Chapter 1: The Camping Trip
The mule quad bounced over the rutted trail, kicking up dust as Billy Jr. gripped the wheel. In the back, Billy Renzo and Ryan Mattern held onto the roll bars, their camping gear and rifles secured with bungee cords.
"Take it easy, Junior!" Ryan shouted over the engine noise. "You trying to break our necks before we even get there?"
Billy Jr. grinned and gunned it over another bump. "What's the matter, Mattern? Can't handle a little off-roading?"
"I can handle it fine," Ryan shot back. "Just saying the beer's gonna be shaken up if you keep driving like a maniac."
Billy Renzo laughed. "Speaking of which—did Pops really come through?"
Billy Jr. patted the cooler wedged between the front seats. "Oh, he came through all right. A whole case. Told me to hide it under the floorboards last night. Said, 'You boys earned it. Don't tell the women.'"
"Pops is the best," Ryan said, shaking his head with admiration.
"Damn right he is," Billy Jr. agreed, slowing down as they approached their usual camping spot—a clearing near the creek, surrounded by mesquite and live oaks. "Here we are, boys. Home sweet home for the weekend."
They climbed out and started unloading. The sun was already dipping toward the horizon, painting the Texas sky in shades of orange and purple. Within twenty minutes, they had the large canvas tent up, three sleeping bags laid out side by side, and the campfire crackling outside with three folding chairs arranged in a semicircle.
Billy Jr. cracked open the cooler and pulled out three cold beers, tossing one to each of his friends. They popped the tabs in unison.
"To Pops," Billy Renzo said, raising his can.
"To Pops," the other two echoed, clinking their beers together.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the fire and listening to the sounds of the countryside—crickets chirping, the creek bubbling in the distance, an owl hooting somewhere in the trees.
"Man, I wish Daniel and Louisiana could've made it," Ryan said eventually. "Flu sucks."
"Yeah," Billy Jr. agreed. "But they'll live. We'll tell 'em all about it when we get back."
Billy Renzo leaned back in his chair. "You think they're missing us right now?"
"Probably," Billy Jr. said. "Louisiana's probably cursing us out in Cajun while Daniel's blowing his nose for the thousandth time."
They all laughed.
The night wore on. They told stories, argued about who was the better shot, and polished off half the case of beer. Eventually, the fire burned down to glowing embers, and exhaustion set in.
"All right, boys," Billy Jr. said, yawning. "I'm beat. Let's get some sleep."
They stumbled into the tent, still laughing and ribbing each other, and crawled into their sleeping bags. Within minutes, the tent was quiet except for the occasional snore.
Billy Jr.'s satellite radio sat on the ground between the sleeping bags, the green light blinking softly.
None of them noticed the shadows moving at the edge of the clearing.
None of them heard the whispered commands or the soft footsteps approaching.
By the time Billy Jr. stirred—feeling rough hands grabbing him, yanking him upright—it was too late.
The ambush was swift and brutal. All three boys were hauled out of their sleeping bags simultaneously. Rough cloth was stuffed into their mouths before they could yell. Billy Jr. felt thin hemp rope bite into his wrists as his hands were yanked behind his back and tied tight. A blindfold was pulled over his eyes, plunging everything into darkness.
He could hear his friends struggling beside him—muffled grunts, the sound of rope being wrapped and knotted, bodies hitting the ground.
"Get 'em in the truck," one of the kidnappers hissed. "And grab that radio. We're already patched into their network. Let's make sure they can't call for help."
Billy Jr.'s heart pounded as rough hands grabbed him under the arms and dragged him across the ground. He was lifted and thrown into the back of a panel van. His friends landed beside him with heavy thuds, their breathing rapid and panicked through their gags.
The doors slammed shut.
And then they were moving, bouncing over the rough terrain, leaving the campsite—and any hope of rescue—far behind.
Chapter 2: The Emergency
Daniel Rodriguez sneezed for what felt like the hundredth time that day and threw down a card. "Your turn, Louisiana."
Colt "Louisiana" Beaumont, lying on his mattress between the two bunk beds, groaned and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "I hate this. We should be out there with them."
"Yeah, well, we're not," Daniel muttered, his voice thick with congestion. "We're stuck here like a couple of invalids while they're probably sitting around the campfire right now, drinking Pops' beer and having the time of their lives."
Louisiana coughed and picked up a card from the pile. "You think they're talking about us?"
"Probably laughing about us," Daniel said bitterly. "Junior's probably doing his impression of you right now—'Oh no, I got the sniffles, I can't possibly go camping!'"
"Shut up," Louisiana said, but he was grinning. "At least I don't sound like a dying goose when I blow my nose."
From down the hall, they could hear Pops snoring in his bedroom, a rumbling sound that seemed to shake the walls. The command center next door was dark and quiet, all the equipment on standby.
Daniel laid down another card. "How much longer you think till we're better?"
"Doc said a few more days," Louisiana replied. "We'll be fine by—"
The satellite radio on the nightstand crackled to life.
Both boys froze.
A face appeared on the screen—Billy Renzo, pale and sweating, his eyes wide with terror.
"THIS IS BILLY RENZO TO ALL THE MEMBERS OF THE CONSORTIUM," he shouted, his voice shaking. "RYAN MATTERN, BILLY BENSON JR., AND I HAVE BEEN KIDNAPPED. WE'RE KEPT TIED UP, BLINDFOLDED, AND GAGGED. THEY ARE GOING TO PUT A LOT MORE ROPE ON US. THEY WANT $3 MILLION IN RANSOM, OR THEY PLAN TO TORTURE US TO DEATH."
A man appeared behind Billy Renzo and roughly grabbed him, shoving him into a chair. He yanked the blindfold over Billy's eyes, stuffed a rag into his mouth, and slapped tape over it. The camera pulled back, showing all three boys—Junior, Renzo, and Mattern—soaked with sweat, bound and helpless.
The screen went black.
For a split second, neither Daniel nor Louisiana moved. They stared at the radio in frozen horror.
Then Daniel lunged for the command center.
"LOUISIANA, GO! GO! GO!"
They burst through the door, Daniel slamming his hand down on the emergency button while Louisiana powered up the entire system.
"911 EMERGENCY! 911 EMERGENCY! 911 EMERGENCY! DANIEL RODRIGUEZ!"
The alert blasted out across the encrypted network, hitting every satellite radio in the consortium simultaneously.
Immediately, the radios erupted.
"WHAT THE HELL—" That was Josh Benson, Billy Jr.'s father.
"DANIEL, WHAT'S HAPPENING?" Sarah Benson's panicked voice.
"WHERE ARE THE BOYS?" Tom Benson, loud and urgent.
"DID SOMEONE JUST SAY KIDNAPPED?" Mr. Renzo, his voice rising.
"SEND THAT VIDEO AGAIN! SEND IT NOW!" Sheriff Wade Nelson, sharp and commanding.
Daniel's hands shook as he forwarded the ransom video to every radio in the network. Louisiana was already pulling up maps, drone feeds, anything that might help.
Down the hall, they heard a door slam open.
"WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON OUT THERE?" Pops' voice boomed. His heavy footsteps thundered toward the command center.
The radio network was chaos now—fathers shouting, mothers crying, questions flying in every direction.
Louisiana looked at Daniel, his face pale.
"They're counting on us," he whispered.
Daniel nodded, his jaw set. The flu, the exhaustion, the fear—none of it mattered now.
Their best friends were out there, tied up and terrified.
And they were the only ones who could find them.
Chapter 3: Powder Keg
Within thirty minutes, the Benson Ranch house was packed wall-to-wall with people.
The Renzos arrived first, Mr. and Mrs. Renzo barely out of their truck before they were rushing through the door. Mrs. Renzo's face was streaked with tears, her hands shaking as she gripped her husband's arm.
The Matterns came next, followed by the Rodriguezes and the rest of the consortium families. Trucks and SUVs lined the driveway, headlights cutting through the darkness.
Inside, the living room had transformed into a war room.
Sheriff Wade Nelson stood near the fireplace, his face grim, his radio clipped to his belt. His sons—Wilson "Horse" Nelson and Ryan Nelson, both deputies—flanked him, their expressions hard.
Tom and Sarah Benson sat on the couch, Sarah sobbing into her hands while Tom stared blankly at the wall, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack.
Josh Benson—Billy Jr.'s father—paced back and forth like a caged animal, his fists opening and closing at his sides. His wife Rebecca sat nearby, her face white as a sheet, her nursing training the only thing keeping her from collapsing.
Ray Benson was already on his phone, his voice low and urgent as he spoke to someone at the bank. "I don't care what time it is. I need you to set up wire transfer protocols. Fake accounts. Traceable routing numbers. We need to buy time."
Jake and Billy—the younger Benson brothers—stood near the door, arms crossed, barely containing their rage. Billy's girlfriend Edna Nelson clung to his arm, tears streaming down her face. Jake looked ready to punch a hole through the wall.
And then there was Pops.
The old man stood in the center of the room, a half-empty bottle of brandy in one hand, his face red with fury. He slammed the bottle down on the coffee table so hard it rattled.
"GODDAMN SONS OF BITCHES!" he roared. "I DIDN'T SURVIVE VIETNAM TO WATCH MY GREAT-GRANDSON GET TORTURED BY A BUNCH OF COWARDLY BASTARDS!"
He grabbed a chair and hurled it across the room. It crashed into the wall, splintering.
"Pops, calm down—" Tom started.
"CALM DOWN?" Pops bellowed. "CALM DOWN? THOSE BOYS ARE OUT THERE TIED UP LIKE ANIMALS, AND YOU WANT ME TO CALM DOWN?"
Sarah Benson let out a wail. Mrs. Renzo buried her face in her husband's chest.
Sheriff Wade stepped forward, his voice steady but strained. "Pops. Tom. Everyone. Listen to me. We need to think clearly here. If we're going to get those boys back—"
"What are we thinking, Wade?" Josh interrupted, spinning around. "We thinking about calling the FBI? The state police? Because I'm thinking we handle this ourselves."
Wade's jaw tightened. "Josh, I'm the sheriff. I have a duty—"
"Those are our boys!" Jake shouted. "Your granddaughter's boyfriend is out there! You really gonna hand this over to some bureaucrats who don't give a damn?"
Wade looked at his sons. Wilson and Ryan both nodded slightly.
Wade exhaled slowly. "We do this off the books," he said quietly. "Wilson, Ryan—you're with me. But we do it smart. We find them, we get them out, and we make sure those bastards never see the light of day again."
"Now you're talking," Pops growled, reaching for his brandy again.
Ray ended his call and looked up. "Bank's cooperating. I can set up dummy transfers to buy us time and trace their accounts."
"Good," Tom said, finally finding his voice. "What else do we need?"
All eyes turned toward the command center door.
Inside, Daniel and Louisiana were hunched over the screens, their faces illuminated by the glow of monitors and satellite feeds. The pressure was crushing—every adult in that house, every parent, every sibling—was counting on two sick teenagers to find their friends.
Louisiana's hands flew over the keyboard, pulling up drone footage, GPS coordinates, radio frequencies.
Daniel wiped his nose with the back of his hand and zoomed in on a map. "We start at the campsite," he said, his voice hoarse. "If we can find where they were taken, we can track them."
Pops appeared in the doorway, his massive frame filling it. He looked at the two boys—pale, sweating, exhausted—and his expression softened just a fraction.
"You boys are gonna find 'em," he said quietly. "I know you will."
Louisiana swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."
Pops turned and walked back into the chaos of the living room.
Daniel looked at Louisiana. "No pressure, right?"
Louisiana let out a shaky laugh. "None at all."
Outside, engines revved. Billy and Jake were already loading gear into trucks. Rifles. Rope. First aid kits.
The consortium wasn't waiting for permission.
They were going to war.
Chapter 4: The Search Begins
Louisiana's fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the last known GPS coordinates from Billy Jr.'s satellite radio before it went dark.
"There," he said, pointing at the screen. "That's where they were camping. Creek bend, about fifteen miles northeast."
Daniel leaned in, his eyes red from the flu but laser-focused. "Can we get drone coverage?"
"Already on it." Louisiana launched the first drone from the command center's roof access. The screen split into multiple feeds—thermal imaging, night vision, standard video.
Behind them, the door opened. Ray Benson stepped in, followed by Josh, Jake, and Billy.
"What do you have?" Josh asked, his voice tight.
"Campsite location," Daniel said. "We're sending the first drone now to assess the scene."
"How long?" Billy asked.
"Fifteen minutes for the drone to reach the site," Louisiana replied. "But we need to get the portable command center out there. We can run all ten drones from the field and cover way more ground."
Ray nodded. "What do you need?"
"The trailer rig with the satellite uplink," Daniel said. "Generators. All the monitors. And someone who can drive us out there without killing us."
Jake stepped forward. "I'll drive. Billy, you're with me. We load up now."
"I'm coming too," Josh said.
Ray put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Josh, you need to stay here and coordinate with Wade. I'll go with the boys."
Josh looked like he wanted to argue, but he knew Ray was right. He nodded stiffly.
Within ten minutes, they had the portable command center loaded into the heavy-duty trailer. Louisiana and Daniel grabbed their gear—laptops, spare batteries, the drone controllers, and a case of energy drinks that Rebecca had shoved into Louisiana's hands.
"You boys stay safe," she'd said, her voice breaking. "And bring my son home."
The convoy rolled out—three trucks, headlights cutting through the night. Jake drove the lead vehicle with the trailer, Ray in the passenger seat. Billy and Celab followed in the second truck, and Wilson and Ryan Nelson brought up the rear in the sheriff's department SUV.
In the back of Jake's truck, Louisiana and Daniel braced themselves against the equipment, checking connections and running diagnostics as they bounced down the ranch road.
"You think they're okay?" Louisiana asked quietly.
Daniel didn't answer right away. He was thinking about Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, and Ryan Mattern—tied up, blindfolded, terrified.
"They're alive," he finally said. "And we're going to find them."
Louisiana nodded and pulled up the drone feed on his tablet. The first drone was approaching the campsite now, its thermal camera sweeping the clearing.
The image came into focus—the cold remnants of a campfire, three sleeping bags scattered on the ground, the canvas tent collapsed on one side.
And tire tracks. Fresh ones, heading south.
"Got something," Louisiana said into his radio. "Tire tracks leaving the campsite. Heading south-southwest."
Wade Nelson's voice crackled back. "Can you follow them?"
"Drone's battery won't last that long," Daniel said. "But once we get to the campsite and set up, we can deploy all ten drones in a grid pattern. If they're within twenty miles, we'll find them."
"Make it fast," Wade said. "Ray's contact at the bank says the kidnappers just sent routing information for the ransom transfer. They're getting impatient."
Louisiana and Daniel exchanged a glance.
Time was running out.
Forty minutes later, they rolled into the campsite. The portable command center was being unloaded when every satellite radio in the convoy erupted simultaneously.
Another video.
Louisiana grabbed his tablet, his hands shaking. Daniel leaned in.
The screen showed all three boys now—but it was so much worse.
Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, and Ryan Mattern were on the ground, their bodies contorted. Their hands weren't just tied behind their backs anymore—thick hemp ropes now bound their elbows and forearms together, forcing their shoulders back at painful angles. More rope circled their biceps, lashing their arms tight against their sides. Their ankles were bound together, and then the worst part—a rope connected their ankles to their wrists, pulling them into brutal hogties.
All three were drenched in sweat, their blindfolds soaked through, their chest heaving as they struggled to breathe through their gags. One of them—Ryan, maybe—was shaking.
A voice came through, distorted and cold: "You have twelve hours. Three million dollars, or they suffer. Every hour you delay, we add more rope."
The screen went black.
For three seconds, nobody moved.
Then Jake punched the side of the truck so hard the metal dented.
"THOSE BASTARDS!" he roared.
Billy was right behind him, his face twisted with rage. "We're going to kill them. I swear to God, we're going to—"
"FOCUS!" Ray shouted, grabbing both his brothers by the shoulders. "We find them first. THEN we deal with the bastards."
Louisiana was already back at the controls, his face pale but determined. "Launching drones two through ten. Spreading them in a fifteen-mile radius search pattern, thermal imaging active."
On the screens, ten different camera feeds appeared, each drone covering a different sector.
Jake, Billy, Ray, Wilson, and Ryan stood around the command center, rifles slung over their shoulders, watching the feeds intently. The image of those three boys—hogtied, helpless, suffering—burned in all their minds.
"There," Billy said suddenly, his voice deadly calm. He pointed at screen seven. "What's that?"
Louisiana zoomed in. A structure—old, partially collapsed. Barn, maybe. And three heat signatures inside, close together on the ground.
Daniel's heart pounded. "That's them. That has to be them."
"Get me coordinates," Wade's voice came through the radio, hard as steel. "We're mobilizing now."
Louisiana rattled off the GPS location. "Abandoned barn, twelve miles south-southwest of the campsite. Three heat signatures, stationary, on the ground."
"We're moving," Wade said. "ETA twenty minutes. Do NOT approach until we arrive."
But Jake was already climbing into his truck, Billy right behind him.
Ray grabbed Jake's arm. "Wade said wait."
Jake's eyes were hard, his voice shaking with fury. "That's my nephew in there. Hogtied like an animal. I'm not waiting one more goddamn second."
He yanked his arm free and gunned the engine.
The rescue was on.
Chapter 5: Hope and Fury
The basement of the abandoned barn was dark, cold, and reeked of mildew and motor oil.
Billy Jr. lay on his side on the concrete floor, every muscle in his body screaming. The rope connecting his ankles to his wrists pulled his body into an arch, and his shoulders felt like they were being ripped from their sockets. His elbows were bound so tight behind his back that his hands had gone numb.
Next to him, Billy Renzo was breathing hard through his gag, his chest heaving. Ryan Mattern let out a muffled groan, trying to shift position but only making it worse.
Billy Jr. tried to focus through the blindfold, listening for anything—footsteps, voices, a clue about where they were or what was coming next.
Then he heard it.
A faint buzzing sound. High-pitched. Mechanical.
His heart leaped.
Drones.
He tried to make noise through his gag, anything to signal them, but the cloth stuffed in his mouth made it impossible. He kicked his bound feet against the floor—once, twice.
Billy Renzo heard it too. He started thrashing, rolling slightly, trying to make any sound that might reach whoever was out there.
Ryan joined in, all three of them fighting against their restraints, desperate to be heard.
Above them, footsteps pounded across the barn floor.
"Shut them up!" one of the kidnappers hissed.
A door slammed open. Heavy boots thundered down the wooden stairs.
One of the men kicked Billy Jr. in the ribs. "Stay quiet, you little bastards, or I'll make it worse."
But the fear in his voice was unmistakable.
He heard it too.
The kidnapper ran back upstairs. Voices erupted—panicked, angry.
"They found us! How the hell did they find us?"
"I told you we should've moved them!"
"Forget that—get the rifles. We're not going down without a fight."
Billy Jr.'s hope surged even as his terror spiked. They were coming. His family, the consortium—they were coming.
But now the kidnappers were arming up.
And he, Billy Renzo, and Ryan Mattern were lying helpless in the middle of what was about to become a war zone.
Chapter 6: The Assault
Sheriff Wade Nelson crouched behind his SUV, surveying the abandoned barn through night-vision binoculars. Wilson and Ryan flanked him, their service weapons drawn. Behind them, trucks rolled in silently—Jake, Billy, Ray, Celab, Mr. Renzo, Mr. Mattern, and a dozen other consortium members, all armed.
And Pops.
The old man climbed out of Tom's truck with a rifle that looked like it had seen action in Vietnam. Probably had.
Mr. Renzo stood beside him, his hunting rifle gripped so tight his knuckles were white. Mr. Mattern checked his shotgun, his face set like stone.
"Wade," Pops growled, racking a round into the chamber. "We doing this or what?"
Wade lowered the binoculars. The barn was maybe a hundred yards away, partially collapsed on one side, surrounded by overgrown weeds and rusted equipment. Light flickered through cracks in the walls—at least two, maybe three men inside.
And somewhere in that building, three terrified boys.
"We go in smart," Wade said quietly. "Wilson, Ryan—you're with me on the front. Jake, Billy, Celab—circle around back. Cut off their escape. Ray, Renzo, Mattern—you're with Pops. Hold the perimeter. Nobody gets out."
Mr. Renzo's voice was rough. "I see the bastard who hurt my boy, Wade, I'm taking the shot."
"Same here," Mr. Mattern said quietly.
Wade met their eyes and nodded. "Just make sure our boys don't get caught in the crossfire."
He looked at his sons, then at Jake and Billy. "Remember—those boys are in there. Watch your shots."
Jake's jaw was set, his eyes hard. "Let's go."
They moved like shadows, spreading out across the field. Wade, Wilson, and Ryan approached the front entrance, their weapons raised. Jake, Billy, and Celab disappeared around the back. Pops, Mr. Renzo, and Mr. Mattern spread out along the left flank, rifles up.
Wade was ten feet from the door when it burst open.
A man stumbled out, rifle in hand, sweeping wildly. "STAY BACK! STAY BACK OR WE KILL THEM!"
Wade didn't hesitate. "DROP THE WEAPON! SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT!"
The man fired.
The shot went wide, kicking up dirt near Wilson's feet. Wilson returned fire—two precise rounds center mass. The kidnapper dropped.
All hell broke loose.
Gunfire erupted from inside the barn—muzzle flashes lighting up the darkness. Wade and his sons took cover behind an old tractor, returning fire in controlled bursts.
Mr. Renzo saw movement in a window—another kidnapper taking aim at Wade. He didn't hesitate. His rifle cracked once. The figure in the window dropped.
"BACK DOOR!" Jake's voice shouted over the radio. "TWO MORE COMING OUT!"
More shots. Billy's voice: "ONE DOWN!"
The last kidnapper tried to make a run for it through a gap in the barn wall. Mr. Mattern stepped into his path, shotgun leveled.
"You hurt my son," Mr. Mattern said, his voice deadly calm.
The man dropped his weapon and raised his hands, face white with terror.
Inside the basement, Billy Jr. flinched at every gunshot, his body curled as tight as the ropes would allow. Dust rained down from the ceiling. Billy Renzo and Ryan were screaming through their gags, thrashing against their bonds.
Please don't let a bullet come through the floor, Billy Jr. prayed. Please, please, please—
Above them, the gunfire intensified. Then, abruptly, silence.
"CLEAR!" Wade's voice. "BUILDING IS CLEAR!"
Footsteps thundered across the floor. Multiple voices, shouting.
"WHERE ARE THEY?"
"BASEMENT! THERE'S A DOOR!"
The door crashed open. Boots on the stairs.
"JUNIOR! BILLY! RYAN!"
The blindfold was ripped from Billy Jr.'s eyes. He blinked against the sudden light—and saw his uncle Jake kneeling beside him, his face streaked with sweat and dirt.
"I got you, buddy," Jake said, his voice shaking. "I got you."
Across the basement, Mr. Renzo dropped to his knees beside his son. "Billy! Billy, it's Dad! You're safe!"
Mr. Mattern was already cutting the ropes off Ryan, his hands shaking. "I'm here, son. I'm here."
Jake's knife flashed. The rope connecting Billy Jr.'s ankles to his wrists fell away, releasing the brutal tension. He gasped as his body straightened. More cuts—the rope around his ankles, his biceps, his elbows.
Finally, his hands came free.
Jake pulled the gag from his mouth.
Billy Jr. sucked in a huge breath, his whole body shaking.
Mr. Renzo freed Billy Renzo's hands and yanked the gag away. Billy Renzo immediately threw his arms around his father and sobbed.
Ryan Mattern collapsed into his father's arms the moment he was freed, unable to speak, just shaking.
Billy Jr. tried to stand but his legs buckled. Jake caught him. "Easy. You've been tied up for hours. Take it slow."
Billy Jr. looked up and saw Pops standing at the bottom of the stairs, rifle still in hand, tears streaming down his weathered face.
"My boys," Pops whispered. "My boys."
Wade appeared behind him. "Kidnappers are down. Two dead, one in custody. Ambulance is en route."
Mr. Renzo helped his son to his feet, supporting his weight. Mr. Mattern had Ryan in a fierce embrace, his eyes closed, whispering prayers of thanks.
They were free.
They were safe.
And the consortium had come for them—every father, every brother, every friend.
No one left behind.
Chapter 7: Brotherhood
The Benson Ranch was alive with the smell of mesquite smoke and barbecue. A week had passed since the rescue, and the entire consortium had gathered for a celebration that had been building since the moment the boys came home.
Long tables stretched across the back lawn, groaning under the weight of brisket, ribs, sausage, potato salad, coleslaw, and more pies than anyone could count. Kids ran around playing tag while the adults stood in clusters, talking and laughing, cold beers in hand.
But the center of attention was five sixteen-year-old boys.
Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, and Louisiana Beaumont sat together at a picnic table, grinning like idiots as the consortium families gathered around them.
Sheriff Wade tapped a fork against his beer bottle, and the crowd quieted.
"All right, everyone," Wade said, his voice carrying across the yard. "We're here to celebrate something important. A week ago, three of our boys were taken. And thanks to these two—" he nodded at Daniel and Louisiana "—and every single member of this consortium, we got them back."
A cheer went up from the crowd.
"But more than that," Wade continued, "we learned something we already knew—this consortium isn't just about business. It's about family. And when you come after one of us, you come after all of us."
"DAMN RIGHT!" Pops shouted, raising his glass of brandy.
Tom Benson stepped forward, carrying five large boxes. Ray and Josh followed with more.
"Boys," Tom said, setting the boxes down on the table. "You've proven yourselves. You kept your heads, used your skills, and brought our sons home. The consortium wants you to know—you're not kids anymore. You're men. You're brothers. And you're part of this family forever."
Billy Jr. opened the first box and his eyes went wide. "No way. NO WAY!"
Inside was a top-of-the-line VR headset system—the kind they'd been drooling over in tech magazines for months.
The other four tore into their boxes. Same thing. Five complete VR systems, custom-configured, with their names engraved on the cases.
"Oh man, oh man, oh man!" Louisiana was practically bouncing. "This is the new model! The one that's not even supposed to be out yet!"
"How did you—" Ryan Mattern started.
Ray grinned. "Consortium has connections."
Within minutes, all five boys had the headsets on, controllers in hand, stumbling around the lawn like drunk cowboys.
"I'M FLYING!" Billy Renzo shouted, arms spread wide, nearly walking into a table.
"WATCH OUT, THERE'S A DRAGON!" Daniel yelled, swinging wildly at thin air.
Billy Jr. was crouched down, pretending to drive. "I'M DOING 200 MILES AN HOUR! JUNIOR'S GOT THE NEED FOR SPEED!"
Louisiana did a spinning kick at nothing. "TAKE THAT, NINJA ROBOT!"
Ryan Mattern walked straight into Jake, who caught him. "Easy there, Matrix. You're gonna hurt yourself."
The adults were doubled over laughing. Sarah Benson had tears streaming down her face. Even Wade was grinning ear to ear.
"All right, all right," Pops called out after a few minutes. "Take those damn things off before you break your necks. I got something for you boys too."
The five of them pulled off their headsets, faces flushed and grinning.
Pops stood there holding a bottle of Jack Daniel's and a box of cigars.
The yard went quiet.
"Now," Pops said, his voice serious. "You boys have been through hell. You've earned the right to be called men. And in this family, when a boy becomes a man, he gets three things." He held up the bottle. "Good whiskey." Then the cigars. "A fine smoke." He paused. "And the respect of every man here."
He looked at the mothers—Sarah, Mrs. Renzo, Mrs. Mattern, Mrs. Rodriguez, and Caroline Beaumont. "Ladies, I know you don't like it. But these boys have earned it."
Sarah wiped her eyes and nodded. The other mothers exchanged glances and reluctantly agreed.
Pops poured five glasses—not full, but enough—and handed them out. Then he pulled out five cigars, clipping the ends and passing them around.
"Billy Jr.," Pops said, striking a match. "You kept your head when most men would've lost it." He lit Billy Jr.'s cigar.
He moved to Billy Renzo. "You held strong, son. Your daddy's proud."
Then Ryan Mattern. "You didn't break. That takes guts."
To Daniel. "You hit that button and you didn't stop until you found them. That's courage."
Finally, Louisiana. "You ran those drones like a general running an army. Well done, boy."
Pops raised his glass. "To the wiz kids. To the consortium. To brotherhood."
"TO BROTHERHOOD!" everyone shouted.
The five boys clinked their glasses together and took their first sips of whiskey. All five immediately made faces—coughing, grimacing, eyes watering.
"HOLY—" Louisiana choked.
"THAT'S AWFUL!" Ryan gasped.
"Why do people drink this?" Daniel wheezed.
But they were laughing, pounding each other on the back, puffing on their cigars and coughing some more.
Pops laughed so hard he nearly dropped his brandy. "You'll get used to it, boys. You'll get used to it."
Jake leaned over to Billy. "Remember our first time?"
Billy grinned. "I threw up behind the barn."
"Me too."
As the sun began to set and the string lights came on across the lawn, Billy Jr. grabbed his VR headset again.
"Hey!" he shouted to the others. "One more round! Cowboys and Indians!"
"YES!" Louisiana jumped up, nearly knocking over his chair.
The five boys strapped their headsets back on, and within seconds they were in full character.
"YEEEE-HAW!" Billy Jr. galloped in a circle, slapping his thigh like he was riding a horse. "GET ALONG, LITTLE DOGIES!"
Billy Renzo drew an imaginary bow. "I AM CHIEF RUNNING BUFFALO! YOU WILL NOT PASS THROUGH MY TERRITORY!"
"BANG BANG!" Ryan Mattern was firing finger guns in every direction. "I'M THE FASTEST DRAW IN TEXAS!"
Daniel crouched behind an invisible rock. "THEY'RE COMING OVER THE RIDGE! CIRCLE THE WAGONS!"
Louisiana was doing what could only be described as a war dance. "WAH-WAH-WAH-WAH!" He slapped his hand over his mouth making the stereotypical sound, spinning in circles.
The entire consortium lost it.
"OH MY LORD!" Mrs. Renzo was crying with laughter.
"SOMEBODY RECORD THIS!" Rebecca shouted, already pulling out her phone.
Jake and Billy were howling. Ray had his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Tom was leaning against the house for support.
Pops was red-faced, slapping his knee. "THAT'S IT! THAT'S THE FUNNIEST DAMN THING I'VE SEEN SINCE VIETNAM!"
Billy Jr. "shot" Billy Renzo with his finger gun. "GOTCHA, CHIEF!"
Billy Renzo dramatically clutched his chest and fell to the ground. "YOU HAVE DEFEATED ME, PALEFACE! I DIE WITH HONOR!" He flopped around on the grass like a dying fish.
"AVENGE THE CHIEF!" Louisiana charged at Billy Jr., tomahawk-chopping the air.
The battle raged on—boys stumbling, falling, "shooting," "dying," and popping back up to fight again. At one point, Daniel tripped over a lawn chair and went down hard, but he stayed in character.
"I'VE BEEN HIT! TELL MY WIFE... TELL HER... I LOVED HER BISCUITS!"
Ryan Mattern stood over him. "HE DIED BRAVELY! WE'LL WRITE SONGS ABOUT HIM!"
"I'M NOT DEAD YET!" Daniel sprang up and tackled Ryan.
The two of them rolled across the grass, laughing so hard they could barely breathe.
Finally, after twenty minutes of pure chaos, all five boys collapsed in a heap, tearing off their headsets, gasping for air, covered in grass stains and grinning like maniacs.
The consortium gave them a standing ovation.
"Best entertainment we've had in years!" Mr. Mattern called out.
"ENCORE! ENCORE!" someone shouted.
"No way," Billy Jr. gasped. "I think... I think I pulled something."
"My dignity," Louisiana groaned. "I definitely pulled my dignity."
They lay there under the stars, the sounds of laughter and conversation washing over them, the smell of cigar smoke and barbecue still hanging in the air.
Billy Jr. looked around at his friends, at the families gathered, at Pops holding court with a new bottle of brandy.
"We're never going to forget this," he said quietly.
"Never," the others agreed.
And they meant it.
No one left behind.
THE END
