.jpg)
Chapter 1
The world came back in fragments.
First, the taste—copper and cotton, thick and choking. Then the smell—hay, dust, old wood, and something chemical that burned the back of his throat. Billy Bensen's eyelids felt like they weighed ten pounds each as he fought to open them.
What the hell...
His vision swam, blurred shapes resolving slowly into the dim interior of what looked like an old barn. Shafts of late afternoon light cut through gaps in the weathered planks, illuminating dancing dust motes. His head pounded with a rhythm that matched his racing heartbeat.
Then he saw them—three figures in dark clothing, their backs to him as they headed toward a door at the far end of the barn. One of them glanced back, and Billy instinctively tried to call out. The sound died in his throat, muffled into nothing by the rag stuffed in his mouth and the cloth tied tight across his face.
The door slammed shut. An engine roared to life outside, then faded into the distance.
Silence.
Billy's breath came hard and fast through his nose as reality crashed over him. His arms were stretched high above his head, wrists lashed to the rungs of an old wooden ladder propped against the barn wall. Ropes bit deep into his biceps, cutting off circulation. More ropes circled his thighs and ankles, pinning his legs. He couldn't move more than an inch in any direction.
No. No no no no—
He yanked hard against the restraints, ignoring the burn in his shoulders. The ladder creaked but held firm. He twisted his wrists, feeling the rough hemp dig into his skin. Nothing gave. He kicked uselessly, his boots scraping against the wall.
Breathe. Breathe through your nose. Don't panic—
But panic was already flooding through him like ice water. His chest heaved as he fought for air around the gag. Sweat broke out across his forehead, trickling down his temples. He could feel it starting under his arms too, soaking into his dirty wife beater.
How long have I been out? Where the hell am I?
He forced himself to stop struggling, to take stock. His cowboy hat was still on his head—somehow that detail seemed absurd, almost funny if he wasn't so terrified. His jeans, his boots, everything was still on him. Nothing hurt except his head and his arms, which were already turning an ugly purple-blue where the ropes cut into his biceps.
Think, Billy. THINK. What happened?
He'd been... where? The last thing he remembered was—
The south pasture. Checking the fence line.
It came back in flashes. He'd been alone, Jake had gone to help Ray with the books. He remembered dismounting to check a post, and then... nothing. Just a gap where his memory should be, and then waking up here.
They grabbed me. Someone grabbed me off our own damn land.
His heart hammered harder. Who? Why? The Benson Ranch had enemies—what ranch didn't?—but this was something else entirely. You didn't just snatch a man in broad daylight and tie him up in a barn for a property dispute or stolen cattle.
Ransom.
The word hit him like a physical blow. Of course. The consortium. Six families owning a third of Kings County. Everyone knew the Bensons had money, knew about the expansion, the new equipment. Hell, they'd just dropped fifty grand on the tech system for the boys.
Jake. Jake will know I'm missing. He'll come looking—
But how long would that take? An hour? Three? More? And would they even know where to look? This barn could be anywhere. He didn't recognize it, couldn't see anything through the gaps in the walls except scrub grass and empty sky.
Billy tried the ropes again, more carefully this time, testing each binding. His wrists had maybe half an inch of give, but not enough. Not nearly enough. The ones around his biceps and thighs were tighter, professionally done. Whoever had grabbed him knew what they were doing.
I'm fucked.
The thought came cold and clear, and with it a wave of desperation so intense it made him dizzy. He was twenty-one years old. He'd never been more than fifty miles from the ranch in his life. He'd survived bucking broncos and angry bulls and one memorable incident with a rattlesnake, but nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this.
He thought of Edna, probably waiting for him to call like he did every evening. Of Jake, his other half, who'd know something was wrong the second Billy didn't show up for dinner. Of Pops with his brandy and cigars, who'd survived Vietnam and would be damned if he'd let his youngest grandson disappear.
Of Jr. and the tech system. The radios. The emergency button.
If I could just reach it—
But his radio was on his belt, and his hands were ten feet above it, useless. The satellite phone Jake had made him start carrying was in his truck, wherever that was. All that expensive equipment, and he might as well be living in 1825 for all the good it did him now.
The barn settled around him, wood creaking in the heat. Billy hung there, arms screaming, sweat rolling down his sides, and waited. For what, he didn't know.
For someone to come back.
For someone to find him.
For anything to happen except this terrible, helpless silence.
Chapter 2
Three hours.
Billy knew it was roughly three hours because he'd watched the light shift across the barn floor, tracking the sun's descent through the cracks in the western wall. The bright shafts had moved a good six feet, now painting the opposite wall in softer, orange-tinged rays.
Three hours of hanging here like a piece of meat.
His wife beater was plastered to his chest and back, completely soaked through with sweat. It ran in steady streams now—down his ribs, into the waistband of his jeans, down his neck. His hair under the cowboy hat was drenched, and he could feel droplets rolling off the brim. The barn was an oven, trapping the Texas heat with no circulation, and his body was cooking in it.
But that wasn't the worst part.
His arms had gone from purple-blue to a dark, mottled color that scared him. The veins stood out like ropes themselves, bulging and twisted. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore—hadn't been able to for at least an hour. When he tried to wiggle them, he couldn't tell if they were moving or not. The ropes around his biceps had turned his forearms into dead weight, and his shoulders burned with a deep, grinding ache that made him want to scream into the gag.
He'd tried everything. Pulled until his wrists bled. Twisted until his ankles were raw. Thrown his weight against the ropes so hard the ladder had actually shifted an inch—but that only made the bindings tighter, and he'd nearly passed out from the pain.
Nothing worked. He was as stuck now as he'd been three hours ago.
The radio.
His eyes dropped to his belt for the thousandth time. There it was, clipped to his right hip. The Motorola satellite radio, part of the new system. Black, compact, the little green LED light blinking to show it was on and charged.
Eight feet of rope and immovable bonds separated his dead hands from that radio.
Eight feet might as well be eight miles.
If I could just—
Static crackled to life.
Billy's whole body jerked against the ropes, a surge of desperate hope flooding through him. The radio. Someone was—
"Billy, you copy?" Jake's voice cut through the barn, tinny but clear from the speaker on his belt. "Billy, come in, man."
JAKE!
Billy screamed into the gag, the sound coming out as a muffled, pathetic grunt. He thrashed against the ropes, ignoring the fire in his shoulders, the way his wrists tore against the hemp. The ladder creaked and groaned but held fast.
I'M HERE! JAKE, I'M HERE!
"Billy?" Jake's voice again, tighter now. Worried. "If you can hear this, hit me back, bro. Where the hell are you?"
Billy fought harder, throwing his whole body weight against the restraints. His boots scraped uselessly against the wall. Sweat poured into his eyes. He screamed again and again into the gag, each cry dying in his throat, absorbed by the rag and cloth.
ANSWER HIM! GODDAMMIT, ANSWER HIM!
But his hands hung useless above him, fingers he couldn't even feel, miles away from the radio at his hip.
A pause. Then another voice—younger, higher.
"Uncle Billy, it's Jr. Dad's got everyone out looking for you." The boy's voice cracked slightly. "Your truck's still at the south fence, but you're gone. Where'd you go, man? Call in."
I CAN'T! I CAN'T CALL IN!
Billy's vision blurred with tears of frustration and rage. He could hear them. Right there. Jake and Jr., probably in the command center, trying every frequency. The consortium would be mobilizing—he could picture it. Trucks rolling out, drones going up, everyone scanning the horizon.
And he was eight feet away from being able to tell them where—
Where?
He didn't even know where he was.
"Billy, this ain't funny, man." Jake's voice had an edge to it now, fear bleeding through the frustration. "You're scaring Mom. Pop's about ready to ride out himself. Just... just call in, okay? Even if you're hurt, just key the mic so we know you're alive."
I'm trying! Jake, I'm TRYING!
Billy sagged against the ropes, chest heaving, throat raw from screaming into the gag. The radio sat there on his belt, so close he could see the orange transmit button on the side. One press. That's all it would take. One press and Jake would hear him, would know he was alive, would—
Would still have no idea where to find him.
"Alright, Billy, we're gonna keep this channel open," Jr. said, his voice steadier now, like he was reading from one of the protocols they'd practiced. "Every thirty minutes, we'll check in. If you can respond, do it. If you can't..." A pause. "If you can't, we're gonna find you anyway. Uncle Jake's not stopping. None of us are."
The radio clicked off.
Silence crashed back over the barn, somehow heavier than before. Billy hung there, trembling, staring down at the radio through tears and sweat. The green light blinked its steady rhythm.
On. Connected. Working perfectly.
Completely useless.
Eight feet.
He'd never felt so helpless in his entire life. Not when he'd been thrown by that bronco at sixteen and cracked three ribs. Not when he'd been cornered by a wild boar with nothing but a fence post to defend himself. Those times, he'd been able to do something. Fight back. Move. Act.
Now he could only hang here and listen.
Listen to his family search for him.
Listen to Jake's voice get tighter with each call.
Listen to Jr. trying to sound brave.
Listen to the static between their check-ins, knowing that with every minute that passed, his arms were dying a little more, his body was weakening, and his chances of getting out of this alive were slipping away.
The radio. Just eight feet away.
It might as well be on the moon.
Billy let his head fall back against the ladder, staring up at the barn's rafters through the haze of sweat and tears. The orange rays on the wall had turned to amber now, deepening toward grey as evening approached.
In thirty minutes, they'd call again.
And he'd hang here, screaming into his gag, while Jake and Jr. called out to silence.
He'd never known helplessness could feel like this—like drowning on dry land, like watching a lifeline float past just out of reach.
The radio blinked on.
And Billy hung there, helpless, soaked, arms dying above his head.
Waiting.
Chapter 3
The Benson ranch house had never held this many people at once.
Every room on the first floor was packed—consortium members spilling from the living room into the kitchen, the hallway, even out onto the front porch. Tom and Sarah Benson stood near the fireplace, Sarah's face pale and drawn. Ray paced by the windows, phone pressed to his ear. Josh sat at the dining table with Rebecca, both of them looking shell-shocked.
Sheriff Wade Nelson stood in the center of it all, his deputies Wilson and Ryan flanking him, all three in uniform despite the late hour. The Beaumonts had arrived within twenty minutes of the call. The Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes had been right behind them.
And Jake—Jake looked like he was about to explode.
"Seven hours." His voice cut through the low murmur of conversation. "He's been gone seven goddamn hours and we're just standing here—"
"Jake." Tom's voice was firm but strained. "Wade's doing everything—"
"Bullshit!" Jake slammed his fist on the table, making everyone jump. "We should be out there! Every truck, every horse, every—"
"And go where?" Wade's voice was calm, measured. The voice of a man who'd done this before. "Son, we've had search parties out since sundown. We've covered every inch of the south pasture, every neighboring property within ten miles. We've got the state police on alert, helicopters on standby. But it's dark now, and we need—"
The laptop on the table chimed.
Everyone froze.
Rebecca's hand trembled as she reached for it. "It's... it's an email. No sender name. Just a—" Her voice died.
"What?" Josh was on his feet, moving to her side. "Becca, what is it?"
She turned the laptop around.
The photograph filled the screen, and the room erupted.
Billy. Strung up against a barn wall, arms stretched high above his head, lashed to an old ladder. His head hung forward slightly, cowboy hat still somehow on his head. Even in the poor lighting of the photo, they could see the ropes cutting into his arms, the dark discoloration, the sweat-soaked shirt.
Sarah made a sound like she'd been punched.
"Jesus Christ," Tom breathed.
Jake was across the room in two strides, his face inches from the screen. "Is he—can you tell if he's—"
"He's alive." Wade leaned in, his professional mask cracking slightly. "See his chest? He's breathing. And his eyes..." He pointed. "He's conscious. Or was when this was taken."
Below the photo, three lines of text:
$500,000 USD
Account: 4472-8839-2241-7755
Bank: Cayman International Trust, George Town
You have 48 hours. No police. No FBI. One chance.
"Forty-eight hours?" Ray's voice rose. "They expect us to move half a million dollars in—"
"We can do it." Robert Beaumont stepped forward, his Louisiana drawl tight. "Between all our accounts, the consortium can liquidate that by morning. The bank transfer might take—"
"We're not paying a goddamn thing until we know more." Pops's voice cracked through the room like a rifle shot.
The old man sat in his armchair by the window, brandy glass in one gnarled hand, cigar smoldering in the other. His face was carved from stone, but his eyes blazed with a fury that made everyone take a step back.
"Pops—" Sarah started.
"Those cocksucking sons of bitches think they can grab one of mine?" Pops pushed himself to his feet, every one of his seventy-six years radiating menace. "They think they can string up my grandson like a piece of meat and I'm just gonna roll over? Fuck that. Fuck that."
"Dad—" Tom tried.
"Don't you 'Dad' me, Tom. I've seen this shit before. 'Nam, '68, Saigon. They grab someone, make demands, you pay up, and three days later you find the body in a ditch anyway." He took a long pull from his brandy. "We pay, but we also find the bastards. And when we do—"
"Pops." Wade's voice was hard now. "You know I can't let you—"
"Can't let me what, Wade? Protect my family? This is my land, my blood. You do your job, and I'll do mine."
A new voice cut through the tension.
"I got something."
Everyone turned. Billy Jr. stood in the doorway to the command center—the converted room next to what the family called "the frat house." His face was flushed, eyes bright with intensity. Behind him, three more sixteen-year-old faces peered out: Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez, all crowded around glowing screens.
"Jr.?" Josh moved toward his son. "What've you got?"
"Uncle Billy's radio." Jr. stepped fully into the room, holding an iPad. "It's still on. Still transmitting. We've been monitoring the channel since he disappeared, and..." He tapped the screen, bringing up a waveform display. "There's ambient noise. Not much, but it's there. And fifteen minutes ago, we heard something that might've been movement."
Jake was across the room in a heartbeat. "You can hear him? Is he—"
"We can't hear him." Jr. shook his head quickly. "The radio's on his belt, right? So unless he's talking really loud or moving a lot, we're just getting background. But we're recording everything, running it through filters, trying to isolate—"
"Can you trace it?" Wade was there now too, his professional interest overriding everything else. "Triangulate the signal?"
"That's what we're working on." Daniel stepped out, his laptop in his hands. "The satellite radios don't have GPS broadcasting by default—we turned that off for security. But the signal's bouncing off towers. If we can get the carrier data, cross-reference the ping times..."
"English, son." Pops growled.
"We might be able to find him." Billy Renzo said simply. "But it'll take time. Hours, maybe. The signal's weak, and it keeps cutting in and out."
"Then get back in there and do it." Jake's voice was raw. "Whatever you need—equipment, access, anything—you get it. You understand me?"
All four boys nodded.
"Wait." Jr. turned back. "Uncle Jake... there's something else we could try."
"What?"
"We could... we could talk to him. On the channel." Jr.'s voice was tentative. "If his radio's on, he can hear us, right? Even if he can't respond. We could let him know what we're doing. Let him know we're—"
"Yes." Jake didn't hesitate. "Yes. Do it."
Jr. nodded and ducked back into the command center. A moment later, his voice came through speakers they'd rigged throughout the house, broadcasting on Billy's frequency.
"Uncle Billy, if you can hear this... we got the ransom demand. We saw the photo." The boy's voice cracked slightly, then steadied. "We're gonna get you out. All of us. The whole consortium's here, and we're not stopping until you're home."
In the living room, Sarah pressed a hand to her mouth, tears streaming down her face. Tom wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
Jr. continued. "Me and the guys, we're tracing your radio signal right now. It's gonna take a while, but we'll find you. And Jake's—Uncle Jake's right here. You want to say something?"
Jake grabbed the radio mic from the table, his hand shaking. For a moment, he couldn't speak, his throat working uselessly. Then:
"Billy." His voice was thick, barely controlled. "Billy, you stubborn son of a bitch, you hang on. You hear me? You hang on. I'm coming for you. I don't care if it takes every dollar we have, every man in the county, I'm coming. You and me, we're—" He stopped, swallowed hard. "You're my brother. My twin. And I'm not losing you. So you hang on."
The radio crackled with static.
No response.
But somewhere, in a barn they couldn't find, with arms he couldn't move, Billy was listening.
Pops raised his brandy glass, his face grim.
"Forty-eight hours," he said quietly. "They want to play games? Fine. We'll play. But they're gonna learn real quick—you don't fuck with a Benson."
Outside, the night deepened over Kings County. Search lights swept across pastures. Drones hummed in the darkness, thermal cameras scanning. In the command center, four teenage boys hunched over computers, chasing electronic ghosts through the airways.
And in the ranch house, a family prepared for war.
Chapter 4
Darkness.
Complete, suffocating darkness had swallowed the barn whole. The last sliver of grey light had faded an hour ago, leaving Billy suspended in a black void broken only by thin cracks of moonlight between the planks.
Then the bugs came.
Mosquitoes whined past his ears. Flies buzzed around his face. They landed on his neck, his arms, drawn to his sweat-soaked body. He couldn't swat them away. Couldn't brush them off. Could only shake his head uselessly while they fed.
Get off get off GET OFF—
Billy thrashed against the ropes, beyond caring about the pain, beyond rational thought. His body jerked and twisted, the ladder groaning with each violent movement. He screamed into the gag, the sound muffled and useless.
Something bit him on the neck.
Billy's whole body convulsed, straining against the restraints with every ounce of strength he had left. His shoulders screamed. His wrists burned. The ropes cut deeper.
And then he felt it—the radio shifting on his belt.
No—
He twisted again, harder, and the clip gave way. The radio tumbled off his hip, falling through the darkness. It hit the floor with a solid crack, and Billy heard the unmistakable sound of plastic breaking.
NO! NO NO NO—
He screamed, the sound tearing from his throat with such force that the rag in his mouth shifted. He screamed again, thrashing wildly, and the gag—loosened by hours of sweat and struggle—finally pulled free, the cloth dropping to hang around his neck.
"HELP!" His voice exploded into the darkness, raw and desperate. "SOMEBODY HELP ME! PLEASE!"
On the floor below, the radio's speaker crackled to life, the transmit button jammed against the barn floor.
Every word Billy screamed was broadcasting across the consortium's network.
In the command center, all four boys were hunched over their equipment, exhausted, when Billy Jr.'s screen lit up with an active transmission signal.
Then they heard the scream.
"HELP! SOMEBODY—PLEASE!"
"OH MY GOD!" Jr. lunged for the radio. "UNCLE BILLY! BILLY, WE HEAR YOU!"
The house exploded into motion. Jake burst through the command center door, Tom and Josh right behind him. Wade grabbed his own radio. Every consortium member who'd been dozing in chairs jerked awake.
"Billy!" Jake seized the mic from Jr.'s hands. "Billy, it's Jake! We're here! We can hear you!"
"JAKE!" Billy's voice came through the speaker, broken and raw. "Jake, I can't—my arms—"
"Where are you? Billy, where the hell are you?"
"I DON'T KNOW! A barn—old barn—I can't move—my arms are tied above my head—they're dead, Jake, they're DEAD—"
"How long?" Wade had moved to Jr.'s shoulder, his cop instincts taking over. "Billy, how long have you been there?"
"Hours—I don't know—seven? Eight? The ropes—they cut off—I can't feel my hands—"
Jr.'s fingers flew across his keyboard. "Got it! The signal's triangulating—come on, come on—"
"Billy, listen to me." Wade's voice was firm, cutting through the chaos. "We're tracking your signal right now. You need to stay calm. Tell me what you can see."
"IT'S DARK! I can't see anything! Please, somebody please come get me—"
"We're coming, brother." Jake's voice was thick. "I swear to God, we're coming. Just hold on."
"I can't—my arms—Jake, I think they're dying—the ropes are so tight—"
"Almost there," Daniel muttered, his eyes locked on his screen. "Signal strength is good, tower triangulation is—"
"GOT IT!" Jr. shouted, punching the air. "Coordinates locked! It's—" He zoomed in on the map. "Oh shit. It's the old Hendricks property. The abandoned dairy farm, off Route 71."
"That's twenty-three miles," Ryan Mattern said, already pulling up a route map.
Wade was on his radio immediately. "All units, we have a location. Abandoned Hendricks dairy farm, Route 71. Suspect is restrained and in medical distress. EMS, I need you rolling NOW."
Pops pushed through the crowd, moving faster than anyone had seen him move in years. He grabbed the mic from Jake's hand.
"Billy boy." His gravelly voice filled the channel. "It's Pops. You listen to me, son."
"Pops?" Billy's voice broke. "Pops, I'm scared—"
"I know you are. But you're a Benson, and Bensons don't quit. You hear me? We know where you are. We're twenty-three miles out, and we're coming in hot. Every truck in the consortium. Your uncles, your cousins, the whole damn county. You just gotta hold on for thirty more minutes. Can you do that for me?"
A sob came through the speaker. "I'll try—"
"That's my boy. Jake's on his way. Wade's on his way. Hell, I'm coming myself. You keep talking to us, you understand? Don't you go quiet on me."
"Okay," Billy's voice was small now, exhausted. "Okay, Pops."
"Move OUT!" Jake was already running for the door, keys in hand.
The consortium erupted into action. Trucks roared to life outside. The Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes—every family member who could drive was in motion. Wade and his deputies hit their sirens. Celeb and Josh grabbed bolt cutters and first aid kits.
Jr. stayed at his station, keeping the channel open. "Uncle Billy, we're all coming. Twenty-three miles. We'll be there soon."
Through the speaker, they could hear Billy's ragged breathing, the occasional sob, and underneath it all—the distant buzz of insects in the darkness.
But he was alive.
And they were coming.
The convoy tore out of the Benson ranch, a line of headlights cutting through the Texas night, racing toward Route 71 and the old Hendricks place.
Toward Billy.
Chapter 5
The twenty-three-mile drive took fourteen minutes.
Jake's truck led the convoy, doing ninety on the straightaways, eighty through the curves. Behind him, a dozen more vehicles—the Beaumonts' F-350, the Renzos' dually, every working truck from six families. Wade's cruiser brought up the rear, lights blazing, sirens screaming into the night.
In the command center back at the ranch, Jr. and his friends hadn't stopped working.
"Wait, wait—" Daniel's fingers froze over his keyboard. "I've got something else."
"What?" Jr. spun his chair around.
"The email. The one with the ransom demand." Daniel's eyes were locked on his screen. "I've been running a trace on the metadata. It bounced through three proxy servers, but I got through the first layer and—" He hit a key. "There. Cell tower ping. Whoever sent it was using a phone, not a computer."
Billy Renzo leaned in. "Can you get a location?"
"Already on it." Daniel's screen filled with code, tower data streaming past. "Come on, come on... got it! The signal pinged off a tower near..." He zoomed in on a map. "Holy shit. It's a motel. The Desert Rose, off Highway 77. That's only fifteen miles from the Hendricks place."
"They're still there?" Ryan Mattern was already reaching for his radio.
"The ping was forty minutes ago." Daniel checked the timestamp. "They might still be—"
Jr. grabbed the radio mic. "Sheriff Nelson, this is Jr., you copy?"
Wade's voice crackled back immediately. "Go ahead, son."
"Sir, we traced the ransom email to a cell phone. Location is the Desert Rose Motel, Highway 77. That's fifteen miles northeast of your current position. The ping was forty minutes old, but—"
"I know that motel." Wade's voice was tight. "Wilson, Ryan, you copy?"
"Copy, Dad." Wilson's voice came through on the channel.
"Ryan here. We're three minutes behind you."
"Change of plans. You two peel off, head to the Desert Rose. Don't approach until you have backup. These bastards already grabbed one of ours—assume they're armed and dangerous."
"Ten-four."
Jr. heard the urgency in the deputies' voices, the sound of engines revving harder. He exchanged glances with his friends.
"Let's roll," Billy Renzo said, already grabbing his jacket.
"What?" Jr. looked at him.
"You heard the sheriff. They need backup. We've got the tracking equipment, the drones, the thermal—"
"We're sixteen," Daniel pointed out.
"So?" Ryan Mattern was on his feet too. "Uncle Billy's out there. Those assholes who took him might be at that motel. You really gonna sit here?"
Jr. looked at the screens, at the blinking dot on the map showing Wade's convoy approaching the Hendricks place, at the second dot showing the Desert Rose Motel.
"Grab everything," he said. "We're going."
The barn looked like something out of a horror movie.
Jake's headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the weathered structure—half-collapsed, surrounded by overgrown scrub. He was out of the truck before it fully stopped, bolt cutters in hand, Celeb right behind him with a flashlight.
"BILLY!"
"Here!" The voice was weak, hoarse, but it was there. "I'm here!"
Jake hit the barn door at a full run, Celeb's flashlight sweeping the interior. The beam found him—Billy, still strung up against the ladder, arms above his head, cowboy hat askew, face streaked with sweat and tears.
"Oh Jesus—" Jake's voice broke. "I got you, bro. I got you."
He attacked the ropes with the bolt cutters, Celeb holding the flashlight steady. Tom and Josh rushed in behind them, more flashlights, more hands reaching up to support Billy's weight.
"Easy, easy—" Josh positioned himself under Billy's left side. "We gotta support him when the ropes give—"
The first rope snapped. Billy's left arm dropped like dead weight, and he screamed.
"I know, I know—" Jake was already cutting the right side. "Almost there, Billy. Almost—"
The second rope gave way. Billy collapsed forward, and they caught him—Jake and Tom and Josh and Celeb, all of them lowering him carefully to the barn floor.
Rebecca pushed through with her medical bag, already in nurse mode. "Give me room. Everyone back."
She knelt beside Billy, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. "Billy, can you hear me? I need you to tell me where it hurts."
"My arms—" Billy's voice was a rasp. "Can't feel—can't feel my hands—"
Rebecca examined his arms in the flashlight beam. The discoloration was severe—dark purple-blue from his elbows down, the flesh swollen around the deep rope burns on his biceps. But even as she watched, she could see the color beginning to shift, the blood flow slowly returning.
"The circulation's coming back," she said, relief in her voice. "That's good. That's really good." She pulled out gauze and antiseptic. "This is going to hurt."
She cleaned the rope burns carefully, Billy hissing through his teeth with each touch. The wounds were deep but clean. She wrapped them in sterile bandaging, then began massaging his forearms, working from the elbows down to encourage blood flow.
"Can you feel this?" She pressed on his palm.
Billy winced. "Yeah. Pins and needles. Like my whole arm fell asleep."
"That's good. That means the nerves are intact." She worked on the other arm. "You're going to be sore for days, maybe weeks. These rope burns need to stay clean. But I think you'll be okay."
Pops appeared in the barn doorway, silhouetted against the headlights. He moved slowly, deliberately, until he stood over Billy. For a long moment, he just looked down at his youngest grandson, his weathered face unreadable.
Then he unscrewed his brandy flask and held it out.
"Here, boy. You earned it."
Billy took it with shaking hands—both hands working now, even if barely—and lifted it to his lips. The brandy burned going down, but it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. He took a long drag, then another, feeling the warmth spread through his chest.
"That's my grandson," Pops said quietly. "Tough son of a bitch, just like his old man. Just like me."
Wade's voice crackled over every radio at once.
"All units, this is Nelson. We have three suspects surrounded at the Desert Rose Motel. Repeat, suspects are contained. Do not approach—they may be armed."
Billy's head snapped up, eyes suddenly sharp despite the pain. "That them?"
"Billy—" Rebecca started to protest.
"That them?" Billy's voice was stronger now, edged with something cold and hard. "The ones who grabbed me?"
Jake met his brother's eyes and nodded slowly. "Jr. traced their phone. Wade and the boys have them boxed in."
Billy pushed himself up, his arms protesting but working. "Get me there."
"Billy, you need rest—" Rebecca began.
"I need to see their faces." The words came out flat, final. "Those sons of bitches left me strung up for eight hours. They're not getting away before I look them in the eye."
Tom opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. He'd seen that look before—in his father's eyes, decades ago.
Jake held out his hand. "Can you stand?"
Billy grabbed it, let Jake haul him to his feet. His legs were shaky, his arms on fire, but he was upright.
"Let's go."
They helped him to the truck—Jake on one side, Celeb on the other—but Billy walked on his own feet. Ray brought water, which Billy drank in desperate gulps. Pops handed him the flask again, and Billy took another pull before handing it back.
The convoy reformed, engines roaring to life. But now they had what they came for.
Billy was alive.
And he wanted blood.
The wiz kids' truck—Ryan Mattern's father's F-250—roared down Highway 77, Jr. at the wheel despite being the youngest. In the bed, secured with bungee cords, were two drones, a laptop, and enough tech equipment to outfit a surveillance van.
"Three miles out," Daniel called from the passenger seat, eyes on his GPS. "Wade said don't approach, but—"
"We're not approaching." Jr.'s jaw was set. "We're providing aerial reconnaissance."
Billy Renzo grinned from the back seat. "Pops would be proud."
"Pops would kick our asses," Ryan Mattern countered. "But yeah, he'd be proud first."
The Desert Rose Motel appeared on the horizon—a run-down single-story building with a flickering neon sign. Three sheriff's vehicles had the parking lot blocked, Wilson and Ryan Nelson crouched behind their cruisers, weapons drawn. Two more county units had just arrived.
Jr. pulled off the highway a quarter mile back, killing the lights. "Get the drones up. Thermal and night vision. I want eyes on every exit."
The boys moved with practiced efficiency, launching both drones within ninety seconds. The feeds appeared on Daniel's laptop—crisp thermal images showing three figures inside one of the motel rooms, two more sheriff's deputies taking position at the rear of the building.
"Room 7," Daniel reported. "Three subjects, all upright, moving around. One near the window, two toward the back."
Jr. keyed his radio. "Sheriff Nelson, this is Jr. We have drone surveillance overhead. Room 7 contains three subjects."
"Goddammit, Jr.—" Wade's voice was equal parts exasperation and relief. "You boys are supposed to be at the ranch."
"Yes sir. But we're here now, and we have eyes in the sky. Subject one is male, approximately six feet, near the front window. Subjects two and three are—"
"They're moving!" Billy Renzo pointed at the screen. "Back door—"
"Suspects attempting rear exit!" Jr. shouted into the radio.
"Ryan, go!" Wade's command cracked through the night.
Deputy Ryan Nelson was already moving, his partner right behind him. The motel room's back door burst open, and two figures stumbled out—right into the deputies' guns.
"HANDS! SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!"
"DOWN ON THE GROUND! NOW!"
The third suspect tried the front door a second later and ran straight into Wilson's tackle. All three were on the ground, cuffed, within thirty seconds.
The Desert Rose parking lot flooded with light as more vehicles arrived—the consortium convoy, led by Jake's truck with Billy in the passenger seat, arms bandaged, Pops's flask still in his hand.
Billy's eyes locked on the three men being hauled to their feet by the deputies. Even from forty yards away, even through the pain and exhaustion, his gaze was ice-cold.
"That's them," he said quietly. "That's the cocksuckers who took me."
Jake's hand found his brother's shoulder. Behind them, Pops climbed out of Tom's truck, cigar clenched between his teeth, another flask appearing from his jacket.
"Well then," the old man said, his voice carrying across the parking lot. "Let's have us a little conversation."
Wade Nelson turned, saw the expression on Pops's face, and keyed his radio.
"All units, maintain perimeter. Nobody goes anywhere until I say so."
In the motel parking lot, under the harsh lights and the stars of a Texas night, two worlds collided—the law, and the rough justice of Kings County ranchers who'd just gotten one of their own back.
And three kidnappers were about to learn which one carried more weight.
Chapter 6
Billy barely made it out of the truck before the consortium descended on him. Robert Beaumont was first, pulling him into a careful hug, mindful of his injured arms. Then the Matterns, the Rodriguezes, each family taking their turn, voices overlapping with relief and rage.
"Thank God—"
"Those bastards—"
"We got you, son—"
Jake stayed close, one hand on Billy's shoulder, never letting him stray far. Tom stood on the other side, his jaw tight as he watched the three kidnappers being held at gunpoint by Wade's deputies.
"Billy!"
Mario Renzo pushed through the crowd, his sons—Billy Renzo and his older brother Carlo—flanking him. Mario's weathered face was split in a grin, but his eyes were hard as flint. He carried something in his hands, and as he got closer, Billy could see what it was.
Rope. Cut pieces of hemp rope, each about six feet long. Three of them.
"For you, my friend." Mario held them out like an offering. "I think these are much better than handcuffs, no? More... personal."
Billy took them, his bandaged hands closing around the rough hemp. The same kind of rope that had cut into his arms for eight hours. The same kind that had left his hands dead and useless.
A slow, cold smile spread across his face.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Much better."
Wade Nelson watched the exchange, his expression carefully neutral. He looked at the three suspects on the ground, then at the rope in Billy's hands, then back at his deputies.
"Wilson, Ryan," he called out. "You boys bring the cuffs?"
Wilson patted his belt, then his pockets, his face a perfect mask of confusion. "Uh... no, sir. I thought Ryan had them."
"Don't look at me," Ryan said, shaking his head. "I thought they were in the cruiser."
Wade sighed heavily, like a man deeply disappointed by incompetence. "Well, hell. We can't just let them sit there uncuffed. Somebody's gonna have to tie them up. Make sure they're secure for transport." He looked directly at Billy, Pops, and Jake. "You boys know anything about rope?"
Pops took a long drag from his flask, his eyes gleaming. "Might know a thing or two, Sheriff."
"Good. Make sure it's tight. Real tight. We don't want them getting loose on the way to county lockup." Wade turned away, speaking into his radio. "All units, maintain perimeter. I need to make some calls. This is gonna be a while."
The three kidnappers realized what was happening a heartbeat too late.
"Wait—" one of them started.
"The hell you think you're doing—" another tried to twist away.
"You can't—Sheriff, you can't let them—"
But Jake and Celeb already had the first one, forcing him face-down on the pavement. Pops grabbed the second, surprisingly strong for his age. Tom and Josh took the third.
Billy walked forward, rope in hand, his movements deliberate. Slow.
"You know," he said conversationally, "I spent eight hours tied up today. Arms above my head. Rope so tight I couldn't feel my fingers." He held up his bandaged forearms. "Turned all kinds of interesting colors. Thought I might lose them."
"Please, man, we didn't mean—"
"Shut your mouth." The words came out like a whip crack. Billy knelt beside the first kidnapper, the one who'd glanced back at him in the barn. "Hogties. Nice and tight. The way you learn with cattle. The way these boys taught me when I was eight years old."
The consortium members formed a loose circle, blocking the view from the road. The wiz kids had their drones repositioned, cameras pointed down. Jr. had his phone out, Daniel had the laptop, both of them recording.
Billy worked with practiced efficiency despite his injured arms. Wrists behind the back first, wrapped tight. Then ankles. Then the connecting rope, pulling wrists and ankles together until the kidnapper's body formed a tight arch, every muscle straining.
"Not too tight," Pops advised, watching critically. "Don't want them going numb too quick. They got a nice long ride to county lockup. Should feel every second of it."
Billy adjusted the tension slightly, then moved to the second kidnapper. Jake took the third. Within five minutes, all three were trussed up tight, their bodies bowed backward, unable to move more than an inch in any direction.
"How's that feel?" Billy asked the first one. "Comfortable?"
The man's face was pressed against the pavement, twisted with fear and pain. "Please—"
"Please?" Billy leaned down close. "I said 'please' too. Into a gag. For eight hours. While bugs crawled all over me. While I listened to my family search for me on a radio I couldn't reach." He straightened. "You're gonna get a nice ride to jail. Might hit a few bumps on the way. Lot of rough roads between here and county lockup."
He turned to Wilson and Ryan. "Deputies, your prisoners are secured and ready for transport."
"Much obliged." Wilson grinned. "Truck bed's empty. Should fit all three just fine."
With help from the consortium members, they loaded the three hogtied kidnappers into the back of the deputies' pickup like sacks of feed. No gentleness, no care. Just lifted and dumped.
Billy moved closer to Jr.'s phone camera, his voice clear and hard. "This is what happens when you touch a Benson. When you touch anyone in this consortium. We take care of our own. And we don't forget."
He looked back at the three men in the truck bed, already struggling against their bonds, already feeling the bite of the rope.
"Ever."
Pops appeared at his side, offering the flask again. Billy took it, drained what was left, and handed it back.
"Good work, boy," Pops said quietly. "Your great-grandfather would be proud."
Jr.'s voice cut through the night air, still on the phone. "Hey Mom? We're all good here. Uncle Billy's okay. But, uh..." He glanced at the hogtied kidnappers in the truck bed, then back at the phone with a teenager's perfectly timed innocence. "I'm hungry. We'll be back soon."
Laughter rippled through the consortium members. The tension broke like a fever, replaced by something else—satisfaction, justice served in the old way, the way things were done in Kings County when the law looked the other way.
Wade Nelson stood by his cruiser, radio to his ear, his back carefully turned to the scene behind him. His deputies climbed into their truck, the engine starting up.
"Drive safe, boys," Wade called out without turning around. "Watch those bumps."
"Yes sir," Wilson replied, barely suppressing a grin.
Billy stood there, surrounded by his family, watching the deputies' truck pull away, three kidnappers hogtied in the back like captured game. His arms throbbed. His body ached. But he was home.
And the message had been sent.
Chapter 7
The Benson ranch had never smelled so good.
Every grill on the property was fired up—three gas grills, two charcoal smokers, and Pops's ancient cast-iron beast that he swore made the best steaks in Texas. The consortium had raided every freezer, pulling out every cut of beef they could find. Ribeyes, T-bones, sirloins, even some brisket that Robert Beaumont had been saving. Tonight, nothing was too good.
Inside, the kitchen was controlled chaos. Caroline Beaumont and Mary Nelson had taken command, directing the other women through the Benson pantry like generals planning a campaign. Potato salad, coleslaw, baked beans, corn on the cob, fresh rolls—everything Sarah had been saving for the consortium's next big gathering came out tonight.
Because tonight, they had something to celebrate.
Billy sat at the head of the outdoor table they'd assembled from three different tables pushed together, his bandaged arms resting on the wood, a cold beer in front of him. Jake sat to his right, Celeb to his left. Every few minutes, someone would come by—clap him on the shoulder, ruffle his hair, tell him how glad they were he was home.
"You're gonna get insufferable," Jake said, grinning. "All this hero worship going to your head."
"Damn right it is," Billy shot back, taking a pull from his beer. "I got kidnapped and lived to tell about it. That's worth at least a week of being insufferable."
"Try a month," Celeb added. "Maybe two."
Pops appeared from around the side of the house, the trunk of his ancient Cadillac loaded with brown paper bags. "Alright, you degenerates! Liquor store's been raided. We got whiskey, we got bourbon, we got tequila, and we got enough beer to drown a small army."
A cheer went up from the assembled men.
"That's my Pops," Jr. called out from where he and his friends were setting something up on the front porch.
"What are you boys doing over there?" Tom called out, squinting at them.
"Nothing!" all four answered in unison, way too quickly.
"Uh-huh." Tom turned back to the grill, shaking his head. "I don't want to know."
An hour later, everyone had eaten themselves into a stupor. Steaks had been devoured, sides demolished, and Pops's liquor store haul had been making the rounds. Billy had lost count of how many people had toasted him, but he was pretty sure he'd clinked glasses with every member of every family at least twice.
The sun had set, leaving the ranch bathed in the glow of porch lights and string lights someone had strung up. People were sprawled in chairs, on the porch steps, some even on blankets in the grass.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Jr.'s voice cut through the contented buzz of conversation. "If I could have your attention!"
Everyone turned to see the four wiz kids standing on the porch, looking incredibly pleased with themselves. Behind them, they'd hung a white bed sheet across the front of the house. Daniel had his laptop out, connected to a small projector.
"Tonight," Billy Renzo announced, "we present a special screening. A documentary, if you will."
"Of events that occurred approximately..." Ryan Mattern checked his watch, "four hours ago."
"Oh Lord," Rebecca muttered, but she was smiling.
"What did you boys do?" Wade called out, though his tone suggested he already knew.
"Just providing a public service, Grandpa," Jr. said innocently. "Documenting important law enforcement procedures for training purposes."
The projector flickered to life.
The first image that appeared on the sheet was crystal clear—the Desert Rose Motel parking lot, shot from above by one of the drones. Three figures were on the ground, surrounded by deputies and consortium members.
Then the audio kicked in.
"Wilson, Ryan," Wade's voice came through clearly. "You boys bring the cuffs?"
"Uh... no, sir. I thought Ryan had them."
"Don't look at me. I thought they were in the cruiser."
The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers.
"Oh, you little shits," Wade said, but he was laughing too.
The video continued, showing Wade's perfectly delivered sigh. "Well, hell. We can't just let them sit there uncuffed. Somebody's gonna have to tie them up."
More cheers. Someone—it sounded like Mario Renzo—yelled, "Beautiful! Like Shakespeare!"
The camera angle shifted as the drone moved lower, capturing Billy walking forward with the rope. The crowd quieted, watching as Billy knelt beside the first kidnapper.
"You know, I spent eight hours tied up today..."
When Billy said, "Hogties. Nice and tight," the men who'd been sampling Pops's liquor store haul let out whoops and hollers.
The video showed the tying in detail—professional, efficient, thorough. When Pops leaned in with his advice about "not too tight," the crowd lost it.
"That's my dad!" Tom shouted, raising his whiskey glass.
"Damn right it is!" Pops yelled back.
The best part came at the end, when the three kidnappers were loaded into the truck bed like cargo. The camera had caught one of them trying to say something, his face pressed against the metal, voice muffled and pathetic.
"Please—we're sorry—"
Billy's voice, cold and clear: "You're gonna get a nice ride to jail. Might hit a few bumps on the way."
The crowd went wild. Men were on their feet, beer and whiskey raised high. The women were shaking their heads but laughing just as hard.
Wade covered his face with his hand, but his shoulders were shaking with laughter. "I'm never gonna live this down with the state police."
"Sure you will," Wilson called out. "Just tell 'em we forgot the cuffs!"
The video ended with Jr.'s voice: "Hey Mom? I'm hungry. We'll be back soon."
The screen went dark, and the ranch erupted in applause and cheers.
Billy stood up, his beer raised. "To the wiz kids! Best damn tech support in Texas!"
"TO THE WIZ KIDS!" everyone chorused.
Jr. and his friends took exaggerated bows.
"And to the consortium," Jake added, standing beside his brother. "All six families. Because this is what we do. We take care of our own."
"TO THE CONSORTIUM!"
Glasses clinked. People hugged. Someone started playing music from a truck radio. A few couples started dancing on the grass.
Billy found himself surrounded by his family—Jake and Celeb on one side, Josh and Rebecca on the other. Pops pushed through with his flask.
"One more, Billy boy. For the road."
Billy took it, took a long pull, and handed it back. "Thanks, Pops. For everything."
"That's what family does." The old man's eyes were serious for a moment. "You scared the hell out of us today. But you're a Benson. You're tough. You survived." He raised the flask. "To surviving. To coming home. To never forgetting who we are."
"To home," Billy echoed.
Around them, the party continued into the night. The consortium—six families, hundreds of acres, bound together by land and blood and the kind of loyalty you couldn't buy. Tomorrow, there would be statements to give, paperwork to file, maybe some uncomfortable questions about "forgotten" handcuffs.
But tonight?
Tonight they celebrated.
Tonight, Billy Benson was home.
THE END
