Chapter 1: Morning Routine
The sun was already hot at six-thirty in the morning, typical for July in Kings County, Texas. The Benson Ranch kitchen smelled like coffee, bacon, and Sarah's biscuits—the kind that could make a grown man weep.
Tom Benson sat at the head of the long wooden table, reading something on his phone while sipping black coffee. Pops was across from him, already on his second cup, spiked with a splash of whiskey that Sarah pretended not to notice. At seventy-six, Pops did what Pops wanted, and what he wanted most mornings was his "breakfast medicine," as he called it.
"Gonna be a hot son of a bitch today," Pops announced to no one in particular, his gravelly voice cutting through the morning chatter.
"Language, Pops," Sarah called from the stove, not even turning around.
"Hell, Sarah, it's just weather commentary."
Josh came in from the mudroom, clipboard in hand, his boots leaving dusty prints on the tile. As general manager, he ran the day-to-day operations of the ranch, and breakfast was where he handed out assignments. Rebecca followed behind him, carrying a platter of scrambled eggs.
There was a thunder of footsteps from the second floor—the unmistakable sound of the frat house emptying out.
Jake and Billy came barreling down the stairs first, shoving each other and arguing about something. Behind them came Billy Jr., sixteen years old, already broad-shouldered from ranch work, grinning about whatever chaos had just happened upstairs. Then Celeb, twenty-one, still half-asleep. And finally Colt—the cousin from Baton Rouge who'd visited for a week last year, graduated high school, and never left. Everyone called him Louisiana for his thick drawl that got even thicker when he was tired or drunk.
All five residents of the frat house, descending like a stampede.
The frat house was on the second floor, next to Pops' bedroom, the new command center they'd built for all the consortium's tech equipment, and a single bathroom that was far too small for five boys. Most mornings it was a war zone up there—fights over shower time, toothpaste theft, wet towels on the floor, and someone always using all the hot water.
"Took you long enough," Pops called out as they hit the bottom of the stairs. "Thought you girls were putting on makeup."
"Blame Jake," Billy said. "Took twenty minutes in the shower."
"Because someone used all the hot water before me," Jake shot back.
"That was Celeb!"
"Was not."
"Hell, wasn't me neither," Colt drawled, his Louisiana accent thick. "Y'all just slow as molasses."
Jake had Billy in a headlock by the time they reached the kitchen. "Say it!"
"Never!" Billy grunted, twisting free and shoving his brother into the doorframe.
"Boys!" Tom didn't even look up from his phone. "Sit down before your mother takes a wooden spoon to both of you."
"I'm twenty-two years old," Jake protested, dropping into his chair.
"Then act like it," Sarah said, bringing over the biscuits.
Billy grinned and grabbed three biscuits before anyone else could reach them. "Jake started it."
"Liar."
Jr. slid into the chair next to Pops, still grinning.
Rebecca set down the eggs and looked at her son. "What's so funny, Junior?"
"Nothing, Mama."
"Bullshit," Pops muttered into his coffee. "Kid's got mischief written all over him. I like it."
Jr. tried to suppress his smile and failed. Pops winked at him.
"Children," Ray commented dryly as he walked in from the office, dressed too nicely for ranch work as usual. As business manager, he spent most of his time crunching numbers or meeting with buyers. "Actual children."
"Jealous," Jake shot back.
"Of what? Your maturity?"
Celeb slid into the seat next to Billy and immediately grabbed bacon. At twenty-one, he'd been part of the Benson household for fourteen months now, ever since the consortium formed with his parents, the Beaumonts. Moving into the frat house had been the best decision he'd ever made—even if the bathroom situation was a nightmare and Colt snored like a chainsaw.
Colt took the last open seat, yawning wide. "Y'all got any more coffee?"
"Help yourself, Louisiana," Sarah said, nodding toward the pot.
Pops leaned over to Jr., lowering his voice. "You boys hiding any of that Shiner Bock from me?"
Jr.'s eyes went wide. "No, sir, Pop."
"That's a damn shame. You should be." Pops winked again.
Rebecca shot her father-in-law a warning look, but there was no heat in it. Everyone knew Pops was a bad influence, and everyone—especially the frat house crew—loved him for it. The beer was hidden under the floorboards, and Pops knew it. Hell, he'd probably helped them pry up the boards.
Once everyone had loaded their plates, Josh stood up with his clipboard. This was the signal. The table quieted.
"Alright, listen up," Josh said. "Got a full day. Ray, you're meeting with the cattle buyer from Fort Worth at ten. Don't let him lowball us."
"Never do," Ray said.
"Dad, you and I are checking irrigation on the south forty. System's been acting up."
Tom nodded. "Been meaning to get to that."
"Celeb, you're on equipment maintenance. Wilson Nelson's coming by with that welder we borrowed. Get the gate hinges fixed and check the hydraulics on the baler."
"Got it."
"Colt, you're helping Celeb. Two-man job."
"Yes, sir," Colt drawled.
"Jake, Billy, Jr.—you three are on fence line repair. North pasture, near the property line with the old Hutchinson place. Some posts came down in that storm last week. Take the tools, the new posts, and enough wire. Should take you most of the day."
Jake leaned back in his chair. "All three of us for fence repair?"
"It's a long stretch," Josh said. "And you'll have it done by noon if you quit yapping and actually work."
Billy elbowed Jake. "He's saying you talk too much."
"He's saying we talk too much," Jake corrected.
"I'm saying get it done," Josh said flatly, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Jr. was already excited. He loved working with his uncles—Billy and Jake treated him like an equal, not a kid. Plus, any day out of the house with those two meant stories, banter, and probably something that would make his mama shake her head. "We taking the Silverado?"
"Yeah," Josh said. "Load it up after breakfast. And Junior—"
"Yes, sir?"
"Your mama wants you home by six. No excuses."
"Yes, sir."
Rebecca reached over and squeezed her son's hand. As a practical nurse at Kings County Hospital, she worked long shifts, and she liked knowing where her boy was when she couldn't see him. Especially when he was out with Jake and Billy, who had a talent for getting into harmless trouble.
"Anyone else need anything before I head out?" Josh asked.
"Yeah," Pops said, raising his coffee mug. "More of this."
Sarah grabbed the pot and refilled it, shaking her head. "You're going to outlive us all out of pure spite."
"Damn right I am."
The table erupted in laughter. Tom folded up his phone and dug into his breakfast. Ray checked his watch. Jake and Billy started arguing about who was driving the truck. Colt was already planning what he and Celeb would tackle first in the equipment barn.
It was a normal morning.
A good morning.
The kind of morning that made you forget, just for a moment, that bad things could happen.
By seven-fifteen, the Silverado was loaded. Tools, fence posts, rolls of wire, work gloves, water jugs, and a cooler with sandwiches Sarah had packed. Jake climbed into the driver's seat. Billy took shotgun. Jr. hopped in the back bench seat, ball cap pulled low against the sun already blazing overhead.
"See you boys tonight," Tom called from the porch, coffee mug in hand.
"Don't work too hard!" Pops shouted after them, cigar already lit, smoke curling up in the still morning air.
"Wouldn't dream of it!" Jake called back.
Sarah appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. "Junior, you hear me? Six o'clock!"
"Yes, ma'am!" Jr. hollered out the window.
"Love you, Grandpa!" Jr. called to Tom as the truck started rolling.
Tom raised his mug in reply, a smile on his weathered face.
Jake fired up the engine, and they rolled out down the long gravel drive, dust kicking up behind them in a golden cloud. The ranch stretched out in every direction—rolling pastures, clusters of live oaks, cattle grazing in the distance.
Billy leaned out the window, letting the wind hit his face. "Gonna be a hot one."
"Yep," Jake agreed, turning onto the dirt road that led north.
Jr. grinned in the back seat, already thinking about how much shit he and his uncles were going to talk while working. Days like this were his favorite—just the three of them, hard work, and no one looking over their shoulders.
None of them had any idea what was waiting for them in the north pasture.
None of them knew it would be the last normal morning for a long time.
Chapter 2: The Ambush
The north pasture was about as far from the main house as you could get and still be on Benson land. The fence line stretched along what used to be the old Hutchinson property—abandoned for years now, ever since old man Hutchinson died and his kids moved to Dallas and never looked back.
It was hot. Damn hot. The kind of July heat that made your shirt stick to your back within minutes and turned the inside of a truck into an oven.
Jake killed the engine and climbed out, already pulling his shirt off. "Jesus Christ, it's gotta be a hundred degrees already."
"Hundred and five, according to the radio," Billy said, following suit and tossing his shirt in the truck bed. "And it's only nine-thirty."
Jr. was already shirtless, having stripped down five minutes into the drive. At sixteen, he'd spent enough summers doing ranch work to know better than to work fence line in the Texas heat wearing a shirt you'd just have to wring out every twenty minutes.
They unloaded the gear—post hole diggers, a bag of concrete mix, fence posts, rolls of wire, work gloves, and the cooler. The fence line was a mess. Storm last week had taken down at least six posts, and the wire was tangled and torn in places.
"Alright," Jake said, surveying the damage. "Let's start at the south end and work our way up. Jr., you're on wire detail. Billy and I will handle the posts."
"Yes, sir," Jr. said, grabbing the wire cutters.
They worked in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the clang of tools, the grunt of effort, and the occasional curse when something didn't cooperate. The sun beat down mercilessly, and within an hour all three were drenched in sweat.
"You bring enough water?" Billy asked, wiping his forehead with his arm.
"Sarah packed two gallons," Jr. said. "Plus whatever's in the cooler."
"Bless that woman," Jake muttered.
They'd gotten three posts replaced when they heard the vehicle.
Billy looked up first, squinting against the sun. "You expecting anyone?"
Jake shook his head. "Nope."
A white pickup truck was coming down the dirt road that ran along the old Hutchinson property. It slowed as it approached, then stopped about thirty yards away.
Four men got out.
Something about the way they moved made Jake's gut tighten. They weren't dressed like ranch hands. And they sure as hell weren't smiling neighborly.
"Help you fellas?" Jake called out, straightening up.
The men spread out slightly, not saying anything. Then Jake saw the guns.
"Run!" Jake shouted.
But it was too late. The men moved fast—practiced, coordinated. Two of them rushed Jake, and he swung wild, connecting once before a rifle butt slammed into his stomach and dropped him to his knees, gasping.
Billy tried to tackle one of them but got hit from behind, going down hard in the dirt.
Jr. tried to run for the Silverado, but a hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back. He hit the ground, the wind knocked out of him.
Within seconds, all three Bensons were on the ground, arms wrenched behind their backs. Rough rope was wrapped around their wrists, pulled tight and knotted. Rough hands shoved rags into their mouths—Jr. gagged on the taste of oil and dirt—and then duct tape was wound around their heads, sealing the rags in place.
Jake struggled, thrashing, trying to headbutt someone, anyone. It earned him another blow to the ribs.
"Quit fighting or the kid gets worse," one of them said.
Jake went still, his eyes finding Jr., who was wide-eyed and breathing hard through his nose.
They were hauled to their feet and dragged toward the white pickup. Jr. stumbled, his boots scrabbling in the dirt, and strong hands shoved him into the truck bed. Billy was thrown in next, then Jake.
One of the men climbed in with them, rifle across his lap. Another tied their ankles together with more rope.
The truck started moving.
Jr. tried to look back at the Silverado, still sitting there by the fence line, doors open, tools scattered. Evidence of a normal workday interrupted.
No one would find them for hours.
The truck turned onto a paved road, then another, heading northeast. Away from the ranch. Away from home.
Jake made eye contact with Billy, then with Jr. Even through the fear, there was something in Jake's eyes—a promise. We're getting out of this.
But as the miles stretched on and the sun climbed higher, that promise felt harder and harder to believe.
They drove for what felt like forever. Maybe thirty minutes. Maybe an hour. It was hard to tell with the heat and the fear and the pain from the ropes cutting into their wrists.
Finally, the truck slowed and turned onto a rutted dirt road. Trees closed in on both sides—live oaks and mesquite. Then the trees opened up, and there it was.
An old barn. Gray wood, half-collapsed roof on one side, windows boarded up. Middle of nowhere.
The truck stopped. The men dragged them out one by one and hauled them inside.
The barn was dim and hot, smelling of rotting wood and old hay. There was a clear space in the middle where the floor had been swept clean.
This was planned. This wasn't random.
They dropped Jr. first, then Billy, then Jake. All three of them on their stomachs in the dirt, hands still bound behind their backs with rope, tape over their mouths, breathing hard through their noses.
One of the men walked around them slowly, assessing. Another brought in heavy coils of coarse hemp rope from the truck.
One of them crouched down next to Jake, pulling out a phone.
"Before we get started," he said. "Let's send the family a preview."
He took a picture of Jake.
Then Billy.
Then Jr.
"They'll pay," one of them said. "Three million for three Bensons? They'll pay."
Jake's eyes went wide. He started thrashing again, trying to get up, trying to do something.
A boot pressed down on his back, pinning him.
"Save your energy," the man said. "We got work to do. And you three aren't going anywhere."
Chapter 3: The Binding
The kidnappers worked with a methodical efficiency that was somehow worse than violence. They had done this before. They had planned this.
"Him first," one of them said, pointing at Jake.
Two men grabbed Jake by the shoulders and dragged him toward the center of the cleared space. He fought—Jake always fought—bucking and twisting despite the rope already binding his wrists. It earned him nothing but a knee to the kidney that made him gasp into the rag stuffed in his mouth.
They forced him onto his knees, then pushed him forward onto his stomach. One man knelt on his back, keeping him pinned while another brought over the coils of thick, coarse hemp rope.
Billy and Jr. were forced to sit against the barn wall, hands still tied behind their backs, tape over their mouths, and watch. Jr.'s eyes were wide with terror. Billy's jaw was clenched tight, his mind already working, trying to figure out how to get them out of this.
The man with the rope started with Jake's torso. He looped the hemp rope around Jake's chest, just below his armpits, and pulled it tight. Then again, and again—three, four, five bands of rope circling Jake's bare chest, each one pulled taut and knotted at his spine. The coarse fibers bit into his sun-bronzed skin.
"Arms next," the man said.
They cut the rope binding Jake's wrists—just long enough to reposition his arms. Before Jake could react, they wrenched his arms behind his back again, palms together, and began wrapping rope around his biceps, above the elbow. Tight loops, cinched and knotted. Then below the elbows—more rope, more knots, frapping between his arms to lock them together. His elbows were pulled close enough that his shoulder blades jutted out.
Jake grunted in pain, his face pressed against the dirt floor.
Then the wrists. They wrapped rope around and around, binding his wrists together so thoroughly there was no hope of wiggling free. More frapping between the wrists, tightening everything.
"Boots," one of them said.
They grabbed Jake's ankles and crossed his work boots at the heel. More hemp rope wrapped around and around his ankles, then his boots, binding them together. Then—and this was when Jr. realized just how bad this was going to be—they pulled Jake's bound boots up toward his bound wrists and connected them with another length of rope. A hogtie. Tight enough that Jake's back arched, his body bowed.
Jake tried to thrash, but there was nowhere to go. The rope didn't give. His muscles strained uselessly against the bindings.
One of the kidnappers stepped back, assessing their work. "Good. Next."
They grabbed Billy.
"No—" Billy tried to yell through the gag, twisting away, but it was useless. They dragged him to the center of the barn floor, away from Jr., and forced him down just like they'd done with Jake.
Jr. watched in horror as they repeated the process on his uncle. The same methodical binding—rope around Billy's chest, five tight bands. Arms wrenched behind his back, rope around his biceps, his elbows, his wrists. Each loop pulled tight, each knot secured. Billy's face contorted in pain as they cinched the rope between his elbows, forcing his shoulders back.
Then his boots. Ankles bound, boots lashed together, then pulled up and connected to his wrists in a cruel hogtie.
Billy's breathing was harsh and fast through his nose, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain.
"Last one," the man said, turning toward Jr.
Jr. tried to scramble backward, but there was nowhere to go. His back was already against the barn wall. Hands grabbed him—rough, strong—and hauled him to his feet, then threw him down next to Billy.
"Please—" Jr. tried to say through the gag, but it came out as nothing but a muffled whimper.
They weren't gentle with him. Maybe because he was the youngest. Maybe because they didn't care.
The rope went around his chest first. Jr. could feel every coarse fiber of the hemp as they wrapped it around him—once, twice, three times, four, five. Each loop tighter than the last, constricting his ribs, making it harder to breathe. His chest was already slick with sweat, and the rope bit into his skin.
Then his arms. They yanked his arms behind his back so hard he thought his shoulders might dislocate. Rope around his biceps—tight, burning. Rope around his elbows—tighter still, pulling them together. He could feel his circulation being cut off, his fingers already starting to tingle.
His wrists were next, bound together so tightly the rope felt like it was fusing with his skin.
Then they grabbed his boots. Jr. tried to kick, one last desperate attempt, but a fist to his ribs stopped that. They crossed his ankles, wrapped rope around them, around his boots, and pulled everything tight.
And then—the worst part—they pulled his boots up and tied them to his wrists.
The hogtie was immediate and agonizing. His back arched involuntarily, his muscles screaming. He couldn't straighten out. He couldn't move. He could barely breathe.
Jr. made a choked sound into the gag, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
"Eyes," one of the kidnappers said.
They moved to Jake first, yanking off his ball cap and tossing it aside. Then they wrapped duct tape around his head, over his eyes, sealing him in darkness. Same with Billy—cap removed, tape over his eyes. Then Jr.—the last thing he saw before the tape covered his eyes was Billy's face, contorted in pain but trying to stay strong.
Then darkness.
Jr. could hear them moving, hear the sound of a phone camera clicking. They were taking pictures. Proof of life. Proof they had the Bensons.
"Alright, line them up," one of the men said.
Jr. felt hands on him, rolling him, dragging him. He was positioned next to someone—Billy, he thought, from the sound of his breathing. And Jake on the other side.
Then he felt it—a rope being looped around his neck. Not tight enough to choke, but tight enough to feel. He heard Billy make a strangled sound, then Jake. They were all connected. One long rope around all three of their necks.
And then another rope, this one around their boots, binding all six feet together.
"Try to move, you choke each other," one of the kidnappers said, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. "Try to run, you choke each other. You're not going anywhere."
Jr. could hear them walking away, boots on the dirt floor. A door creaking open, then slamming shut. The sound of the truck starting up outside, then driving away.
And then—silence.
Just the three of them, bound, gagged, blindfolded, hogtied, and tethered together in an abandoned barn in the middle of nowhere.
Jake made a muffled sound—anger, frustration, fury.
Billy's breathing was slow and controlled, even through the pain. Thinking. Always thinking.
Jr. just tried not to panic. Tried not to pull on the rope around his neck. Tried not to think about what would happen in twenty-four hours if no one found them.
Tried not to think about the fact that he was supposed to be home by six o'clock for dinner.
Chapter 4: The Discovery
By two o'clock in the afternoon, Sarah was starting to worry.
"They should've checked in by now," she said, wiping her hands on her apron for the third time in ten minutes.
Tom looked up from the account books spread across the kitchen table. "Give them another hour. You know how those boys get when they're working. Time gets away from them."
But it was Rebecca who felt it first—that cold knot in her stomach that every mother knows. The one that says something's wrong.
"Junior always checks in," she said quietly. "Always. Even if it's just a text."
Josh came in from the office, phone in hand. "Anyone heard from the boys? They're not answering."
"Nothing," Tom said, his concern growing.
By three o'clock, Josh and Tom were in one of the ranch trucks, heading north toward the fence line. Rebecca rode with them, her nursing instincts on high alert.
They found the Silverado at three-twenty.
Doors open. Tools scattered. Water jugs sitting in the sun, still half-full. Three shirts in the truck bed.
But no Jake. No Billy. No Jr.
"Jesus Christ," Josh breathed.
Tom was already on his phone. "Wade? We got a problem. The boys are missing. All three of them."
By four o'clock, the Benson Ranch kitchen was packed. Tom, Sarah, Josh, Rebecca, Ray, Pops, Celeb, Colt. Sheriff Wade Nelson had arrived with his wife Mary and their sons Wilson and Ryan, both deputies. The Beaumonts—Robert and Caroline—were there too.
Everyone was talking at once until Pops slammed his hand on the table.
"Quiet!" His voice, honed by years of barking orders in Vietnam, cut through the chaos. "Wade, what do we know?"
"Not much," Wade said grimly. "Truck's still there. No signs of struggle at first glance, but—"
Tom's phone buzzed. Then Sarah's. Then Josh's. Then Rebecca's.
All at the same time.
Tom looked at his screen and went white.
The photo showed Jake—shirtless, arms bound behind his back with thick rope, body arched in a hogtie, duct tape over his eyes, more tape around his mouth. Lying on a dirt floor.
Sarah made a sound like she'd been punched.
The next photo was Billy. Same brutal binding. Same position.
Then Jr.
Rebecca's knees buckled. Josh caught her, but he was staring at the image of his son—his boy—trussed up like an animal, blindfolded, helpless.
Another message came through. This one was text:
We have your sons. $3,000,000. You have 24 hours. Wire transfer instructions to follow. If payment is not received, we execute one every 6 hours. Starting with the youngest. No police. No FBI. You contact anyone outside your family, they die.
The kitchen erupted.
Sarah was sobbing. Rebecca was shaking, her nurse's mind racing through all the ways those bindings could cause damage—circulation cut off, positional asphyxiation, dehydration in this heat.
"We pay," Tom said immediately. "Whatever they want, we pay."
"Damn right we pay," Pops growled. "And then we kill every single one of those sons of bitches."
Wade held up his hand. "We need to think this through—"
"There's nothing to think through!" Josh's voice cracked. "That's my son! Those are my brothers!"
"I know," Wade said. "And we're getting them back. All of us. This stays in the family. No one else."
Ray was already on his phone. "I need to talk to Frank Mitchell at Kings National. We need three million liquid, and we need the transfer to look real but buy us time."
"How much time?" Tom demanded.
"Depends on what Frank can do with the wire protocols. A day if we're lucky."
"They'll be dead in a day!" Rebecca's voice was sharp, desperate.
"Then we find them before the deadline," Wade said flatly.
Pops stood up, walked to the corner of the kitchen, and hit the emergency button mounted on the wall.
Throughout the ranch, throughout the Nelson property, throughout all six consortium ranches, speakers crackled to life:
"911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Benson Ranch. All hands respond."
Within minutes, the encrypted network was live. Satellite phones activated. Every consortium family checking in.
"What do we need?" Robert Beaumont's voice came through clear.
"My boys have been taken," Tom said, his voice steady despite the rage burning in his eyes. "Three million dollar ransom. Twenty-four hours. We need the consortium fathers here. Armed. Now."
"On our way," came the immediate response from Anthony Renzo.
"Ten minutes out," from Michael Mattern.
"Already rolling," from Carlos Rodriguez.
Within the hour, the command center next to the frat house was operational. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—Jr.'s best friends, all sixteen, all tech-savvy beyond their years—were setting up equipment.
"We got the photos," Billy Renzo said, his voice tight. He and Jr. had been best friends since they were six years old. "I'm pulling metadata now."
"Check the cell towers," Daniel added, fingers flying over a keyboard. "If they're still in range, we can triangulate."
Ryan was already prepping the drones. "Thermal imaging's online. We can cover a fifty-mile radius if we coordinate flight patterns."
Downstairs, Ray was on the phone with Frank Mitchell, president of Kings National Bank.
"Frank, I need a favor. A big one."
"What kind of favor, Ray?"
"The kind where you help me fake a three-million-dollar wire transfer to buy time while we find three kidnapped boys."
There was a pause. "Jake, Billy, and Junior?"
"You heard already?"
"Small county, Ray. What do you need?"
"I need the transfer to look legitimate, but I need it to fail. Banking protocols, international verification delays, anything that buys us hours without tipping off the kidnappers that we're stalling."
"Give me thirty minutes," Frank said. "I'll have something set up. And Ray? You bring those boys home."
"That's the plan."
Back in the kitchen, the consortium fathers started arriving. Anthony Renzo, a broad-shouldered man who ran cattle and horses. Michael Mattern, quiet but deadly with a rifle. Carlos Rodriguez, former Marine like Pops. All of them armed, all of them grim-faced.
"How many men we got?" Pops asked.
Tom counted. "You, me, Josh, Ray, Wade, Wilson, Ryan, Robert, Anthony, Michael, Carlos, Celeb, Colt. That's thirteen."
"Thirteen's enough," Pops said, loading his old M1 Garand. "Quality over quantity."
Rebecca was in the corner, crying quietly, and Sarah was holding her. Both mothers, both terrified.
Tom walked over, put his hand on Rebecca's shoulder. "We're getting them back."
"They're hurting," Rebecca whispered. "Those ropes—the way they're tied—Josh, they could—"
"Don't," Josh said, but his own voice was shaking. "Don't go there. We're getting them back."
Ray came out of the office. "Frank's setting it up. The wire transfer will initiate on schedule but will get flagged for verification due to the amount and international destination. Should buy us eight to twelve hours before they get suspicious."
"Make it work," Tom said.
Another message came through on the phones. Wire transfer instructions. An account in the Cayman Islands. A deadline: 4:00 PM tomorrow.
Less than twenty-four hours.
Tom typed back: Transfer initiated. Bank requires 24-hour verification for amounts over $1M. Expect completion by deadline.
The response was immediate: No delays. 4 PM or the boy dies.
Rebecca made a sound like a wounded animal.
"We're not waiting for a deadline," Pops said, checking his rifle. "Those tech kids find anything, we roll. Every one of us."
Wade looked around the room at the assembled men. Fathers. Brothers. Family. "We go in quiet. We go in smart. And we bring them home."
"Damn right," Pops said.
Upstairs, Billy Renzo's voice came over the intercom. "Got something! Photo metadata shows GPS coordinates were stripped, but I'm running the image through reverse geolocation based on light angles and shadow patterns. Narrowing search area to northeast quadrant, approximately twenty to forty miles out."
"That's still a lot of ground," Wilson said.
"Then we start searching," Tom replied. "Get those drones in the air. Check every abandoned property, every barn, every structure within that radius."
Josh was already pulling up maps on his tablet. "Old Hutchinson place is out that way. Been abandoned for years. And there's the Miller property, the old Patterson barn..."
"Make a list," Wade said. "We'll check them all."
Tom looked at the photo of his sons one more time. Jake's defiant anger even in binding. Billy's calculated stillness. Jr.'s fear barely controlled.
"We're coming," he whispered. "Hold on, boys. We're coming."
Chapter 5: Darkness in the Barn
Time had no meaning in the darkness.
Jr. didn't know if it had been minutes or hours since the kidnappers left. The only sounds were his own breathing through his nose, ragged and fast, and the similar sounds from Jake and Billy somewhere near him.
The hogtie was agony. His back was arched so severely he could feel every vertebra screaming in protest. His shoulders burned from having his arms wrenched behind him, elbows pulled together. The coarse hemp rope bit into every part of his body—chest, biceps, elbows, wrists, ankles, boots.
And worst of all was the knowledge that if he moved too much, the rope around his neck would tighten. Not just on him, but on Billy and Jake too.
He tried to stay still. Tried not to panic.
Failed.
A whimper escaped through the gag, muffled but audible.
Immediately, he heard Jake make a sound—something between a grunt and what might have been words if not for the tape and rag. It's okay. We're okay.
But they weren't okay.
Jr.'s fingers were tingling, going numb. The circulation to his hands was being cut off by the ropes. He tried to wiggle his fingers, but they barely responded. His boots—still crossed and bound tight—were losing feeling too.
The heat was unbearable. Even in the shade of the barn, the July temperature had to be over a hundred degrees. Sweat poured off him, making the ropes slick against his skin, but somehow they didn't loosen. If anything, the moisture made the coarse hemp chafe worse.
He was so thirsty. They'd only had a few swigs from the water jug before the attack. How long could a person survive without water in this heat? A day? Two?
Don't think about that, he told himself. Grandpa's coming. Pop's coming. Dad's coming.
But what if they didn't come in time?
What if the kidnappers came back first?
What if—
Billy made a sound. Deliberate. Rhythmic. Three short grunts, three long, three short.
SOS.
Jr. almost laughed—would have, if the gag hadn't prevented it. Leave it to Billy to try Morse code through a gag while hogtied and blindfolded.
Jake responded with a grunt that sounded distinctly like shut up.
Despite everything, Jr. felt a tiny bit of comfort. His uncles were still themselves. Still fighting. Still thinking.
He could do this. They could do this.
Jake was furious.
The rage burned hotter than the heat, hotter than the pain. He'd let this happen. He should have been more alert, should have seen the truck coming sooner, should have gotten Jr. to safety.
Instead, all three of them were trussed up like animals, waiting for either rescue or execution.
He tested the ropes for the hundredth time. Pulled with his arms, trying to create any slack in the binding. Nothing. Whoever had tied them knew what they were doing. The knots were solid, the rope was thick, and every loop was cinched tight with frapping that made escape impossible.
His wrists were raw. He could feel blood, slick and warm, where the rope had rubbed his skin away. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets. And his back—Christ, his back was on fire from the arch of the hogtie.
But worse than the physical pain was the helplessness.
Jake Benson didn't do helpless. He was the oldest. The protector. The hothead who jumped into fights first and thought about consequences later.
And now he couldn't do anything but lie here in the dark and wait.
He heard Jr. whimper again, and it nearly broke him. The kid was sixteen. Sixteen. He should be worrying about his girlfriend Anna and passing his driver's test, not wondering if he was going to be executed in some abandoned barn.
Jake made another sound through the gag, trying to communicate reassurance. Trying to say I'm here, I've got you, we're getting out of this.
But the tape and rag turned it into nothing but muffled noise.
Billy was thinking.
That's what Billy did. While Jake raged and Jr. tried not to panic, Billy analyzed.
The ropes were professionally done. Military or law enforcement training, maybe. Or someone who'd done this before. The hogtie was textbook—severe enough to be completely immobilizing but not quite severe enough to cause immediate injury. The rope around all their necks was psychological as much as physical—it kept them from trying to escape because any struggle would choke the others.
Smart. Cruel, but smart.
The kidnappers wanted money. Three million. That meant they knew the Benson family could pay. Which meant they'd done research. Which meant this wasn't random.
Who would target them specifically?
Old grudges? Business rivals? Someone from one of the other ranches they'd outbid at auction?
Billy ran through possibilities, trying to keep his mind occupied, trying not to think about the pain or the heat or the thirst.
The bank transfer would take time. Dad and Ray would stall. They had to. And while they stalled, Pop and Grandpa and the whole consortium would be looking.
The wiz kids—his nephew's friends—would be pulling metadata from the photos, tracking cell signals, deploying drones. Those boys were smart. Scary smart when it came to tech.
They'd be found. They had to be found.
Billy just hoped it would be before the twenty-four-hour deadline.
He heard Jr. whimper again, heard Jake grunt in response, and Billy tried his Morse code trick one more time. Anything to let them know he was still here, still with them, still fighting.
Three short. Three long. Three short.
We're going to make it.
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. It was impossible to tell.
The heat became oppressive. Jr. felt dizzy, his head swimming. Dehydration setting in. His lips were cracked and bleeding behind the gag. His throat was raw from breathing through his nose for so long.
His muscles had gone from burning to cramping to a deep, nauseating ache that radiated through his entire body. He couldn't hold the arched position much longer. But if he let his body go slack, the rope connecting his boots to his wrists would pull tighter, bending him even more.
He was trapped in his own body.
Please, he thought. Please find us. Please.
And then, faintly, he heard it.
An engine.
A vehicle approaching.
Jake heard it too—his whole body went rigid.
Billy made a questioning sound.
The engine grew louder, then stopped. A door opened. Footsteps.
The barn door creaked open, and even through the blindfold, Jr. could sense the change in light.
"Still alive," one of the kidnappers said. "Good. Your family's stalling on the wire transfer. That's not smart."
Footsteps approached. Jr. felt a boot press against his side, not hard enough to hurt but enough to show dominance.
"You got eighteen hours left," the man said. "Then we start with the youngest. Make sure your daddy knows that."
Another phone camera clicked. More proof of life.
Then the footsteps retreated. The door slammed. The engine started and drove away.
And the three Bensons were alone again in the darkness.
Jr. started to cry. He couldn't help it. Silent tears soaking into the duct tape over his eyes.
Jake made a sound—anger, frustration, determination.
Billy's breathing stayed steady. Still thinking. Still planning.
They just had to survive eighteen more hours.
Chapter 6: The Hunt Begins
The command center was a controlled chaos of technology and determination.
Billy Renzo sat at the main console, three monitors glowing in front of him, fingers flying across the keyboard. Ryan Mattern was next to him, managing the drone feeds. Daniel Rodriguez had headphones on, monitoring cell tower data and running triangulation algorithms.
"Talk to me," Tom said, standing behind them with Pops, Wade, and Josh.
"Got the metadata stripped from the photos, but I'm running them through geolocation software," Billy Renzo said. "Based on shadow angles, sun position, and the background structures visible, I'm narrowing it down."
"How narrow?" Josh asked, his voice tight.
"Northeast quadrant, twenty to forty miles out. Rural properties, minimal cell coverage. They picked the location deliberately."
"Show me," Wade said.
Billy pulled up a map on the center monitor. A red circle highlighted the search area. "This is our target zone. Approximately three hundred square miles."
"That's a lot of ground," Wilson said from the doorway.
"Then we divide it up," Pops said. "How many drones we got operational?"
"Six," Ryan Mattern answered. "All equipped with thermal imaging and night vision. We can run them in shifts to cover more ground."
"Do it," Tom said. "Start with abandoned properties. Old barns, outbuildings, anything that could hide three people."
Daniel pulled off his headphones. "I'm pulling up property records now. Cross-referencing with aerial imagery from the last five years. Looking for structures that show up on old surveys but might be abandoned now."
Josh was already at another terminal, pulling up maps. "Old Hutchinson place is in that zone. Been empty for ten years. There's also the Miller barn, the Patterson property, couple of old homesteads near the county line..."
"Make a list," Wade said. "We'll prioritize based on access roads and distance from the abduction site."
Downstairs, the consortium fathers were gearing up. Anthony Renzo was checking rifles. Michael Mattern was loading ammunition into magazines. Carlos Rodriguez—the former Marine—was organizing tactical gear.
"We go in teams of three," Wade said, coming down from the command center. "Each team takes a sector. Stay on the encrypted channels. If you find anything—anything—you call it in before you move."
"What if we find them?" Anthony asked.
"You assess the situation," Wade said. "How many hostiles, what kind of firepower, what's the layout. Then you call for backup. We don't go in half-cocked and get those boys killed."
Pops checked the magazine on his M1 Garand. "And if they're about to execute one of them?"
Wade met his eyes. "Then you do what you have to do."
Ray came in from the office, phone still pressed to his ear. "Frank's got the wire transfer set up. It'll initiate at six AM tomorrow, right on schedule. But he's built in 'verification delays' that should give us until at least two PM before the kidnappers realize it's not going through."
"That's twenty hours," Tom said. "More if we're lucky."
"Twenty hours to search three hundred square miles," Josh said quietly.
"Then we better get started," Pops said.
By six PM, the first drones were in the air.
Ryan Mattern piloted Drone One, sweeping the northern section of the search grid. Daniel Rodriguez had Drone Two on the eastern sector. Billy Renzo was coordinating from the command center, watching all six feeds simultaneously.
"Drone One, I've got a structure," Ryan said. "Bearing two-seven-zero, about three miles from the Hutchinson property line."
"Pull in closer," Billy said. "Let's see thermal."
The drone descended, its thermal camera switching on. The image showed a small barn, mostly collapsed on one side. No heat signatures.
"Empty," Ryan confirmed. "Moving on."
"Drone Two, I've got something," Daniel said. "Old farmhouse, looks abandoned. Checking thermal now."
The feed showed the ghostly green-and-white image of a structure. Two faint heat signatures inside.
"Could be animals," Daniel said. "Deer maybe, or—wait. Those shapes are too uniform. Could be people."
"Mark the coordinates," Wade said immediately. "We're rolling."
Tom, Josh, and Robert Beaumont were in the first truck within minutes. Wade, Wilson, and Ryan Nelson in the second. Pops, Ray, and Celeb in the third.
"Stay back until we confirm," Wade radioed to the other vehicles as they approached the farmhouse. "Could be squatters, could be our guys, could be the hostiles."
They parked a quarter mile out and approached on foot, rifles ready.
The farmhouse was in worse shape up close—windows broken, porch sagging, front door hanging off its hinges.
Wade signaled. Wilson moved left, Ryan right. Tom and Josh came up behind Wade.
"Sheriff's office!" Wade called out. "Anyone in there, come out with your hands visible!"
Silence.
Then a rustling sound, and two figures emerged—teenagers, dirty and scared, carrying backpacks.
"Don't shoot!" one of them yelled. "We're just camping, man!"
Wade lowered his rifle. "Jesus Christ, boys. You picked a hell of a place to camp."
"Sorry, sir. We didn't—"
"Get out of here," Wade said. "And next time, camp somewhere that doesn't look like a meth lab."
The teenagers scrambled away.
Tom let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "False alarm."
"Back to the trucks," Wade said. "We keep looking."
By eight PM, they'd checked six locations. All empty.
By ten PM, the drones had covered a third of the search grid. Nothing.
By midnight, the families were exhausted but refused to stop. The mothers—Sarah, Rebecca, Caroline, and Mary—had set up a food station in the kitchen, keeping coffee brewing and sandwiches ready for when the men rotated back.
Rebecca hadn't stopped crying since the photos arrived. Sarah held her hand, both women trying to be strong for each other.
"They're alive," Sarah said quietly. "Those pictures—they were alive when those were taken."
"But for how long?" Rebecca whispered. "Those ropes, Sarah. As a nurse, I can tell you—if they're tied that tight for too long, the damage—"
"Don't," Sarah said firmly. "Don't go there. Tom and Josh and Pops—they're going to find them."
Upstairs, Billy Renzo rubbed his eyes. He'd been staring at screens for eight hours straight. But he couldn't stop. Not when his best friend was out there, tied up, scared, maybe dying.
"Come on, Jr.," he muttered. "Give me something. Give me a sign."
Daniel brought him a cup of coffee. "We'll find him. We'll find all of them."
"We're running out of time."
"Then we work faster."
Another drone feed came in. Another abandoned barn. Another empty building.
The search continued through the night.
Somewhere out there, in the darkness, Jake, Billy, and Jr. were waiting.
Waiting for rescue.
Waiting for hope.
Waiting to know if the next sound they heard would be their family—or their executioners.
Chapter 7: Breaking the Silence
Jake had been working his jaw for what felt like hours.
The duct tape was wrapped tight around his head, sealing the oil-soaked rag in his mouth, but it wasn't impossible. Nothing was impossible. He just had to be patient—something Jake had never been good at.
He started by working his jaw side to side, slowly, carefully. The tape pulled at his skin, but he kept going. Then he tilted his head, trying to rub the edge of the tape against his shoulder. The hogtie made it nearly impossible, but he managed to get some contact.
Rub. Pull. Work the jaw. Rub again.
The tape stretched slightly. Not much, but enough to give him hope.
He kept at it, ignoring the burning in his shoulders, the cramping in his legs, the fire in his back. The gag was the priority. If he could get the gag off, he could talk to Billy and Jr. Could coordinate. Could plan.
Could let them know they weren't alone.
Billy heard what Jake was doing—the subtle sounds of movement, the slight increase in breathing. Smart. If they could communicate, they had a chance.
He started working his own gag, following Jake's lead. Jaw side to side, stretching the tape. Head tilted, rubbing against his shoulder. The coarse hemp rope around his chest made every movement agonizing, but he pushed through it.
The tape was industrial strength, meant to seal them silent. But nothing lasted forever. Not even duct tape in hundred-degree heat with sweat pouring down their faces.
Billy worked methodically, patiently. That's what Billy did—he calculated, he planned, he executed. Getting the gag off was just another problem to solve.
Jr. watched—or would have, if he could see through the tape over his eyes—as he heard both his uncles working at their gags. If they were trying, he could try too.
He started moving his jaw, working it side to side like he'd heard Jake doing. The rag tasted awful—oil, dirt, something chemical—and it was making him gag for real. But he kept going.
His neck hurt from the strain of the hogtie, and every movement threatened to pull on the rope connecting all three of them around their necks. He had to be careful. Had to move slowly.
But he had to try.
It took hours.
The sun was setting outside—they could tell from the way the heat in the barn shifted slightly—when Jake finally felt the tape give.
He worked his jaw one more time, felt the edge of the tape peel away from his cheek, and managed to push the rag forward with his tongue. Not all the way out, but enough that he could spit it partially free.
"Billy," Jake rasped, his voice barely a whisper. His throat was raw and dry.
Billy's head jerked toward the sound. He redoubled his efforts, and within minutes, his own gag came loose enough to talk.
"Jake," Billy breathed. "You okay?"
"No. You?"
"No."
"Jr.," Jake called out softly. "You with us, kid?"
Jr. made a muffled sound, still working at his gag. It took another ten minutes, but finally he managed to work the rag loose enough to speak.
"I'm here," Jr. said, his voice cracking. "I'm scared."
"I know," Jake said. "We all are. But we're getting out of this."
"How?" Jr. asked. "We can't move. We can't—"
"Listen to me," Billy cut in, his voice calm and measured despite the pain. "We're alive. That means they want us alive. That means Grandpa and Dad and Pop are coming."
"The ransom—"
"Ray's handling it," Jake said with certainty. "You know Ray. He'll stall them, make it look real, buy time. And while he's doing that, the wiz kids are tracking us. Your friends—Billy, Ryan, Daniel—they're smart. They'll find us."
"We've been here for hours," Jr. said, tears in his voice. "What if they don't find us in time?"
"They will," Billy said firmly. "You know Pop. You think he's going to let anyone hurt us? Hell, he's probably leading a damn army right now."
Despite everything, Jr. almost laughed. "Yeah. Yeah, he is."
"That's right," Jake said. "And when they get here, we need to be ready. We need to know what we're dealing with."
"Four men," Billy said immediately. "All armed. Rifles, probably semi-automatic. They moved like they had training—military or law enforcement."
"Why us?" Jr. asked. "Why the Bensons?"
"Money," Billy said. "Three million. They know we have it. Or they think we do."
"The consortium," Jake said, working it out. "They know about the consortium. Know that between all six families, we can come up with that kind of cash."
"Which means this was researched," Billy continued. "Planned. They knew we'd be out in the north pasture today. Knew it was far enough from the house that no one would hear or see."
"Inside job?" Jr. asked.
"Maybe," Billy said. "Or just good surveillance."
They were quiet for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts, their own pain.
"My hands are numb," Jr. said finally. "I can't feel my fingers."
"Mine too," Jake admitted. "Circulation's cut off. These ropes—whoever tied them knew what they were doing."
"We can't get out of them," Billy said. It wasn't a question.
"No," Jake said. "Not without help."
Another silence.
"Jake?" Jr. said quietly.
"Yeah, kid?"
"If they come back before—before the family gets here—"
"Don't."
"But if they do—"
"Then we fight," Jake said fiercely. "However we can. We don't make it easy for them. You hear me?"
"I hear you."
"Billy?" Jr. said.
"I'm here."
"Tell Mama—if something happens—tell her I love her."
"You'll tell her yourself," Billy said firmly. "When we get home."
"But if—"
"No," Jake interrupted. "No goodbyes. We're getting out of this. All three of us."
Jr. was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Okay."
"That's my boy," Jake said. "Now conserve your energy. We don't know when they're coming back, and we need to stay sharp."
"Jake?" Billy said.
"Yeah?"
"When we get out of this, I'm never working fence line again."
Despite everything—the pain, the fear, the hopelessness of their situation—Jake laughed. A short, hoarse bark of a laugh that hurt his ribs. "Deal."
Jr. laughed too, a sound caught between a sob and genuine amusement.
And for a moment, in the darkness of the barn, bound and helpless and waiting for either rescue or death, they were just three Bensons. Brothers and nephew. Family.
They heard the vehicle about an hour later.
"Quiet," Billy hissed immediately.
All three of them went still, working their gags back into place as best they could, hoping the kidnappers wouldn't notice the loosened tape.
The barn door opened. Footsteps.
"Still alive," one of the men said. "Good."
A boot pressed against Jake's side. He didn't move, didn't react, pretended he was too weak or too scared to fight back.
"Your family's stalling," the man continued. "Banking problems, they say. We'll give them a few more hours. But if that money doesn't come through—" He kicked Jake, harder this time. "—we start with the kid."
The footsteps retreated. The door slammed. The truck drove away.
The three Bensons lay in the darkness, breathing hard, hearts pounding.
"They're stalling," Billy whispered once the sound of the engine faded. "That's good. That's what we need."
"Eighteen hours," Jr. said. "He said eighteen hours."
"Then the family has eighteen hours to find us," Jake said. "And I guarantee you, they're looking."
"They'll find us," Billy said with certainty. "They have to."
In the darkness, none of them mentioned what would happen if they didn't.
Chapter 8: The Breach
"I've got it," Billy Renzo said, his voice cutting through the exhausted silence of the command center. It was four AM. They'd been searching for fourteen hours straight.
Everyone in the room snapped to attention.
"What've you got?" Tom demanded, moving behind him.
"Cross-referenced the geolocation data with property tax records and old aerial surveys. There's a barn—old Hutchinson property, about thirty-two miles northeast. Hasn't been on any active registry for twelve years. Perfect place to hide someone."
"Drone confirmation?" Wade asked.
"Sending Drone Four now," Ryan Mattern said, his fingers dancing across the controls.
The feed came up on the main monitor. The barn materialized on screen—weathered gray wood, sagging roof, isolated by thick trees. And then the thermal imaging kicked in.
Three heat signatures on the floor. Close together. Not moving much.
And four more signatures. Moving. Pacing.
"That's them," Josh breathed. "That's my son."
"Mount up," Pops said, already heading for the door. "Now."
"We go loaded," Wade said. "Sidearms, rifles, tactical gear. Billy, Ryan, Daniel—you three are coming with portable command. iPads, satellite phones, drone support. You stay back but you stay armed."
The three sixteen-year-olds nodded, their faces grim. They'd trained for this. The consortium didn't raise soft boys.
Within minutes, four trucks were rolling out into the pre-dawn darkness. Tom, Josh, and Pops in the lead vehicle. Wade, Wilson, and Ryan Nelson in the second. Robert Beaumont, Anthony Renzo, and Michael Mattern in the third. Ray, Carlos Rodriguez, Celeb, and Colt in the fourth.
The wiz kids rode in the second truck with Wade, iPads glowing, maintaining drone surveillance and coordinating positions.
They parked half a mile out and approached on foot through the woods. The sky was just starting to lighten—that gray hour before dawn when everything was shadows and silence.
Billy Renzo set up the portable command station behind a stand of live oaks, tablet propped on a truck hood. "Four hostiles. Three inside the barn, one outside—looks like he's on patrol. Our guys are on the floor, northeast corner. Still not moving much."
"Because they're tied up," Josh said, his voice tight with controlled fury.
"We take out the patrol first," Wade said. "Silent. Then we breach simultaneously from three points—front, side, back. Fast and overwhelming."
"I'm going in first," Pops said. It wasn't a request.
Wade looked at the old man—seventy-six years old, Vietnam vet, still deadly with a rifle. "You got point."
They spread out. Carlos and Wilson moved to take the perimeter guard. Anthony and Michael circled to the back entrance. Tom, Josh, and Robert positioned at the side.
Wade, Pops, Ray, and Celeb took the front.
"On my mark," Wade whispered into the encrypted channel.
Carlos's voice came back. "Perimeter guard is down. Repeat, perimeter is down."
"Thermal shows the three inside are armed," Daniel's voice crackled through. "Two near the door, one near the captives."
Pops's grip tightened on his M1 Garand.
"Breach in three... two... one... go."
It happened fast.
The doors exploded inward simultaneously. Flash of movement, shouts, gunfire.
Two kidnappers at the front door spun toward the breach, raising weapons. Wade and Ray fired—controlled bursts—and both men went down.
The back door—Anthony and Michael storming through, catching the third kidnapper from behind. He got one shot off before Michael's rifle barked and he crumpled.
But the fourth man—the one near the captives—had a pistol.
And he was standing over Jr.
Pops saw it the instant he came through the door. The kidnapper raising the gun, pointing it down at the blindfolded, bound boy on the floor.
Pops didn't hesitate.
One shot. Clean. Through the head.
The kidnapper dropped like a puppet with cut strings, the unfired pistol clattering away.
"Clear!" Wade shouted. "All hostiles down! Clear!"
And then they were rushing in—Tom, Josh, Pops, all of them, converging on the three bound figures in the corner.
"Junior!" Josh dropped to his knees beside his son. "Junior, I'm here. I've got you."
Tom was already at Jake, pulling out a knife. "It's okay, son. We're here. You're okay."
Pops knelt by Billy, his weathered hands gentle despite the violence they'd just committed. "Easy, boy. Easy now. Let's get these ropes off."
Josh pulled the tape off Jr.'s eyes first. The boy blinked, tears streaming down his face as he saw his father.
"Dad," Jr. choked out.
"I've got you," Josh said, his own voice breaking. "I've got you."
Tom ripped the tape from Jake's mouth, then started sawing at the rope around his neck—the one connecting all three of them.
"'Bout damn time," Jake rasped, and despite everything—the pain, the fear, the hours of torture—he managed a crooked grin. "Was starting to think you guys got lost."
"Shut up," Tom said, but he was laughing and crying at the same time.
"Seriously, Pop, you could've called ahead. I wasn't exactly dressed for company." Jake gestured with his chin at his bare, rope-burned chest.
"You're an idiot," Billy said as Pops cut the gag from his mouth.
"Yeah, but I'm your idiot," Jake shot back.
Josh was working frantically at the ropes binding Jr.'s arms. The knots were brutal, pulled so tight the rope had cut into the boy's skin. "These sons of bitches," Josh muttered. "These goddamn—"
"Language, Pop," Jr. said weakly, and Josh laughed—a sound somewhere between relief and rage.
"That's my boy."
The ropes came off in stages. First the one around their necks. Then the one binding their boots together. Then the individual hogties—cutting the rope that connected boots to wrists, watching as each of them could finally, finally straighten their backs.
Jake groaned as his body unbent. "Oh Jesus. Oh Christ, that hurts."
"Easy," Tom said, supporting him. "Easy, son. Don't move too fast."
Billy's arms came free, and Pops had to catch him as he slumped forward, circulation rushing back into his hands with painful intensity. "Got you," Pops said. "I got you, boy."
Jr. was sobbing openly as Josh cut through the last of the ropes around his wrists. His hands were purple, swollen, rope-burned and bloody. But he was free.
"Can you stand?" Josh asked.
"I... I don't know."
"Then I'll carry you," Josh said, already scooping his son up.
Jake tried to stand on his own and his legs buckled. Tom caught him. "Idiot."
"Hey, at least I tried," Jake said. "That's gotta count for something."
"You're making jokes," Billy said, leaning heavily on Pops. "Of course you're making jokes."
"What else am I gonna do? Cry? That's Jr.'s job."
"Screw you," Jr. said, but he was smiling through the tears.
Wade appeared in the doorway. "Ambulance is twenty minutes out. Rebecca's with them."
"Mama's coming?" Jr. asked.
"Wild horses couldn't stop her," Wade said.
Outside, the sun was rising. Golden light spilling through the trees, touching the barn, warming the air.
The Bensons were going home.
Chapter 9: The Homecoming
The hospital visit was mercifully quick.
Rebecca had taken charge the moment the ambulance arrived, her nurse training kicking in despite her tears. She assessed rope burns, circulation issues, dehydration. IV fluids for all three. Antibiotics. Pain medication. The doctor wanted to keep them overnight for observation.
"Not a chance in hell," Pops said from the doorway.
The doctor looked at the old man—weathered, armed, and absolutely not negotiating.
"They're going home," Pops continued. "Today."
"Sir, they've been through significant trauma—"
"Which is why they need to be home. With family. Where they belong."
The doctor looked at Rebecca, who was holding Jr.'s hand and nodding. "He's right. They need to be home."
"Against medical advice—"
"Noted," Tom said. "We're leaving."
By eleven AM, three bandaged, bruised, but alive Bensons were loaded into trucks and headed back to the ranch.
The smell hit them before they even parked—mesquite smoke, barbecue, Sarah's biscuits.
"Oh my God," Jake breathed from the passenger seat. "Is that brisket?"
"And ribs," Billy said from behind him. "I can die happy now."
"Don't even joke," Tom said, but he was grinning.
The ranch was transformed. Long tables set up under the live oaks. The consortium families had descended—Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes, Beaumonts, Nelsons—all of them bringing food, bringing celebration, bringing relief.
Sarah, Caroline, and Mary had organized a Texas BBQ that would feed an army. Brisket, ribs, pulled pork, corn on the cob, coleslaw, potato salad, and enough biscuits to feed all of Kings County.
The trucks pulled up and everyone converged.
Jr. was immediately wrapped in his mother's arms, Rebecca sobbing and holding him like she'd never let go. Sarah had Jake and Billy, both boys towering over their mother but letting her fuss anyway.
"You're home," Sarah kept saying. "You're home, you're home, you're home."
"We're home, Mama," Jake said.
Pops was already heading to the makeshift bar he and Wade had set up under the big oak—bottles of whiskey, beer on ice, the good stuff saved for special occasions.
And if there was ever a special occasion, this was it.
Wade grinned as the first people to line up were Jr. and his three friends—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. All sixteen. All heroes in their own right.
"ID, boys?" Wade asked, deadpan.
Jr. looked at his grandfather Tom, then at Pops, then back at Wade.
Pops laughed, a sound like gravel and joy. "Hell, Wade, the boy just survived a kidnapping. I think he's earned a beer."
"That was the answer I was looking for," Wade said, handing each of the boys a cold bottle. "You four saved lives today. That counts for something."
Billy Renzo held up his beer. "To Jr."
"To all of us," Jr. said, clinking bottles with his friends.
They drank, grinning and laughing, the weight of the last twenty-four hours finally lifting.
By noon, everyone was eating. Plates piled high, stories being told, laughter echoing across the ranch.
Billy and Jake held court at one of the tables, recounting the kidnapping with the kind of dark humor that comes after surviving something terrible.
"And then they hogtied us," Billy said. "Professional job. Military-grade rope work."
"Couldn't move an inch," Jake added. "Thought my shoulders were gonna dislocate."
"But the worst part," Billy continued, "was being tied to these two idiots. Any movement and we choked each other."
"Hey, I was a perfect captive," Jake protested. "Jr.'s the one who kept whimpering."
"I was terrified!" Jr. shot back, grinning despite himself.
"Kid did good though," Jake said, suddenly serious. He looked at his nephew. "Real good. Didn't panic. Kept his head. Worked his gag off just like we did."
"Jr. became a man today," Billy said, raising his beer. "No question."
The table erupted in cheers. Jr. turned red but couldn't stop smiling.
Anna appeared at his side—his girlfriend, sixteen and worried sick for the last day. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him hard enough to make the table whistle and cheer.
"Don't ever do that again," Anna said fiercely.
"Yes, ma'am," Jr. said, grinning like an idiot.
Edna found Billy, her own relief evident as she kissed him. "You scared me half to death."
"Sorry," Billy said. "Wasn't exactly my plan."
"Next time, don't get kidnapped."
"I'll add it to my to-do list."
By two PM, everyone was full and happy. The sun was warm, the beer was cold, and the Bensons were home.
Pops stood up, reaching for something behind his chair.
"Oh no," Ray muttered.
"Here we go," Tom said, grinning.
Pops pulled out his banjo.
"The torture begins again!" Jake yelled, and the whole gathering erupted in laughter.
"Shut up and listen," Pops said, but he was grinning. He strummed a few chords, adjusted the tuning, then launched into an old country song—off-key, enthusiastic, absolutely terrible.
And absolutely perfect.
Jr. sat between his parents, Anna on one side, his wiz kid friends nearby, watching his great-grandfather play banjo like a man half his age. Jake and Billy were arguing about something. Celeb and Colt were trying to steal extra ribs. The consortium families were laughing and drinking and celebrating.
This was family.
This was home.
And after twenty-four hours in hell, it was everything.
Pops caught Jr.'s eye across the yard and winked. Jr. grinned and raised his beer.
The banjo played on. The sun shone warm. And the Bensons—all of them, bruised and battered but alive and together—were exactly where they belonged.
Home.
THE END
