of their own had been taken.
"This family," Pops said, as if reading Jr's thoughts. "This consortium. Nobody messes with us. Nobody takes our boys. And if they try, they learn real quick what a mistake that was."
"Amen," Tom said.
Jr went back to eating, his second plate now, and he could feel the strength returning to his body. The food, the whiskey, the family around him—it was all medicine.
Beside him, Colt was on his third piece of chicken, his John Deere cap pushed back on his head, looking more like himself with every bite.
"You boys did good," Billy said from across the table. "You fought. You didn't give up."
"We knew you'd come," Jr said quietly. "We knew you'd find us."
"Always," Jake said. "You're family."
Wade finished his coffee and stood. "I'll need those statements tomorrow. But tonight, you boys rest. Eat. Be with your families. You've earned it."
The evening wore on. The families lingered, nobody wanting to leave, everyone needing to see that Jr and Colt were really there, really safe. Stories were told, plans were made, the kidnapping was rehashed from every angle.
Finally, as the sun set over the ranch, people began to drift home. The Beaumonts stayed, of course—they weren't letting Colt out of their sight. The wiz kids reluctantly headed out, promising to be back first thing in the morning.
Sarah brought out the pies—pecan, apple, and cherry. Jr and Colt each had a slice of all three.
Pops refilled their whiskey glasses one more time, ignoring Rebecca's look. "Special circumstances," he said gruffly.
Jr sipped the Jack Daniels, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. His throat still hurt, his shoulders still ached, but he was home. He was safe.
Across the table, Colt caught his eye. His best friend. His brother in everything but blood. They'd survived. Together.
"Welcome home, boys," Pops said quietly, raising his glass one more time.
And Jr had never been more grateful for those two words in his life.
Chapter 9: The Frat House
By ten PM, most of the consortium families had finally headed home. The Beaumonts were staying in one of the guest rooms—Caroline had made it clear that Colt wasn't leaving her sight for at least a week. But once the adults had settled in for the night, the frat house came alive.
Jr and Colt climbed the stairs slowly, their bodies still aching. Billy and Jake were right behind them, with Celeb bringing up the rear. When they pushed open the door to their room, they found the three wiz kids already there—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez sprawled across the bunks and Colt's mattress, laptops still open, reviewing drone footage.
"There's our heroes," Billy Renzo said, grinning.
"Heroes my ass," Jr said, but he was smiling. "You guys saved our lives with that tracking system."
"Team effort," Ryan said. "We found you. You stayed alive long enough for the cavalry to arrive."
There was a knock at the door, and everyone froze. Then Pops' gravelly voice came through: "I know you boys are in there. Open up."
Billy opened the door cautiously. Pops stood there with his bottle of Jack Daniels and a stack of glasses—eight of them.
"Pops—" Billy started.
"Don't even start with me," Pops said, pushing into the room. He set the glasses on the dresser and started pouring with practiced efficiency. "These two boys survived smoke inhalation. And smoke inhalation is catchy, you know. Very contagious. All you boys better have some medicine."
"That's not how smoke inhalation works," Daniel said.
Pops fixed him with a look. "You questioning my medical expertise, boy?"
"No, sir."
"Didn't think so." Pops handed out the glasses—two fingers of Jack in each one. When he got to Jr and Colt, he poured them a little extra. "You two especially. Doctor's orders."
Jr took his glass, feeling the weight of the moment. All eight of them—the frat house crew and the wiz kids—together in this room. Brothers in everything that mattered.
Pops raised his own glass, the cigar clamped in his teeth. "To Jr and Colt. Who are tougher than boot leather and meaner than a cornered rattlesnake when they need to be. And to these other knuckleheads who had the brains to find them. Here's to family."
"To family," they all echoed.
The whiskey burned going down, but it was a good burn. Jr coughed a little—his throat was still raw—but he drained his glass anyway.
Pops nodded with satisfaction. "That's my boys. Now." He pointed at Billy and Jake. "I know you two have beer stashed under them floorboards. Don't even try to deny it."
Billy and Jake exchanged guilty looks.
"I was hiding beer from my daddy before you were born," Pops continued. "You think I don't know every hiding spot in this house? Get it out. Tonight, we celebrate."
He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "But don't think this means you're off the hook tomorrow. I'll be back here at five-thirty AM sharp. And you better be ready to work, hangover or not. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," they groaned.
"Good." He grinned wickedly. "Sleep tight, boys."
The door closed behind him.
For a moment, they just stood there. Then Jake grinned and dropped to his knees, prying up the loose floorboard near his bunk. He pulled out the stash—a twelve-pack of Coors and a six-pack of Shiner Bock, carefully hidden in a cardboard box.
"Heroes drink first," he said, tossing beers to Jr and Colt.
They settled in—Billy and Jake on their bunks, Celeb on his, Jr and Colt on Colt's mattress, the three wiz kids sprawled on the floor. Someone turned on the small TV mounted on the wall, keeping the volume low. Nobody was really watching it anyway.
"So," Billy Renzo said, cracking open his beer. "What was it like? In the barn?"
Jr and Colt exchanged a look. Neither of them had really talked about it yet. Not the details.
"Scary as hell," Jr said finally. "We couldn't move. The hogtie—" He gestured at his bandaged wrists. "Everything was pulled so tight we couldn't even crawl. We tried to reach each other's ropes, but..."
"We couldn't do it," Colt finished. "We just had to wait. And hope you guys found us in time."
"When we saw the fire start on thermal imaging," Ryan said quietly, "I thought we were too late."
"You almost were," Jr admitted. "Another thirty seconds..."
He didn't finish. He didn't have to.
"But you weren't," Celeb said firmly. "You found them. We got them out. They're here. That's what matters."
"Amen to that," Jake said, raising his beer.
They drank in silence for a moment. Then Daniel pulled up the drone footage on his laptop. "You guys want to see it? The whole rescue from the air?"
Jr wasn't sure he did, but Colt nodded. "Yeah. Let's see it."
Daniel turned the laptop so everyone could see. The thermal imaging showed the barn, the two heat signatures inside. Then the consortium vehicles arriving. The men rushing in. The boys being carried out just before the barn collapsed in flames.
"Damn," Colt said softly. "We really were that close."
"Your dad was first through the door," Billy told Jr. "Josh didn't even hesitate. Ran straight into that fire."
"Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake got to me," Colt added, looking at them. "Cut me loose and dragged me out."
"You're family," Billy said simply. "What else were we gonna do?"
The conversation flowed as freely as the beer. They told and retold the story from every angle—Jr and Colt describing the abduction, the terror of being hogtied and helpless, watching the fire start. The wiz kids walking through every step of tracking Colt's phone, deploying the drones, guiding the rescue team in real-time.
"We need to upgrade the whole network," Jr said, his tech brain already working despite the exhaustion and alcohol. "Make it so if anyone hits the emergency button, their phone automatically starts streaming location data even if it's damaged."
"Already working on it," Billy Renzo said with a grin. "Should have it coded by next week."
"Nerds," Jake said affectionately. "Even after getting kidnapped, you're still talking about tech."
"It's what saved us," Jr pointed out.
"Fair enough."
Billy Renzo pulled up more footage—the white panel van being intercepted by state troopers, the kidnappers being taken into custody, the burn pattern analysis of the barn.
"State fire marshal says they doused the whole place with at least five gallons of gasoline," Ryan said. "It was meant to go up fast. Leave no evidence."
"Leave no witnesses," Colt said quietly.
The room fell silent for a moment.
"But they failed," Celeb said, putting his hand on Colt's shoulder. "You're here. Both of you. Those bastards failed."
Around eleven-thirty, they heard heavy footsteps coming back up the stairs. Everyone looked at each other—had Pops been listening? Waiting to make sure they were okay?
The door opened and Pops stood there, surveying the scene. Eight boys, empty beer bottles, whiskey glasses still on the dresser, laptops showing drone footage, two heroes with bandaged wrists still wearing their John Deere caps.
"All right, you degenerates," Pops said, his cigar glowing in the dim light. "Time for you wiz kids to head home before your parents think I've corrupted you completely."
"Too late for that, sir," Billy Renzo said with a grin.
"Smart ass." Pops pointed at the door. "Get out of here. And drive careful—I don't want to explain to your folks why you're wrapped around a telephone pole."
"Yes, sir."
The three wiz kids gathered their gear, fist-bumping Jr and Colt one more time. "Same time tomorrow?" Billy Renzo asked. "Command center?"
"Absolutely," Jr said. "We've got work to do."
"Nerds," Jake muttered.
After they left, Pops looked at the five remaining boys—his frat house crew, his great-grandsons. Billy and Jake, twenty-one and twenty-two. Celeb, twenty-one. Jr, sixteen. Colt, seventeen.
"You boys did good today," he said quietly. "Real good. All of you. I'm damn proud."
"Thanks, Pops," they said.
"Don't let it go to your heads." The gruffness was back immediately. "You still got a ranch to run. And I'll be back here at five-thirty AM sharp. Don't care how much Jack Daniels you drank, don't care how many beers are under that floorboard. When that door opens, your asses better be moving. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," they groaned.
"Good." He started to leave, then paused at the door, his weathered hand on the frame. Without turning around, he said quietly, "Welcome home, boys."
The door closed.
For a moment, nobody moved. Then Jake reached over and turned off the light.
"Five-thirty's gonna suck," Billy muttered from his top bunk.
"So worth it," Celeb said from across the room.
"Damn straight," Jake agreed.
Jr settled into his bottom bunk, every muscle in his body aching. His shoulders screamed from the hogtie. His wrists throbbed under the bandages. His throat was raw from smoke. But he was in his own bed, in the frat house, surrounded by his brothers.
Next to him on the floor mattress, Colt was already starting to snore softly.
Above him, Billy shifted on his bunk. Across the room, Jake and Celeb were getting comfortable.
The whiskey and beer and sheer exhaustion were pulling them all under.
Jr's last thought before sleep took him was simple: Home.
Within minutes, all five of them were out cold, dead to the world.
The frat house was silent.
Until 5:30 AM, when Pops would make good on his threat.
