Grok Fun: Nobody breaks Billy Benson Junior!

 

Grok Fun: Billy Benson defeated

 

The Salute

 

Jake and Billy Benson stood there, wrists tied behind their backs, arms roped, sweating in the hot Texas sun of the northern part of the Benson Cattle ranch. "Put them in the fuckin' truck and hogtie them!!" They pushed Jake and Billy into an old dirty pickup, tied their boots and hogtied them to their wrists. Then they took off, one sitting in the back with them tracing the barrel of his semi-automatic rifle on their sweaty gagged faces and laughing as the boys looked at him with a look to kill!

Chapter 1: The Assignments at Breakfast

Pops Benson stood in the doorway of the frat house at 5:47 a.m., coffee mug in one hand—brandy already mixed in—cigar stub clamped between his teeth. He'd been up since 5:15, same as every morning for the last fifty years.

"Alright you sorry sonsabitches, daylight's burnin' and you're burnin' my patience! Up! NOW!"

A groan came from the bottom bunk on the left. Jake.

"I said UP! You think those cattle are gonna feed themselves?"

Billy's head popped up from the top bunk. "Pops, it's not even six—"

"It's 5:47, which means you're late. Move your asses!"

Celab swung his legs off the top bunk on the right, grinning. "Morning, Pops."

"Morning, Celab. At least one of you boys has some sense." Pops took a long sip of his coffee. "Where's Colt?"

A muffled voice came from the mattress on the floor between the bunks. "Right here, sir."

"Can't see you under that blanket, son. You hibernating?"

Colt sat up, his Cajun drawl thick with sleep. "Nah, just trying to avoid your cheerful personality this early."

Pops barked a laugh. "Smart mouth. I like that. Now get dressed and get downstairs. Your mommas got breakfast ready and Josh has assignments. Billy, Jake—you two are hauling feed to the northern section today."

Billy Jr. stirred in the bunk above Celab. "What about me, Pops?"

"You're on fence repair with your daddy. And before you whine about it, remember—you're lucky to be on payroll at all at sixteen."

"Yes sir."

Jake sat up, squinting. "Pops, you didn't touch our floorboard stash, did you?"

Pops' eyes twinkled. "Now why the hell would I touch it when I'm the one who keeps it stocked? You boys ran through those Coors faster than I expected. I put six more under there yesterday."

"You're the best, Pops," Billy said, grinning.

"Damn right I am. Now don't let your momma find out or we're all screwed. Five minutes. Move it."

---

Downstairs, the kitchen was already alive with the smell of bacon, eggs, biscuits, and strong coffee. Sarah Benson stood at the stove alongside Mary Nelson and Rebecca, all three women moving in practiced rhythm.

"Boys finally up?" Sarah asked without turning around.

"They're moving," Pops said, settling into his chair at the head of the table. "Slow as molasses but they're moving."

Tom Benson walked in from the back door, boots muddy. "Checked the south pasture. Fence is holding but we'll need to reinforce it by end of week."

"Add it to the list," Josh said, walking in behind him with a clipboard. He was already dressed for the day, sleeves rolled up, all business. "We've got a full slate today."

The frat house boys thundered down the stairs—Billy and Jake shoving each other, Celab and Colt laughing, Billy Jr. trailing behind still pulling on his shirt.

"Sit down before you break something," Sarah said, not looking up from the stove.

They settled into their chairs just as the ladies began setting plates down. Bacon, scrambled eggs, biscuits with butter and jam, hash browns. The kind of breakfast that fueled a full day's work.

Pops grabbed a biscuit and tore it open. "Sarah, these biscuits get better every damn day."

"Language, Pops," Mary Nelson said, but she was smiling.

"I'm seventy-six years old. I'll say whatever the hell I want."

The boys snickered. Billy Jr. leaned over to Celab. "Told you he'd drop an F-bomb before breakfast was over."

"Bet's still on," Celab whispered back. "He hasn't said 'fuck' yet."

"Alright, listen up," Josh said, standing at the end of the table with his clipboard. "Ray's handling the books today, so he's in the office. Dad and I are meeting with the Renzos at ten about the feed contract. Billy Jr., you're with me on fence repair after that."

Billy Jr. nodded, mouth full of biscuit.

"Celab, Colt—you're helping Ray move equipment in the barn. Pops, you're on light duty."

Pops snorted. "Light duty. I'm seventy-six, not dead."

"You're seventy-six and you just had your hip replaced," Rebecca said firmly. "Light duty means supervising, not lifting."

"Fine. I'll supervise these jackasses so they don't kill themselves."

Billy Jr. grinned. Celab elbowed him. "That's two."

Josh turned to Billy and Jake. "You two are hauling feed to the northern ranch. Six pallets. Should take you most of the morning. Radio in when you're done."

Billy grinned at Jake. "Hear that? We get the fun job."

"Fun job?" Jake shot back. "You mean the job where I do all the work while you sit on your ass?"

"Boys," Sarah warned.

"I'm just saying, last time we hauled feed, Jake spent half the time complainin' about his back."

"That's 'cause you loaded the pallets wrong, dumbass."

"I loaded them perfect. You just don't know how to lift."

Celab laughed. "Y'all gonna argue or actually get the job done?"

"Both," Billy and Jake said in unison.

Tom shook his head, smiling. "Just get it done without killing each other. And check in on the cattle while you're up there."

"Yes sir," they both said.

Pops leaned back in his chair. "Those two are gonna get in trouble one of these days."

"They always do," Sarah said. "But they figure it out."

Josh looked at his watch. "Alright, let's move. Daylight's burning."

Billy and Jake scarfed down the rest of their breakfast, grabbed their hats, and headed for the door.

"Take the Chevy!" Tom called after them. "And drive careful on those dirt roads!"

"We got it, Dad!" Jake yelled back.

As they left, Billy Jr. leaned toward Pops. "You really restocked the beer?"

Pops winked. "What do you think, kid? Now finish your breakfast before your grandma smacks me for teaching you bad habits."

Billy Jr. grinned and took another bite.

Outside, Billy and Jake climbed into the old Chevy pickup, Billy behind the wheel. The engine roared to life.

"Think we can get this done in three hours?" Billy asked.

"If you don't drive like an old lady," Jake said, grinning.

Billy hit the gas, kicking up dust as they headed toward the northern section of the ranch.

Neither of them saw the black pickup truck idling on the ridge a half-mile out, watching them go.

Chapter 2: The Binding

The northern section was quiet. Too quiet.

Billy pulled the Chevy to a stop near the feed storage shed, dust settling around them. Jake hopped out first, stretching his back.

"Told you we'd make good time," Billy said, killing the engine.

"Yeah, yeah. Let's just load up and get back. I'm already sweating my ass off."

They walked toward the shed, boots crunching on gravel. The six pallets were stacked inside, just like Josh said. Billy pulled the shed door open wider while Jake grabbed the hand truck.

"You take the first three, I'll get the rest," Jake said.

"Since when do you volunteer to do more work?"

"Since I don't want to be out here all damn day."

Billy laughed and turned back toward the truck—

A rifle barrel pressed cold against the back of his neck.

"Don't move."

Billy froze. His breath caught. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jake go rigid, another man behind him with a gun to his head.

"Hands up. Slow."

Billy raised his hands. His heart hammered. "What the hell do you want?"

"Shut up." The voice was flat, emotionless. "On your knees. Both of you."

Jake's jaw clenched. "Like hell—"

The man behind Jake slammed the rifle butt into his shoulder, dropping him to one knee. "I said DOWN."

Billy dropped too, hands still raised. "Alright, alright. We're down."

A third man appeared from behind the shed, holding coils of rope. He was younger, maybe mid-twenties, with a bandana covering his face. He moved fast, yanking Billy's wrists behind his back.

"Don't fight it," the first man said. "Make this harder and you'll regret it."

The rope bit into Billy's wrists, wrapped tight in rough loops. Then the man wound more rope around his arms from elbow to wrist, cinching everything together, locking his arms in place.

Jake grunted as they did the same to him. "You sons of bitches are gonna pay for this."

"Big talk for someone on his knees." The man behind Jake kicked him forward. "Shut your mouth."

They hauled Billy to his feet, then Jake. Both of them stood there, sweating in the hot Texas sun, wrists tied behind their backs, arms roped tight.

"What do you want?" Billy asked again, voice steadier this time. "Money? The ranch? What?"

"You'll find out soon enough." The first man—clearly the leader—gestured toward an old dirty pickup idling near the tree line. "Put them in the fuckin' truck and hogtie them!"

"Wait—" Jake started, but they shoved him forward, rough hands gripping his shoulders.

They dragged both of them toward the truck, boots scraping in the dirt. Billy's mind raced. Radio. We left the radio in the Chevy. No one knows we're here.

The back of the pickup was rusted, the bed filthy with mud and oil stains. They threw Billy in first, then Jake, both landing hard on the metal.

"Tie their boots," the leader barked.

The younger one pulled more rope and looped it around Billy's ankles, yanking it tight. Then he connected it to the rope around Billy's wrists, pulling his body into an arch. Hogtied.

Jake cursed under his breath as they did the same to him. "You're dead. You hear me? My family's gonna—"

One of the men stuffed a rag in Jake's mouth, then tied a bandana around it to hold it in place. Jake's eyes burned with rage, but he couldn't speak.

They gagged Billy next. He tried to turn his head, tried to resist, but the man grabbed his jaw and forced it in.

"Comfortable?" the leader asked, smirking.

Billy glared at him, chest heaving.

The leader climbed into the bed with them, rifle resting across his lap. The other two got in the cab. The engine roared to life.

"Let's go."

The truck lurched forward, bouncing over the rough terrain. Billy's body slammed against the bed with every bump, his shoulders screaming from the angle. Beside him, Jake grunted through the gag, eyes locked on the man with the rifle.

The man leaned down, tracing the barrel of his semi-automatic rifle slowly across Billy's sweaty gagged face, then Jake's. He laughed—a cold, ugly sound.

Billy and Jake both looked at him with a look to kill.

The truck sped away from the northern section, kicking up dust.

---

High on a pole near the feed shed, hidden in the shadow of the roof, a small surveillance camera silently recorded everything.

The lens captured the Chevy sitting empty. The shed door open. The scattered rope on the ground.

And the black pickup disappearing into the distance.

No one at the ranch knew yet.

But the footage was already uploading.

Chapter 3: The Arrival

The truck bounced over rutted roads for what felt like an hour. Billy lost track of time. Every jolt sent pain shooting through his shoulders and hips. The hogtie rope dug deeper with each mile. Beside him, Jake's breathing was heavy through the gag, his eyes never leaving the man with the rifle.

Finally, the truck slowed. Billy heard gravel crunching under the tires, then the squeal of rusted metal—a gate, maybe. The engine cut off.

Silence.

Then footsteps. The tailgate dropped with a clang.

"Get 'em out," the leader said.

Rough hands grabbed Billy by the ropes and dragged him to the edge of the truck bed. He hit the ground hard, unable to break his fall. Pain exploded through his shoulder. He grunted through the gag.

They did the same to Jake, who landed with a thud beside him.

Billy blinked against the sun and tried to get his bearings. Through the sweat stinging his eyes, he saw it: an old, massive building. Concrete walls streaked with rust and grime. Broken windows. Faded letters on the side: KINGS COUNTY MEAT PROCESSING.

Abandoned. Probably for years.

"Inside," the leader said. "Move 'em."

They grabbed Billy and Jake by the ropes again and dragged them across the gravel lot toward a loading dock. Billy's boots scraped uselessly against the ground. He couldn't get leverage. Couldn't fight.

The inside of the plant was dark and stank of rot and decay. The air was thick, humid. Billy's eyes adjusted slowly. He saw conveyor belts rusted in place, old machinery covered in dust, and—

Meat hooks.

Dozens of them, hanging from chains attached to an overhead rail system. Some were corroded. Some still gleamed dully in the dim light filtering through the broken roof.

Billy's stomach dropped.

They dumped him and Jake on the concrete floor in the center of the room. The cold surface bit into Billy's cheek. He could hear Jake's labored breathing beside him, could see the fury still burning in his eyes.

The leader walked over and crouched down between them. He pulled the bandana away from his face. Billy didn't recognize him. Hard features, maybe forty, scar running down his left cheek.

"You boys know why you're here?"

Billy shook his head, unable to speak through the gag.

The man smiled. "Your family's got money. Lots of it. We're gonna make sure they share."

Jake thrashed against the ropes, trying to yell something through the gag. The man backhanded him across the face.

"Save your energy. You're gonna need it."

He stood and gestured to the other two men. "Hook 'em up."

Billy's heart pounded. Hook them up? What the hell does that mean?

One of the men pulled a heavy chain down from the rail above, a large meat hook attached to the end. The hook was thick, rusted at the edges, the kind used to hang sides of beef.

The younger man knelt beside Billy and grabbed the few inches of rope connecting his hogtied wrists and ankles. He slipped the hook through the loop.

Billy realized what they were doing.

He tried to fight, tried to twist away, but the ropes held him tight. The man double-checked the hook, making sure it was secure.

"Same with the other one," the leader said.

They did the same to Jake, hooking him through the rope between his bound wrists and ankles.

Then they pulled the chains.

Billy felt himself lifting off the ground. The pressure on his wrists and ankles was immediate and excruciating. His body arched as the rope pulled tighter, suspending him in the air. His hands pointed downward, arms stretched painfully behind him, blood rushing to his head.

He was hanging upside down.

Jake was hoisted beside him, suspended the same way. His face was red, sweat dripping from his forehead onto the concrete below.

Billy's shoulders screamed. His wrists burned. Every breath was harder than the last.

The leader stepped back and looked at them, satisfied. "That's perfect."

One of the men pulled out a phone and aimed it at them.

"Smile for the camera, boys."

The flash went off. Once. Twice. Three times.

Billy closed his eyes, dizzy, the blood pounding in his skull. Sweat dripped from his face and hit the floor in steady drops.

The leader looked at the photos on the phone, nodding. "Yeah. That'll do it. Let's send these and see how fast Daddy Benson pays up."

He turned and walked toward the door, the other two following. Their footsteps echoed in the cavernous space.

Then the door slammed shut.

And Billy and Jake were left hanging in the dark.

Chapter 4: The Discovery

Billy Jr. pulled off his work gloves and tossed them in the back of his dad's truck. The fence repair had taken longer than expected—nearly four hours in the blazing sun. His shirt was soaked through with sweat.

"Good work today," Josh said, loading the last of the tools. "Head back to the house and grab some water. You earned it."

"Thanks, Dad." Billy Jr. glanced at his watch. 2:47 p.m. "Billy and Jake check in yet?"

Josh frowned slightly. "Not that I heard. Why?"

"Just wondering. They left this morning, should've been done by now."

"They're probably just screwing around. You know how those two are."

Billy Jr. nodded, but something nagged at him. Billy and Jake always checked in. Always. It was one of Pops' rules—radio in when the job's done.

"I'm gonna take the quad up there and check on them," Billy Jr. said.

Josh looked at him. "You sure? It's a long ride in this heat."

"I'm sure. Besides, if they're slacking off, I want to give 'em hell for it."

Josh grinned. "Alright. Radio me when you get there."

Billy Jr. climbed onto the quad and fired it up. The engine roared to life, and he took off toward the northern section, kicking up dust behind him.

---

Twenty minutes later, Billy Jr. pulled up to the feed shed. The Chevy was still there, doors open, keys in the ignition.

His stomach tightened.

"Billy? Jake?" he called out.

No answer.

He walked toward the shed, boots crunching on gravel. The door was wide open. The pallets were still stacked inside, untouched.

They never loaded the feed.

Billy Jr.'s pulse quickened. He turned back toward the Chevy and saw it—rope, cut and scattered on the ground. Boot prints in the dirt. Tire tracks leading away from the site, heading east.

"What the hell...?"

He pulled the radio from his belt and hit the emergency button three times.

"911 Emergency. Billy Junior. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior."

The encrypted frequency crackled to life immediately. Voices flooded in—Tom, Josh, Ray, Sheriff Wade, Robert Beaumont, Billy Renzo's dad, all the consortium families.

"Billy Jr., what's your status?" Tom's voice, sharp and urgent.

"I'm at the northern feed shed, Granddad. Billy and Jake's truck is here but they're gone. There's cut rope on the ground and tire tracks heading east. Something's wrong."

A pause. Then Tom's voice again, harder. "Stay where you are. Do NOT follow those tracks. Josh and I are on our way. Sheriff, you copy?"

"Copy," Sheriff Wade said. "I'm rolling now with Ryan and Wilson. ETA fifteen minutes."

"I'm not staying here," Billy Jr. said, already climbing back on the quad. "I'm heading to the command center. We've got surveillance on this site."

"Billy—" Tom started.

"I'll be careful. Out."

Billy Jr. killed the radio, gunned the engine, and tore across the ranch toward home.

---

He burst through the back door of the house ten minutes later, taking the stairs two at a time. The command center door was already open—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez were inside, hunched over the monitors.

"We heard the 911," Billy Renzo said, not looking up. "We're pulling the northern section feeds now."

Billy Jr. dropped into the chair beside him, his hands shaking. "Find it. Find them."

Ryan's fingers flew over the keyboard. "Got it. Northern feed shed, this morning. Starting at... 9:32 a.m."

The footage loaded on the main screen.

Billy Jr. watched as Billy and Jake pulled up in the Chevy. Watched them get out, walk toward the shed. Then—three men with rifles. Billy and Jake on their knees. Hands tied behind their backs. Roped. Hogtied. Thrown into a truck.

Billy Jr.'s fists clenched. "Sons of bitches."

"There," Daniel said, pointing. "Black pickup. No plates. Heading east."

"Can we track it?" Billy Jr. asked.

"Not from this feed. But I'm pulling satellite data now. If they stayed on dirt roads, we might be able to—"

The radio crackled to life. Tom's voice, tight with controlled fury.

"Command center, this is Tom. We just received ransom photos. All consortium members got them simultaneously. I'm transferring them to your system now."

Billy Jr.'s stomach dropped. "Copy that, Granddad. Standing by."

Ryan pulled up the secure transfer protocol. A file loaded on the main screen.

Billy Jr. opened it.

Billy and Jake, hanging upside down from meat hooks, wrists and ankles hogtied together, faces red and sweating, gagged. The photo was taken from below, their hands pointing toward the concrete floor.

A message followed:

$5,000,000. Cash. 48 hours. Instructions to follow. No police or they die.

Billy Jr. stared at the screen, his breath caught in his throat.

"Jesus Christ," Ryan Mattern whispered.

The radio exploded with voices. Tom, Josh, Pops, Sheriff Wade, Robert Beaumont, all the consortium men talking at once.

"QUIET!" Pops' voice cut through the chaos like a whip. "Billy Jr., you see the photos?"

Billy Jr. grabbed the radio, his voice steady despite the fury building in his chest. "Yes sir, Pops. They're hogtied and hanging from meat hooks. Upside down. Ransom is five million, forty-eight hours."

A long silence.

Then Pops again, his voice low and deadly calm. "Listen to me, all of you. We are getting those boys back. I don't care what it takes. Tom, Josh, Ray—get to the command center now. Sheriff, I want every deputy you've got on this. Robert, get the Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguez families on alert. Billy Jr., you and your boys stay on those monitors and do not stop until you find where they are. Understood?"

"Yes sir," Billy Jr. said.

"Good. Now move."

Downstairs, Billy Jr. could hear footsteps pounding through the house. Doors slamming. Voices shouting. The entire ranch—the entire consortium—was mobilizing.

Billy Jr. turned back to the monitors, his jaw set.

"Let's find them," he said.

Ryan nodded. "Already on it."

The hunt had begun.

Chapter 5: The Search

The command center was packed within twenty minutes.

Tom and Josh arrived first, still in their work clothes, dirt on their boots. Ray came right behind them, laptop already open. Sheriff Wade Nelson pulled up with his sons Wilson and Ryan, all three in uniform, weapons at their hips. Robert Beaumont and the other consortium heads filed in—Billy Renzo's father, Ryan Mattern's father, Daniel Rodriguez's father. The room was designed for four people. Now it held fifteen.

Pops was the last to arrive, moving slower than usual but his eyes sharp as ever. He surveyed the room, then settled into the chair beside Billy Jr.

"Show me everything," Pops said.

Billy Jr. pulled up the surveillance footage on the main monitor. Everyone watched in silence as Billy and Jake were ambushed, tied, hogtied, and thrown into the truck.

"Run it again," Sheriff Wade said. "Slower this time."

Ryan Mattern adjusted the playback speed. They watched frame by frame.

"There," Wilson Nelson said, pointing. "That one's got a tattoo on his forearm. Can you zoom in?"

Daniel Rodriguez enlarged the frame. A snake coiled around a dagger, partially visible under the man's sleeve.

"I've seen that before," Sheriff Wade said quietly. "Garza crew. East Texas cartel affiliate."

The room went silent.

"Garza?" Robert Beaumont said. "I thought they stayed out of Kings County."

"They do. Usually." Sheriff Wade crossed his arms. "This is bigger than a simple ransom. They're making a statement."

Tom's jaw tightened. "Statement or not, we're getting my boys back."

"Agreed," Sheriff Wade said. "But if it's Garza, we need to be smart. They don't negotiate. They execute."

Pops leaned forward. "Then we don't negotiate either. We find them first."

Billy Jr. turned to his friends. "What've we got on satellite?"

Billy Renzo pulled up a second monitor. "We tracked the black pickup for about twelve miles east from the northern section. Then it goes off-road through the canyon pass. We lose visual under the tree cover for about four miles."

"Can we pick it up again?" Josh asked.

"Working on it," Ryan Mattern said, typing rapidly. "I'm cross-referencing abandoned structures within a fifty-mile radius east of the last known position. Filtering for buildings large enough to... to do what they're doing."

He didn't need to say more. Everyone had seen the photos.

Daniel Rodriguez pulled up a third screen. "I've got twelve possible locations. Warehouses, processing plants, old factories. Most are condemned."

"Narrow it down," Tom said. "Which ones have overhead rail systems? They're using meat hooks."

Daniel's fingers flew. "That leaves four. Two old slaughterhouses, one meat processing plant, and one cold storage facility."

Sheriff Wade studied the map. "The cold storage is too close to Highway 9. Too much traffic. They wouldn't risk it."

"Agreed," Robert Beaumont said. "Cross that off."

"The slaughterhouses are both near residential areas," Wilson added. "Garza wouldn't operate there. Too many eyes."

Billy Jr. zoomed in on the remaining location. "Kings County Meat Processing. Abandoned since 2014. Forty-three miles east of the ranch, accessible by dirt roads through the canyon."

Pops leaned closer, studying the satellite image. "That's it."

"We don't know for sure," Ray cautioned.

"I know," Pops said flatly. "That's where they are."

Sheriff Wade pulled out his phone. "I'll get a warrant and—"

"No." Tom's voice was ice. "No warrants. No official involvement. The message said no police or they die."

Sheriff Wade stiffened. "Tom, I can't—"

"You're not here as sheriff," Pops interrupted. "You're here as family. As consortium. Your badge stays in your truck."

Wade looked at his sons, then back at Tom. A long pause.

"Alright," Wade said quietly. "We do this off the books."

Billy Renzo pulled up thermal imaging from one of their drones. "I'm launching Drone 3 now. ETA to the meat processing plant is eighteen minutes. If they're there, we'll see heat signatures."

"Do it," Tom said.

The drone feed appeared on the main screen—live footage from 800 feet up, racing east across the darkening Texas landscape.

"What about the ransom?" Ray asked. "They said instructions would follow. When?"

As if on cue, Tom's phone buzzed. Then Sheriff Wade's. Then Robert's.

All the consortium men.

Tom opened the message and read aloud:

"Drop location will be sent at 0600 tomorrow. One person. Unarmed. Any deviation and they die. You have 47 hours."

"They're giving us time to get the money together," Josh said.

"And time to make mistakes," Sheriff Wade added. "They're watching us. Guaranteed."

Pops stood, his voice cutting through the tension. "Then we don't make mistakes. Billy Jr., you and your boys stay on that drone. Find them. Tom, Josh, Ray—start liquidating assets. We need five million in cash by tomorrow morning, whether we pay it or not. Sheriff, you and your boys scout every route to that meat plant. I want three exit strategies. Robert, coordinate with the other families. Everyone stays armed, everyone stays ready."

"What about you, Pops?" Billy Jr. asked.

Pops looked at him, then at the photo of Billy and Jake still frozen on the screen.

"I'm gonna pray," Pops said quietly. "And then I'm gonna load every damn rifle in this house."

He turned and walked out.

The room erupted into motion. Phones out, keyboards clicking, maps spreading across tables.

Billy Jr. stared at the drone feed, watching the meat processing plant grow closer on the screen.

"Come on," he whispered. "Be there. Please be there."

Beside him, Billy Renzo adjusted the thermal sensors.

"Seventeen minutes," he said.

The hunt continued.

Chapter 6: The Wait

Time had no meaning in the dark.

Billy didn't know if they'd been hanging for an hour or four. His shoulders burned. His wrists were numb. Blood pounded in his skull with every heartbeat, a steady drumbeat of pain.

Beside him, Jake hung silent, face red, sweat dripping steadily onto the concrete below.

Billy tried to shift his weight, tried to ease the pressure on his shoulders, but the ropes held tight. Every movement made it worse. The meat hook dug into the rope between his wrists and ankles, pulling the hogtie tighter.

He could hear Jake's breathing—heavy, labored through the gag.

Billy worked his jaw against the bandana, pushing with his tongue. The rag in his mouth was soaked with spit and sweat. He pushed harder, angling his head down despite the dizziness.

The bandana slipped.

Just a little.

He kept working it, grinding his teeth against the fabric. Finally, the knot loosened enough for him to force the rag out with his tongue. It fell to the floor with a wet slap.

Billy gasped, sucking in air. "Jake," he croaked. His voice was raw. "Jake, work your gag loose."

Jake's eyes found his. Billy could see the determination there—and the pain.

Jake started working his jaw, same as Billy had. Twisting his head, pushing with his tongue. It took longer—Jake's gag was tied tighter—but finally the bandana gave way and the rag fell.

Jake spat, coughing. "Jesus Christ," he rasped. "How long we been up here?"

"Don't know. Feels like forever."

"My shoulders are on fire."

"Mine too."

They hung there in silence for a moment, the only sound their breathing and the occasional creak of the chains above them.

"You think they're looking for us?" Jake asked quietly.

"Yeah," Billy said. "Billy Jr. would've checked on us by now. Found the truck. They know."

"How long you think before—"

"I don't know." Billy tried to twist his wrists against the rope. No give. "But Pops isn't gonna pay them. You know that, right?"

Jake let out a short, bitter laugh. "Yeah. I know. He's gonna come for us instead."

"Damn right he is." Billy grunted, trying again to work the rope. His fingers were completely numb now. He couldn't feel them at all. "We just gotta hang on till then."

"Literally," Jake said.

Despite everything, Billy almost smiled. "You making jokes right now?"

"What else am I gonna do? Cry?"

"Wouldn't blame you."

"Screw that." Jake's voice hardened. "I'm gonna remember their faces. Every single one of them. And when we get out of here—"

"When we get out," Billy agreed. "Not if."

Another long silence. The building creaked around them. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called.

"You scared?" Jake asked.

Billy thought about lying. Didn't. "Yeah. You?"

"Terrified." Jake paused. "But more pissed off than scared."

"Same."

"I keep thinking about breakfast this morning," Jake said. "Pops waking us up. The ladies cooking. Josh giving assignments like it was just another day."

"Was just another day," Billy said. "Until it wasn't."

"You think they knew? The kidnappers. You think they were watching us?"

"Probably. Had to know where we'd be, when we'd be alone."

Jake cursed under his breath. "Garza crew, you think? Like Wade said?"

"Maybe. Whoever they are, they're gonna regret it."

"Damn right they are."

Billy tried once more to work his hands free, straining against the rope until his wrists screamed. Nothing. The knots were too tight, too well tied. And even if he could get his hands loose, he was still hogtied, still hanging upside down from a meat hook fifteen feet in the air.

"Can't get loose," Billy admitted.

"Me neither." Jake's voice was tight with frustration. "We're stuck until they come back or—"

"They'll come back," Billy said. "For the ransom drop. And when they do, we fight."

"How? We're trussed up like—"

"I don't know yet. But we fight."

Jake was quiet for a moment. Then: "Billy?"

"Yeah?"

"If we don't make it—"

"Stop."

"I'm serious. If we don't make it, I just want you to know—"

"We're making it," Billy said firmly. "All of us. You, me, the whole damn family. We're making it through this."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do. 'Cause Pops wouldn't have it any other way. You really think that old bastard's gonna let some cartel trash take out two of his grandsons?"

Jake let out a shaky laugh. "No. No, I guess not."

"Exactly. So we hang on. Literally. And we wait."

"How long?"

"As long as it takes."

The chains creaked above them. Their sweat dripped onto the concrete in a steady rhythm.

They hung there in the darkness, backs aching, shoulders burning, waiting for rescue or another round with their captors—whichever came first.

"Billy?" Jake said after a while.

"Yeah?"

"Next time Pops wakes us up at 5:47, I'm not gonna complain."

Despite everything—the pain, the fear, the uncertainty—Billy smiled.

"Me neither, brother. Me neither."

Chapter 7: The Rescue

"Thermal's picking up something," Billy Renzo said, leaning closer to the monitor.

The drone had been circling the Kings County Meat Processing plant for six minutes. On screen, the abandoned building glowed in shades of blue and gray—cold concrete, rusted metal, dead machinery.

But in the center of the main processing floor, two bright orange-red signatures.

"Two heat sources," Daniel Rodriguez confirmed. "Human-sized. Stationary. Elevated approximately fifteen feet off the ground."

Billy Jr.'s heart pounded. "That's them."

Ryan Mattern zoomed in. "There's three more signatures near the east entrance. Moving. Probably guards."

Tom leaned over Billy Jr.'s shoulder, studying the screen. "Can you get a visual?"

"Switching to standard optics now," Billy Renzo said.

The image shifted. Through a broken section of roof, the drone's camera captured two figures suspended from chains, bodies arched, hanging upside down.

Billy and Jake.

"Jesus," Josh breathed.

Pops appeared in the doorway, shotgun already in hand. "You found them?"

"Yes sir," Billy Jr. said. "Kings County Meat Processing, just like you said. Three hostiles, maybe more inside we can't see."

Sheriff Wade stepped up beside Pops. "We need to move fast. Once that ransom deadline hits tomorrow morning, those boys become liabilities."

"We're not waiting till morning," Tom said. "We go tonight."

Ray looked up from his laptop. "It's 6:47 p.m. We've got maybe ninety minutes of daylight left."

"Good," Pops said. "We go in at dusk. Harder for them to see us coming."

Robert Beaumont pulled up a satellite map on another screen. "Two access points. Main entrance here on the east side, loading dock on the west. Both have clear sightlines for about two hundred yards."

"They'll have someone watching both," Wilson Nelson said.

"Then we create a diversion," Sheriff Wade said. "Split into two teams. One draws their attention, the other goes in quiet."

Tom nodded. "Josh, Ray, and I will take the main entrance. Make noise, get their focus. Sheriff, you, Wilson, Ryan, and Robert go in through the loading dock. That's the extraction team."

"I'm going," Billy Jr. said.

"The hell you are," Josh said immediately.

"Dad, I know that building. We did a security assessment on it last year for the consortium. I know the layout, the weak points, everything."

Tom and Josh exchanged a look.

"He's right," Ray said quietly. "He knows it better than any of us."

Pops studied Billy Jr. for a long moment. Then: "You stay with the Sheriff. You don't engage unless you have to. Your job is to get your uncles out. Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Billy, Ryan, Daniel, and Colt," Pops continued, addressing the other boys. "You four are coming with us. Bring the portable command center. We need real-time drone feeds and GPS coordination in the field. You all got your carry permits and sidearms?"

Billy Renzo patted the Glock on his hip. "Yes sir. All four of us."

"Good. You stay mobile, stay in communication, and keep those iPads live. We need eyes on everything."

"We got it, Pops," Billy Renzo said.

Colt grinned, his Cajun drawl thick. "Bout time we got some action."

"Alright." Pops checked his shotgun, then looked around the room. "Everybody load up. We leave in twenty minutes. No badges, no uniforms, no official anything. This is family business."

The room exploded into motion.

---

The convoy rolled out at 7:15 p.m.—four trucks, headlights off, moving east through the back roads of the ranch. Tom drove the lead truck with Josh and Ray. Sheriff Wade drove the second with Wilson, Ryan Nelson, Robert, and Billy Jr. Pops brought up the rear with Celab. The fourth truck—a modified F-250 with mounted antenna arrays—carried Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, and Colt, along with the portable command center equipment.

"Command mobile, this is Wade. Radio check."

Billy Renzo's voice crackled back immediately from the tech truck. "Copy, Wade. We're live. Drone is in position. Thermal shows two targets still suspended, three hostiles on the ground floor. No movement outside the building. Feeding coordinates to all iPads now."

Billy Jr. looked down at his iPad mounted on the dashboard. The tactical map populated with GPS markers—their convoy, the meat processing plant, the drone's position overhead.

"Copy that. ETA twelve minutes."

Billy Jr. checked his Glock, then his rifle. His hands were steady, but his heart hammered in his chest.

"You good, kid?" Sheriff Wade asked, glancing at him.

"I'm good, Granddad."

"Remember what Pops said. You get in, you get your uncles down, you get out. Leave the shooting to us."

"Yes sir."

Wilson turned from the passenger seat. "You did good today, Junior. Finding them, getting everyone mobilized. Your uncles are gonna be proud."

Billy Jr. nodded, throat tight.

The trucks slowed as they approached the canyon pass. Tom's voice came over the radio.

"We're two klicks out. Kill the engines and go on foot from here. Tech truck stays mobile at rally point alpha."

They parked in a draw hidden by cottonwood trees. Everyone piled out except the tech team. Billy Renzo, Ryan, Daniel, and Colt stayed with their equipment, iPads glowing in the dim light, monitoring the drone feeds.

Tom gathered the assault teams in a tight circle. "Drone confirms three visible hostiles. Could be more inside we can't see. We assume they're armed and dangerous. Our priority is getting Billy and Jake out alive. Secondary priority is taking these bastards alive for questioning. But if it comes down to it..."

He didn't need to finish.

"My team goes in loud through the front," Tom continued. "Give us three minutes to get in position. Then Wade's team moves on the loading dock. Billy Jr. guides you to the processing floor. Cut the boys down, get them out. We'll cover your exit."

"What about the hostiles?" Robert asked.

"Leave them to me and Josh." Tom's voice was cold. "They took my boys. They're gonna answer for it."

Pops stepped forward, cigar clamped between his teeth. "One more thing. These sons of bitches wanted five million dollars. They're about to find out the Benson family doesn't negotiate with kidnappers. We take care of our own."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group.

"Tech truck, you copy all that?" Tom asked.

"Copy," Billy Renzo said over the radio. "We've got you all on GPS. Drone's circling at three hundred feet. Thermal's clear—no new movement."

"Alright," Tom said. "Move out. And God be with us."

---

Billy Jr. crouched behind a rusted shipping container two hundred yards from the loading dock. Beside him, Sheriff Wade, Wilson, Ryan Nelson, and Robert Beaumont waited in silence. All of them had night vision goggles down, rifles ready.

Through his earpiece, Billy Jr. heard Tom's voice: "In position. Countdown starts now. Three minutes."

Billy Jr. pulled out his iPad. The screen showed the drone's thermal view—the two orange signatures still hanging in the center, three hostiles near the front entrance, all positioned exactly where they'd been minutes ago.

"Tech truck, any changes?" Sheriff Wade whispered into his radio.

"Negative," Daniel Rodriguez replied. "Pattern's holding. You're clear to approach."

The seconds ticked by like hours.

Billy Jr. focused on his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Just like Pops taught him when they went hunting. His Glock sat reassuringly on his hip.

"Two minutes," Tom said.

Billy Jr. could see the loading dock now—a rusted metal door, partially ajar. No movement outside.

"One minute."

Sheriff Wade tapped Billy Jr.'s shoulder. They started moving, low and fast, using the shipping containers for cover.

"Thirty seconds."

They reached the loading dock. Wilson tested the door—it opened silently on broken hinges.

"Ten seconds."

They slipped inside.

The interior was pitch black. Billy Jr. flipped his night vision down. The world turned green. He could see the massive processing floor ahead, conveyor belts frozen in place, machinery covered in dust.

And there—hanging from chains in the center of the room—Billy and Jake.

"Go," Sheriff Wade whispered.

Then, from the front of the building, an explosion of sound. Truck engines roaring, headlights flooding through the windows, Tom's voice booming through a megaphone:

"THIS IS TOM BENSON! YOU'VE GOT TEN SECONDS TO RELEASE MY SONS OR WE'RE COMING IN!"

Chaos erupted.

Billy Jr. heard shouting from the front of the building. Footsteps running. Someone yelling in Spanish.

"Move, move!" Sheriff Wade hissed.

They sprinted across the processing floor. Billy Jr. reached Billy first, pulling out his knife.

"Uncle Billy, it's me. Hold still."

Billy's eyes went wide with recognition. He tried to say something, but his voice was too hoarse.

Billy Jr. sawed through the rope connecting Billy's wrists and ankles. The tension released and Billy dropped—Wilson caught him before he hit the ground.

Beside them, Sheriff Wade and Ryan were cutting Jake down. Robert stood guard, rifle trained on the entrance.

Gunfire erupted from the front of the building.

"We've got company!" Tom's voice over the radio. "Three hostiles engaging! We're pinned down!"

"Tech truck, where are they?" Sheriff Wade barked into his radio.

"Two at the main entrance, one circling around toward your position!" Colt's voice, urgent. "Thirty yards and closing on your six o'clock!"

"Almost clear!" Sheriff Wade called back.

Jake dropped into Ryan's arms, both of them hitting the ground hard.

"Can you walk?" Billy Jr. asked Billy.

Billy tried to stand. His legs buckled immediately. Too much time hanging upside down.

Billy Jr. heard footsteps behind him. He spun, hand going to his Glock—

A man appeared from behind a conveyor belt, rifle raised.

Billy Jr. drew and fired twice. Center mass. The man went down.

"Contact down!" Billy Jr. shouted, adrenaline spiking through his veins.

"Good shooting, Junior," Wilson said. "Now let's move!"

"We're carrying them out," Sheriff Wade said. "Wilson, take Billy. Ryan, you got Jake. Robert, Junior—you're on point. Let's move!"

They hauled Billy and Jake toward the loading dock exit. Billy Jr. led the way, Glock still drawn, scanning for threats.

They burst out into the twilight just as more gunfire cracked from inside the building.

"Extraction complete!" Sheriff Wade radioed. "We're clear! One hostile down!"

"Copy!" Tom's voice. "We're falling back! Pops, cover us!"

The distinctive boom of Pops' shotgun echoed through the plant.

Billy Jr. and the extraction team ran for the trucks, Wilson and Ryan carrying Billy and Jake between them.

From the tech truck, Billy Renzo's voice crackled: "All teams, you're clear! No additional hostiles on thermal! Rally point alpha is secure!"

They reached the vehicles as Tom, Josh, Ray, Pops, and Celab came sprinting out of the building. Behind them, the meat processing plant lit up with muzzle flashes.

"GO! GO! GO!" Tom yelled.

Everyone piled into the trucks. Engines roared to life. Tom floored it, the convoy tearing out of the canyon as bullets pinged off the tailgates.

Billy Jr. was in the back seat, Billy's head in his lap. His uncle was conscious but barely, mumbling something Billy Jr. couldn't understand.

"You're okay," Billy Jr. said, his voice shaking. "You're okay now. We got you."

In the truck ahead, Jake was already sitting up, Rebecca pressing water to his lips.

The tech truck brought up the rear, Billy Renzo still monitoring the drone feed. "All units, this is Command mobile. You're clear. No pursuit. I repeat, no pursuit. Welcome home."

The convoy raced through the darkness, headlights cutting through the Texas night, heading for home.

Chapter 8: The Aftermath

The trucks pulled into the ranch at 9:23 p.m. Sarah, Mary, and the other consortium women were already waiting outside, tears streaming down their faces as Wilson and Ryan carried Billy and Jake from the vehicles.

"Get them inside," Rebecca said, already in nurse mode. "Sarah, I need warm water, clean towels, and the first aid kit. Mary, start heating soup—something light."

The women swept Billy and Jake into the house. Billy Jr. watched them go, still sitting in the back seat of Sheriff Wade's truck, Glock still on his hip.

He couldn't stop shaking.

Tom appeared at the truck door. "Billy Jr. You good?"

Billy Jr. looked up at his grandfather. Tried to speak. Couldn't.

Tom's expression softened. He reached in and put a hand on Billy Jr.'s shoulder. "Come on, son. Let's get you inside."

Billy Jr. climbed out on unsteady legs. Josh was there immediately, wrapping an arm around his son.

"You did good today," Josh said quietly. "Real good."

"I killed someone, Dad." Billy Jr.'s voice was barely a whisper.

"I know."

"I—I didn't even think. I just—"

"You protected your family," Josh said firmly. "You saved your uncles. That man would've killed them. Would've killed all of us."

Billy Jr. nodded, but the shaking wouldn't stop.

Pops appeared on the porch, shotgun propped against the railing, cigar in hand. He looked at Billy Jr., then at Tom and Josh.

"Bring him up to the frat house," Pops said. "All the boys. Tell the ladies we'll be down in a bit."

---

Ten minutes later, Billy Jr. sat on the edge of the bottom bunk—Billy's bunk—surrounded by his father, grandfather, Pops, Sheriff Wade, and his four friends. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, and Colt stood near the door, all of them still wearing their sidearms.

Pops pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels from under the floorboard—right next to the Coors stash—and set it on the small table between the bunks.

"First time's always the hardest," Pops said, pouring a shot into a plastic cup. He handed it to Billy Jr. "Drink."

Billy Jr. took the cup with shaking hands. The whiskey burned going down, making him cough.

"Again," Pops said, pouring another.

Billy Jr. drank. This time it went down smoother.

Pops poured a third, then took the bottle and poured shots for everyone in the room—including the sixteen-year-olds.

"What you did tonight," Pops said, looking directly at Billy Jr., "was the hardest thing a man ever has to do. Taking a life ain't easy. Ain't supposed to be easy. But you did what needed doing, and you did it without hesitation."

"He would've killed Uncle Billy," Billy Jr. said, his voice stronger now. "And Jake. And us."

"Damn right he would've," Sheriff Wade said. "I saw the angle. You had maybe two seconds. You made the right call."

"The only call," Wilson added.

Tom sat down beside Billy Jr. "Your great-great-grandfather built this ranch with his bare hands. Fought off rustlers, outlaws, and worse. Protected his family no matter what it cost him. Today, you did the same thing."

"You're a Benson," Josh said. "That means something."

Billy Renzo stepped forward. "Means you're not alone either. Any of us would've done the same thing."

"Hell yeah," Colt said, his Cajun drawl thick. "You saved your family, brother. That's what matters."

Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez nodded in agreement.

Pops refilled Billy Jr.'s cup. "You're gonna have nightmares. Might take a while to process it all. That's normal. But you listen to me—what you did was right. You protected yours. That's what men do."

Billy Jr. took the third shot. His hands had stopped shaking.

"How do you deal with it?" Billy Jr. asked Pops. "After... after you've done it?"

Pops was quiet for a moment, puffing his cigar. "You remember why you did it. You remember who you were protecting. And you lean on your brothers." He gestured around the room. "These men right here—your dad, your granddad, Wade, these boys—they're your brothers. You talk to them. You don't bottle it up."

Sheriff Wade leaned forward. "I've been in three shootings in my career. Every single time, I came home and talked it through with Mary and these men. That's how you survive it."

Tom nodded. "We're here for you, Junior. Whatever you need. Whenever you need it."

Billy Jr. looked around the room at the faces of the men who'd raised him, fought beside him, and would die for him without hesitation.

"Thanks," he said, his voice steady now. "All of you."

Pops grinned and grabbed the pack of Coors from under the floorboard. "Alright, enough of the serious shit. Let's have a beer."

He tossed cans to everyone—Tom, Josh, Sheriff Wade, Wilson, Ryan Nelson, Robert, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, Colt, and Billy Jr.

They all cracked them open.

"To Billy and Jake," Pops said, raising his can. "And to Billy Jr., who brought them home."

"To Billy Jr.," everyone echoed.

They drank.

---

An hour later, most of the men had gone downstairs. Tom and Josh went to check on Billy and Jake. Sheriff Wade and his sons headed home. Robert Beaumont left to update the other consortium families.

But Pops stayed.

So did Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, and Colt.

They sat on the bunks and the floor mattress, empty beer cans scattered around them. Pops had his cigar. Billy Jr. had stopped shaking completely.

"You know what I like about you boys?" Pops said, looking at the five sixteen-year-olds. "You don't bullshit each other. You tell it straight."

"Learned from the best," Billy Renzo said, grinning at Pops.

Pops laughed. "Damn right you did."

Colt leaned back against the bunk. "Junior, you were stone cold out there, man. Two shots, center mass, didn't even blink."

"I was scared as hell," Billy Jr. admitted.

"Being scared don't mean you weren't brave," Daniel Rodriguez said. "Means you were brave anyway."

Ryan Mattern nodded. "We had your back the whole time. Still do."

Billy Jr. looked at his friends—his brothers, really. "Thanks. For everything today. The drone, the GPS, all of it. We couldn't have done it without you."

"That's what family does," Billy Renzo said simply.

Pops took a long pull from his beer, studying the boys. "You five are gonna run this ranch one day. You know that, right? Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in ten years. But one day, this whole operation is gonna be yours."

"We'll be ready," Billy Jr. said.

"I know you will."

For a while, they sat there in comfortable silence.

"You think Uncle Billy and Jake are gonna be okay?" Billy Jr. asked finally.

"Yeah," Billy Renzo said. "They're Bensons. They're tough as hell."

"Plus they got Rebecca taking care of them," Colt added. "She don't let nobody die on her watch."

Billy Jr. smiled. "True."

The door opened.

Billy and Jake stood in the doorway, both wrapped in blankets, faces still pale, wrists red and raw from the ropes. They were barefoot, moving slowly, clearly in pain.

"What the hell are you two doing up here?" Billy Jr. said, jumping to his feet. "Rebecca's gonna kill you."

"She already tried," Jake said, his voice hoarse. "We told her to shove it."

"Language," Billy said with a weak grin. Then his eyes found Billy Jr. "We heard what you did."

Billy Jr. looked down. "I just... I did what I had to—"

"You saved our lives," Jake interrupted. He stepped forward, wincing with each movement, and stood directly in front of Billy Jr.

Then he raised his hand in a salute.

Billy did the same, standing beside his brother, both of them saluting their sixteen-year-old nephew.

Billy Jr. stared at them, throat tight.

"Thank you," Billy said quietly. "For coming for us. For not hesitating. For being brave when it mattered most."

"You're a man now, Junior," Jake added. "A real one. And we're damn proud of you."

Billy Jr.'s eyes burned. He snapped to attention and returned the salute.

For a moment, the three of them stood there—uncle, uncle, and nephew—honoring each other.

Then Billy dropped his hand and pulled Billy Jr. into a fierce hug, ignoring the pain in his shoulders. Jake joined in, wrapping his arms around both of them.

"Thank you," Billy whispered. "Thank you for bringing us home."

"Always," Billy Jr. said, his voice breaking. "Always."

They held each other for a long moment.

Then Rebecca's voice echoed up the stairs. "BILLY BENSON! JAKE BENSON! YOU GET BACK DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW!"

Jake groaned. "We're dead."

"Worth it," Billy said, grinning at Billy Jr. He clapped him on the shoulder one more time. "Get some rest, kid. We'll see you at breakfast."

"5:47," Jake added. "Pops already said he's waking us all up."

"Of course he did," Billy Jr. said, smiling.

Billy and Jake shuffled back toward the door. At the threshold, they both turned back and saluted one more time.

Billy Jr. saluted back.

Then they were gone.

Billy Renzo let out a low whistle. "Damn, Junior. That was something."

"Yeah," Colt said softly. "Yeah, it was."

Billy Jr. wiped his eyes and sat back down on the bunk, overwhelmed.

Ryan Mattern stood and stretched. "Alright, I gotta head home. My parents are probably freaking out."

"Same," Daniel said.

Billy Renzo grabbed his jacket. "We'll be back tomorrow morning. Bright and early."

"Bring coffee," Billy Jr. said.

"Deal."

One by one, his friends left, each of them clapping Billy Jr. on the shoulder on their way out.

Finally, it was just Billy Jr., Colt, and Pops in the frat house.

Pops stood, joints creaking. "Alright, I'm heading down. You boys get some sleep. Tomorrow's another day, and your grandma's gonna want you up at 5:47 for breakfast."

The boys groaned.

Pops grinned. "That's what I thought. Goodnight, boys."

"Night, Pops."

He left, closing the door behind him.

Colt climbed up to the top bunk—Celab's bunk. Billy Jr. lay down on the bottom bunk—Billy's bunk.

"You good, Junior?" Colt asked from above.

"Yeah," Billy Jr. said. "I think I am."

"Good. 'Cause we got a lot more shit to do tomorrow."

Billy Jr. laughed. "Like what?"

"Like figuring out how to restock the beer before your uncles notice we drank it all."

Despite everything—the fear, the violence, the weight of what he'd done—Billy Jr. smiled.

"Yeah. We'll figure it out."

Outside, the Texas night was quiet. The ranch was safe. The family was whole.

And in the frat house, Billy Jr. closed his eyes and, for the first time all day, felt at peace.

Just a little Grok Fun on a snow day

 

 

Solitary Confirment. 

48 hours.

The Fires of Hell

 

Chapter 1: The Abduction

The kitchen still smelled like the night before—sweat, mud, and exhaustion. Billy Benson shuffled to the coffee maker, his boots dragging against the tile floor. Every muscle in his body ached. Twenty-one years old and he felt like he'd been run over by the damn cattle they'd spent all night chasing down.

"Coffee," he muttered, more to himself than to Jake.

His brother leaned against the counter, eyes half-closed, looking just as wrecked. At twenty-two, Jake was only a year older, but they'd been mistaken for twins their whole lives. Right now, they both looked like death.

"Double pot," Jake said, his voice hoarse. "I don't care if it kills me. I need it."

Billy reached for the coffee grounds, his hands still trembling slightly from adrenaline and fatigue. Five-thirty in the morning they'd finally gotten back. Fence down on the north pasture, forty head of cattle scattered across three properties. It had taken him, Jake, and half the consortium's hands to round them up in the dark.

"Think anyone noticed we're not out there yet?" Billy asked, scooping coffee into the filter.

Jake snorted. "Everyone knows we pulled an all-nighter. Ray said to sleep in. We earned it."

The coffee maker gurgled to life. Billy grabbed two mugs from the cabinet, the ceramic clinking together. Outside, he could hear the distant sounds of the ranch—trucks, voices, the normal rhythm of a working day. Everyone else was already out there. The frat house had been empty when they'd stumbled in at dawn. Billy Jr. and his buddies were probably out helping with the Rodriguez family's fence repair. Celab and Colt were with the morning crew on the south pasture.

Just the two of them in the big house.

"You think Pops is gonna chew us out for that fence?" Jake asked, rubbing his face.

"Probably. You know him. Even if it wasn't our fault—"

The back door opened.

Billy glanced up, expecting maybe Celab coming back for something he forgot. Instead, four men stepped inside. Big men. Strangers. One wore a cowboy hat, the brim pulled low. The others were dressed in work clothes—jeans, boots, long sleeves despite the Texas heat.

Billy's stomach dropped.

"Kitchen's closed, boys," Jake said, straightening up. His voice had an edge now. Alert. "You need something, you go through the front office."

The man in the cowboy hat smiled. It wasn't friendly. "We need you two to stay real quiet and this'll go easy."

Billy's hand moved toward his radio on his belt. Gone. He'd left it charging in the bedroom.

"Who the hell are you?" Billy demanded, taking a step back. His mind raced. The guns. The gun cabinet was in the den, locked. His phone was in his front pocket, but—

"Don't," the cowboy said quietly.

Two of the men moved fast—faster than Billy expected. One grabbed Jake, slamming him back against the counter. The other came at Billy. He tried to swing, his fist connecting with something—shoulder, maybe jaw—but exhaustion made him slow. A fist drove into his ribs and he doubled over, gasping.

"Billy!" Jake roared, thrashing against the man holding him.

Billy tried to straighten up, tried to breathe, but rough hands grabbed his arms and wrenched them back. Pain shot through his shoulders. He kicked backward, connected with a shin, heard a grunt.

"Little bastard—"

A hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Billy's vision swam. Then he felt it—cold metal pressed against his teeth, forcing his mouth open. The barrel of a gun.

Everything stopped.

Billy froze, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might explode. The metal tasted like oil and rust. His eyes darted to Jake. His brother was in the same position—gun shoved in his mouth, eyes wide with rage and terror.

"That's better," the cowboy said, his voice calm. Almost conversational. "Now, you boys are gonna behave, or I'm gonna paint this kitchen with your brains. Nod if you understand."

Billy's whole body shook. He nodded. Barely.

Beside him, Jake did the same.

"Good. Real good."

The cowboy gestured to the other men. "Tie 'em up."

The guns stayed in their mouths while hands moved fast and efficient. Billy felt his arms yanked roughly behind his back, wrists crossed. Rope—thick and coarse—wrapped around them. Once, twice, three times, the loops tightening with each pass. Then the rope cinched between his wrists, crushing them together. The binding cut deep into his skin, so tight his hands went numb almost immediately.

He tried to move his fingers. Nothing. The rope didn't budge. Professional work. No slack. No escape.

Beside him, they were doing the same to Jake. His brother grunted as they wrenched his arms back, the rope wrapping and tightening around his wrists.

"Gag them," the cowboy ordered. "Can't have them yelling when we move them."

The gun pulled out of Billy's mouth and before he could suck in a breath to scream, cloth was shoved between his teeth. He gagged on it, the taste of dust and sweat making his stomach lurch. Hands tied the gag tight behind his head, the knot digging into his skull.

He tried to speak. Only muffled sounds came out.

Jake was fighting again—twisting, trying to slam his shoulder into the man behind him. It earned him a vicious punch to the kidney that left him gasping and doubled over.

"Easy, boys," the cowboy said, crouching down in front of them. Up close, Billy could see his face—weathered, maybe fifty, with cold blue eyes that showed nothing. No anger. No excitement. Just business. "This ain't personal. You two just got unlucky. Wrong name, wrong time."

Billy's mind spun. Wrong name? The consortium. They wanted the consortium.

The cowboy stood, pulling a small bottle from his jacket pocket. Even from where Billy stood, hands bound and useless behind his back, he could read the label: Chloroform. A white rag came out next.

"Ok boys," the cowboy said to his men. "Now that they're tied up, hold them so I can knock them out. Then put them in the truck."

Terror spiked through Billy like lightning. He lunged sideways, trying to run—anywhere, just away. His legs were free but hands grabbed him before he made it two steps. They slammed him face-first against the kitchen counter, pinning him there. Someone grabbed his hair, yanking his head back.

"Mmmph! MMMPH!" Billy screamed into the gag, thrashing with everything he had left.

Jake was fighting too—kicking, twisting, his muffled yells filling the kitchen. But with four men and their hands bound, it was useless.

"Hold him still," the cowboy said calmly.

Rough hands clamped down on Billy's head, forcing it sideways against the counter. The rag—soaked and dripping with chloroform—pressed down over his nose and mouth, the gag doing nothing to stop it.

The smell was instant and overwhelming. Sweet, sickly, chemical. It burned his sinuses and filled his lungs. He tried to hold his breath but his body betrayed him, gasping reflexively. The chemical taste coated his tongue, his throat.

His vision blurred. The kitchen lights smeared into long streaks. His legs buckled.

Somewhere nearby, he heard Jake's muffled screams cut off abruptly.

Billy's body went slack, his muscles turning to water. The hands holding him were the only thing keeping him upright. The world spun, tilted, and then collapsed into darkness.

The last thing he heard was the cowboy's voice, distant and echoing:

"Load 'em up. We're on a schedule."

Then nothing.

---

The cowboy—his name was Garrett, though these boys would never know it—watched as his men hoisted the unconscious brothers like sacks of feed. The younger one, Billy, had fought hard. Even exhausted and bound, the kid had nearly broken free. Heart. The kid had heart.

Didn't matter now.

"Clean it up," Garrett said, gesturing to the mess. "Leave the rope scraps. Smash their radios. Make it clear what happened here."

One of his men swept the cut pieces of rope—the excess from binding their wrists—onto the floor. Another stomped on the radios sitting on the counter, plastic and circuits crunching under his boot. A chair got kicked over for good measure. The coffee pot was still brewing, filling the kitchen with that rich, bitter smell.

"Let's move," Garrett said.

They carried the brothers out through the back door. The white pickup truck was backed up close to the house, tailgate down. They dumped both of them into the bed like cargo—Billy first, then Jake. Both were limp, faces pale, wrists still bound tight behind their backs. Their legs sprawled awkwardly, boots scraping against the truck bed.

Garrett climbed into the passenger seat. The driver, a man named Dutch, started the engine.

"Barn's forty minutes out," Dutch said. "We good on time?"

"We're good," Garrett said. He glanced back through the rear window at the two unconscious brothers. "Nobody's even gonna know they're gone for hours. By the time they figure it out, we'll have them strung up and the photos sent."

"You really think the consortium's gonna pay?" Dutch asked, pulling onto the dirt road that led away from the ranch.

Garrett smiled. "They'll pay. These aren't just any ranch hands. These are Bensons. Tom Benson's youngest boys." He lit a cigarette, cracking the window. "They'll pay every cent, or they'll get their boys back in pieces."

The truck rumbled down the empty road, dust kicking up behind them. In the bed, Billy and Jake lay unconscious, bound and gagged, their faces slack. The sun climbed higher in the sky, the Texas heat already brutal even in the morning.

Back at the ranch house, the kitchen sat silent. Coffee dripped into the pot. A chair lay on its side. Cut pieces of rope littered the floor like shed snakeskin. Shattered radios lay in pieces on the counter.

And nobody knew.

Not yet.

Chapter 2: The Discovery

Billy Jr. wiped the sweat from his forehead as he climbed out of the ATV. The Texas sun was merciless—already pushing ninety-five degrees and it wasn't even noon yet. Beside him, Colt killed the engine and stretched, his Louisiana drawl cutting through the heat.

"Man, I need about a gallon of water," Colt said, pulling off his work gloves. "And maybe a cold shower."

"Water first," Billy Jr. said, heading toward the back door. "We gotta get back out there in twenty minutes. Rodriguez fence ain't gonna fix itself."

They'd been out since seven that morning, helping Daniel's family repair a section of fence that had collapsed during last night's chaos. The same chaos that had kept Billy and Jake out all night. Billy Jr. smiled thinking about his uncles—probably still crashed upstairs in their bunks, dead to the world.

He pushed open the back door and stopped.

The kitchen looked wrong.

A chair was on its side. Coffee was still brewing—the pot nearly full, like someone had started it and never came back. And on the floor...

"What the hell?" Colt said, stepping past him.

Rope. Cut pieces of rope scattered across the tile like someone had trimmed excess bindings and just dropped them. And on the counter—shattered plastic. Billy Jr. recognized the pieces immediately. Those were Billy and Jake's radios, the ones they always kept clipped to their belts.

Smashed. Destroyed.

"Billy..." Colt's voice had lost its usual easy drawl. "Something's wrong."

Billy Jr.'s heart started hammering. He moved fast, his boots crunching on broken plastic as he crossed to the counter. The coffee maker gurgled, filling the pot. Two mugs sat beside it, empty. Waiting.

"Billy! Jake!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "You guys here?"

Silence.

He ran. Through the kitchen, up the stairs two at a time, Colt pounding up behind him. The second floor hallway stretched before them—Pops' bedroom at one end, the bathroom, then the command center and the frat house room at the other end.

Billy Jr. burst through the frat house door. The bunk beds were empty—sheets rumpled like someone had been sleeping but got up hours ago. Celab's bunk was made. His own bed untouched. And Colt's mattress on the floor between the two bunks, empty.

"They ain't here," Colt said from behind him, breathless. "Billy, what—"

"Command center. Now."

Billy Jr. crossed the hall and slammed through the door. The tech hub—monitors lined the walls, iPads charging on the desk, the encrypted satellite phones in their rack. His fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the security camera feeds.

"Come on, come on..." he muttered, scrolling through the footage.

"What're we looking for?" Colt asked, leaning over his shoulder.

"Anything. They were making coffee. They wouldn't just leave—"

Billy Jr. pulled up the exterior cameras. Kitchen had no interior coverage—they'd never thought they'd need it. But the back door camera, the one covering the service entrance...

The footage jumped to 9:31 AM.

Billy Jr.'s blood turned to ice.

The back door opened. Four men emerged, carrying—

"Oh my God," Colt whispered.

Billy and Jake. Unconscious. Limp. Their heads lolling, arms hanging loose behind their backs like they were bound. The men carried them like sacks of grain, rough and careless.

"No, no, no..." Billy Jr.'s hands shook on the mouse.

A white pickup truck was backed up to the house. The men dumped Billy into the bed first, then Jake. Both of them motionless, faces pale in the harsh morning sunlight. Their wrists were clearly tied behind their backs—Billy Jr. could see the rope even from the camera angle.

Then the truck pulled away, kicking up dust as it headed down the service road toward the highway.

Billy Jr. tried to zoom in on the license plate. Too much dust. Too far. The resolution pixelated into useless blocks.

"Can you see the plate?" Colt asked urgently.

"No. Damn it, no!"

He rewound the footage, watching it again. The men's faces were partially visible—one wore a cowboy hat, brim pulled low. Work clothes. Boots. They moved with purpose, professional. This wasn't random.

Billy Jr. grabbed the encrypted satellite phone from the rack. His fingers found the emergency button—the big red one they'd installed but never used. Never thought they'd need.

He pressed it.

The system activated instantly. Every phone, every radio, every iPad in the consortium network lit up with the alert:

"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. BILLY JUNIOR."

"What do we do?" Colt asked, his accent thick with panic.

"We find them," Billy Jr. said, his voice steadier than he felt. He pulled up the drone interface on the main monitor. "Get the drones ready. All ten of them. We're looking for a white pickup truck, headed east from the ranch, last seen—" he checked the timestamp, "—nine thirty-one AM. Two hours ago."

"Two hours," Colt breathed. "They could be anywhere."

Billy Jr. didn't answer. He was already pulling up maps, calculating routes, his mind racing. Two hours. Billy and Jake had been gone for two hours. And from the looks of it, they'd been drugged or knocked out. The way they'd been hanging limp...

Please let them be alive.

The sound of trucks skidding to a stop outside made them both jump. Doors slamming. Voices shouting.

"Billy Junior! Where are you?!"

His dad. Josh's voice, raw with panic.

Billy Jr. ran out of the command center, down the stairs, Colt right behind him. His father burst through the kitchen door first, followed by Ray, then Tom and Sarah. And behind them—Pops. Seventy-six years old and moving faster than Billy Jr. had seen in years, his face red, eyes wild.

"What the hell is going on?!" Josh demanded, grabbing Billy Jr. by the shoulders. "The alert—"

"They took them," Billy Jr. said, the words tumbling out. "Billy and Jake. Four men. Around nine-thirty this morning. They were unconscious—tied up. Thrown in a truck—"

"What?!" Sarah's hand flew to her mouth.

Tom's face went white. "Show me. Now."

Billy Jr. led them upstairs to the command center. The room filled quickly—too many bodies in the small space, but no one cared. He pulled up the exterior footage. They watched in silence as the four men carried the unconscious brothers out and dumped them in the truck bed like cargo. When the truck drove away, Sarah let out a choked sob.

"The kitchen," Ray said quietly. "The ropes. The smashed radios. They tied them up down there."

"Probably gagged them too," Josh added, his voice tight. "That's why nobody heard anything."

"Those sons of bitches," Pops growled. His hands were shaking—not from age, but from rage. "Those goddamn sons of bitches drugged my boys and took them right out of my house."

"We're getting them back," Tom said firmly. He turned to Billy Jr. "Can you track that truck?"

"Working on it. I've got the drones prepping now. If they're still on the road, we'll find them."

More vehicles arrived outside. Billy Jr. could hear them through the second-floor window—the wiz kids and their families, probably. Then sirens. Sheriff Wade.

Josh squeezed Billy Jr.'s shoulder. "You did good hitting that button. Now let's bring them home."

Billy Jr. nodded, turning back to the monitors. His hands were still shaking, but his mind was clear. Somewhere out there, Billy and Jake were in trouble.

And he was going to find them.

---

Sheriff Wade Nelson's heavy boots pounded up the stairs, Wilson and Ryan right behind him, both in their deputy uniforms. Mary, Rebecca, and Edna followed, crowding into the already-packed command center.

"Talk to me," Wade said, his sheriff's voice cutting through the chaos.

Tom gestured to the monitors. "Kidnapping. Two hours ago. Four men, white pickup, headed east. They drugged Billy and Jake, tied them up, and took them."

Billy Jr. pulled up the footage again. Wade watched, his jaw tightening with every second.

"Professionals," Wade said grimly. "Look at how they move. Organized. Quick. This was planned."

"Inside job?" Wilson asked.

"Maybe," Wade said. He pulled out his radio. "This is Sheriff Nelson. I need an APB on a white pickup truck, last seen on County Road 12 heading east at approximately nine-thirty AM. Suspects are armed and dangerous. They have two hostages—Billy and Jake Benson, ages twenty-one and twenty-two. Suspects should be considered extremely dangerous."

"Copy that, Sheriff," dispatch responded.

Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez thundered up the stairs, breathing hard. They squeezed into the command center doorway.

"We got the alert," Billy Renzo said. "What do you need?"

"Drones," Billy Jr. said immediately. "All of you, grab an iPad. We're doing a grid search. Start with every road heading east from here. Thermal imaging on. We're looking for that white truck or any structure they might've taken them to."

The three sixteen-year-olds moved without hesitation, each grabbing an iPad from the charging station and pulling up the drone interface.

"I'm launching drones one through four," Daniel said, his fingers flying across the screen.

"Five through seven are mine," Ryan Mattern added.

"I've got eight, nine, and ten," Billy Renzo confirmed.

Within minutes, all ten drones were airborne, spreading out in a coordinated search pattern across Kings County. The command center's main monitor split into ten feeds—aerial views of roads, fields, abandoned buildings.

Pops pushed his way to his bedroom across the hall and came back with a glass of brandy already in his hand despite the early hour. "Seventy-six goddamn years old," he muttered, "and I gotta watch my great-grandsons hunt for my grandsons because some bastards think they can waltz onto Benson land and take what's ours."

"We'll find them, Pops," Josh said quietly.

"Damn right we will," Pops growled. "And when we do, those sons of bitches are gonna wish they'd never been born."

Sarah sat down in one of the chairs, Rebecca and Edna flanking her. Mary put a hand on her shoulder. The command center was packed wall-to-wall now—too hot, too crowded, but no one was leaving.

"They're strong boys," Mary said softly. "They'll hold on."

Tom stood behind Billy Jr., watching the drone feeds. "Anything?"

"Not yet," Billy Jr. said, his eyes scanning each screen. "But we will. We've got seventy-five thousand dollars worth of equipment and the best damn crew in Texas. We're bringing them home."

On the screens, the drones flew on, searching.

Somewhere out there, Billy and Jake were waiting.

Hold on, Billy Jr. thought. Just hold on.

Chapter 3: The Barn

Billy's head was splitting.

That was the first thing he felt when consciousness dragged him back—pain. Sharp, throbbing pain behind his eyes, like someone had driven a spike through his skull. His mouth tasted like chemicals and copper. His stomach lurched.

He tried to move and couldn't.

Panic hit him like ice water. His eyes snapped open.

The world was upside down.

No—he was upside down. Hanging. His boots were above him, secured to something—a rafter, a beam. Blood pounded in his head with every heartbeat, a relentless pressure that made his vision swim. His arms hung uselessly below him—no, behind him. Still tied. The rope cut into his wrists, tighter than before, like it had settled and locked while he was unconscious.

He tried to speak. Cloth filled his mouth. The gag. Still there.

"Mmmph!" The sound came out strangled, desperate.

"Billy?"

Jake's voice. Muffled, hoarse, but close. Billy twisted his head—agony shot through his neck—and saw his brother. Right beside him. Maybe three feet away. Hanging just like him. Upside down, hands bound, gagged. Jake's face was red, veins standing out on his forehead from the blood pooling there.

Their eyes met.

The terror in Jake's eyes probably matched his own.

Billy tried to assess their situation through the pounding in his head. They were in a barn—old, abandoned by the looks of it. Dust motes floated in beams of sunlight streaming through gaps in the walls. The smell was overwhelming—rot, mildew, animal droppings. The floor was maybe eight feet below them. Dirt and scattered hay.

Their boots were tied to a crossbeam with what looked like the same thick rope that bound their wrists. Professional knots. No way to reach them even if his hands were free.

Which they weren't.

Billy tested the binding on his wrists. The rope was so tight his hands were completely numb. He couldn't feel his fingers. Couldn't move them. The circulation had been cut off—how long had they been unconscious? An hour? Two?

He looked at Jake again. His brother was doing the same thing—twisting, testing, trying to find any give in the rope. There wasn't any.

"Mmmph! Mmm!" Jake's muffled sounds were urgent, angry.

Billy nodded. He understood. They had to get out of here. But how?

Time passed. Billy didn't know how much. The sun moved across the barn, the light shifting. The pressure in his head built until he thought his skull might crack open. His vision kept blurring at the edges. Nausea rolled through him in waves—aftereffects of the chloroform, probably.

He tried everything. Swinging his body to reach the beam above them. Useless—the rope was too short, the angle wrong. Trying to pull his wrists apart. The binding didn't budge. Attempting to work his boots free. Impossible with his hands bound.

Beside him, Jake was doing the same. Struggling. Fighting. Getting nowhere.

The heat was brutal. Even in the shade of the barn, the Texas summer was merciless. Sweat poured off both of them—or rather, up. Running from their legs toward their heads, making everything slick. Billy's shirt was soaked. His arms, hanging behind and below him, ached from the unnatural position. Rope burns formed where the binding cut into his wrists every time he moved.

Hours passed. Had to be hours. The sun was definitely lower now, the light more golden. Billy's body screamed at him. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets. His head throbbed with a pain so intense he wanted to vomit—but couldn't, not with the gag.

"Mmm... mmmph..." Jake's sounds were weaker now. Exhausted.

Billy met his brother's eyes again. They were both in bad shape. How long could a person hang upside down before... before what? Brain damage? Stroke? Death?

He didn't want to think about it.

Then Billy remembered. His phone. It was in his front pocket—he'd felt it there when they grabbed him in the kitchen. Did they take it? He couldn't reach down to check, not with his hands bound behind him. But maybe...

If he could get the gag off. Voice activation. Siri. Call for help.

Hope flickered in his chest.

Billy started working his jaw. The gag was tight, knotted behind his head, but maybe if he could just... He rubbed his face against his shoulder—awkward, painful with his arms bound below him. The cloth caught on his shirt collar. He worked it. Again. Again.

"Mmm?" Jake was watching him, confused.

Billy kept going. Rubbing, twisting his jaw, trying to work the fabric down. His neck cramped. His shoulders screamed. But the gag moved. Just a fraction.

He kept at it.

More time passed. The light was definitely fading now—late afternoon, maybe early evening. Billy's whole world had narrowed to this one task. Work the gag down. Get it off his mouth. Call for help.

The cloth slipped. Just a little. Caught on his chin.

Billy twisted harder, ignoring the pain in his neck. The gag scraped across his jaw, his cheek. The knot was still tight behind his head but the fabric over his mouth was loosening.

Almost there.

One more hard twist and the gag slipped down around his neck.

Billy gasped, sucking in air. His mouth was dry as sand, his lips cracked. But he could breathe. He could speak.

"Jake," he croaked. His voice was barely recognizable.

"Mmm! Mmmph!" Jake's eyes were wide, urgent.

"I'm gonna... phone..." Billy's head spun. The words wouldn't come right. Too much blood in his brain. Too much pain.

He took a shaky breath. "Hey Siri."

Nothing.

His phone. Was it even on? Was Siri activated? He couldn't remember. Panic clawed at him.

"Hey Siri!" Louder this time.

A faint chime. From his pocket.

"Call Billy Junior."

The pause felt like an eternity. Then—ringing. Distant, tinny, coming from his front pocket.

"Come on, come on..." Billy whispered.

The ringing stopped. A click.

"Billy? Uncle Billy, is that you?!" Billy Jr.'s voice, frantic, coming through the phone speaker in his pocket.

"Barn," Billy gasped. "Abandoned... don't know where... hung up... hurry..."

"We're tracking you right now! Hold on, we're coming!"

The line stayed open. Billy could hear voices in the background—his dad, Tom, others shouting, coordinating. The sound of the command center. They'd found him. They were coming.

"Jake," Billy said, his voice cracking. "They're coming. They found us."

"Mmmph!" Jake's muffled response sounded like relief and desperation mixed together.

Billy's vision was darkening at the edges. The pressure in his head was unbearable. His whole body felt like it was shutting down. But they were coming.

Just hold on, he told himself. Just a little longer.

The barn was nearly dark now. Shadows stretched across the floor below them. Billy could hear Jake's breathing—ragged, labored. His own wasn't much better.

Time crawled. Minutes felt like hours. Billy faded in and out, his consciousness flickering. The pain was everywhere now—head, shoulders, wrists, back. Everything hurt.

Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard engines. Trucks. Or maybe he was hallucinating.

"Stay awake," he mumbled, not sure if he was talking to Jake or himself.

The darkness crept in further. Billy's eyes drifted closed.

Stay awake.

They're coming.

Just hold on.

Chapter 4: The Hunt

The command center had become a war room, but it was too small to hold everyone.

Billy Jr. sat hunched over the main monitor, eyes burning from staring at ten drone feeds for the past three hours. His three friends surrounded him—Billy Renzo working drones one through three, Ryan Mattern on four through six, Daniel Rodriguez managing seven through nine. Billy Jr. handled drone ten himself while coordinating the search grid.

Tom, Wade, Josh, Ray, and Pops crowded around the monitors, watching over their shoulders. Everyone else had spread throughout the house—the command center simply couldn't fit them all.

Downstairs, Sarah sat at the kitchen table with Rebecca, Edna, and Mary, each with an iPad showing the drone feeds. Caroline Beaumont and the other consortium mothers occupied the dining room, also monitoring screens. Robert Beaumont and Celab stood on the front porch with Colt, watching the driveway. The Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez fathers were in the living room, checking their hunting rifles and discussing tactical approaches in low voices.

Wilson and Ryan Nelson patrolled between rooms, their deputy uniforms and sidearms making them the unofficial security.

"Anything?" Tom asked for the hundredth time.

"Nothing, Grandpa," Billy Jr. said, his voice hoarse. "We've covered every major road heading east. Checked abandoned structures within a fifty-mile radius. If they're out there, they're well hidden."

Pops stood in the corner, on his third glass of brandy. "Those bastards knew what they were doing. Professionals. Goddamn professionals."

Wade's radio crackled. "Sheriff, dispatch here. Nothing on that APB. No sightings of the white pickup."

Wade's jaw tightened. "Copy that. Keep looking."

Tom's phone buzzed. Unknown number.

Everyone in the command center froze.

"It's them," Tom said quietly.

A text message. No words. Just two photos loading.

"Billy, get these on the network," Tom said. "Everyone needs to see this."

Billy Jr.'s fingers flew across his keyboard. "Uploading to all iPads now."

Throughout the house, iPads chimed simultaneously. The same two photos appearing on every screen.

The first image loaded slowly, pixelating from top to bottom.

In the kitchen, Sarah's scream cut through the house. "NO! OH GOD, NO!"

Rebecca's sob followed.

On every iPad, the same horrific image: Billy and Jake hanging upside down by their boots from a barn rafter. Hands bound behind their backs. Gags in their mouths. Their faces were red, swollen from blood pooling in their heads. Sweat soaked their shirts. The rope burns on their wrists were visible even in the photo—raw, bleeding.

The second photo was a wider shot. The same barn. Dark stains spread across the dirt and hay floor below them.

In the command center, Pops' face went purple. His hands shook as he stared at Billy Jr.'s monitor.

Then the text came through on Tom's phone:

$2,000,000. Electronic transfer. You have 24 hours. Instructions will follow. If you try to find them, we burn the barn. It's already soaked in gasoline. Your boys will burn alive. Pay or they die.

Billy Jr. pushed the message to all the iPads.

Silence for one heartbeat.

Then Pops exploded.

"THOSE SONS OF BITCHES!" He hurled his glass across the room. It shattered against the wall. "THEY STRUNG UP MY BOYS LIKE ANIMALS!"

His roar echoed through the house.

From downstairs, Sarah's voice: "They've been hanging there for hours! Look at their faces! Oh God, look at their wrists—"

Rebecca's voice, breaking: "Mama, we have to do something—"

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Robert Beaumont appeared in the doorway, face grim. "What do we do? Do we pay?"

"Bullshit we pay!" Pops snarled. His face was purple, veins standing out on his neck. "You think they're gonna let them go? Those boys saw their faces!"

More people crowded into the hallway outside the command center. The room was too small but everyone pressed close, trying to see.

"We can get two million," Ray said quietly, his voice tight. "The consortium has the funds. We can transfer it—"

"And then what?" Wade said grimly. "These are professionals. They know Billy and Jake can identify them. Even if we pay, there's no guarantee—"

"So what?" Sarah appeared in the doorway, her face streaked with tears, Rebecca and Mary behind her. "We just leave them there?"

"No," Tom said, his voice steel. "We find them. We go get them."

"The barn's soaked in gasoline!" Caroline said from the hallway. "They'll burn it!"

"Then we better get there before they light the match," Tom said.

Billy Jr. stared at his monitor, the photos burned into his vision. His uncles. His best friends. Hanging there like slaughtered cattle. His hands clenched into fists.

The command center was too hot, too crowded. Billy Jr. could barely breathe. He turned back to his monitor, pulling up the search grid again. "We'll find them," he muttered. "We have to find them. We'll—"

His phone rang.

The sound cut through the chaos. Everyone stopped talking.

Billy Jr. looked down at his phone on the desk.

The caller ID read: Uncle Billy

Time stopped.

"Oh my God," Billy Jr. whispered.

Then he grabbed the phone and screamed. "UNCLE BILLY!"

He slammed his hand down on the emergency button.

"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. BILLY JUNIOR."

The alarm blared through every speaker in the house, every radio, every iPad in the consortium network.

Footsteps thundered from every direction. Celab and Colt pounded up the stairs. The consortium fathers came running. Wilson and Ryan Nelson took the stairs three at a time.

Billy Jr. answered the phone, his hands shaking so hard he almost dropped it. "Uncle Billy? UNCLE BILLY, IS THAT YOU?!"

The voice on the other end was weak, hoarse, barely recognizable. But it was Billy.

"Barn... abandoned... don't know where... hung up... hurry..."

The command center erupted.

"Is that Billy?!" Josh lunged forward.

"MY SON!" Sarah screamed from the doorway. "Is that my son?!"

Billy Jr.'s fingers flew across the keyboard with one hand while pressing the phone to his ear with the other. "Uncle Billy, stay with me! I'm tracking you right now!"

Tom grabbed Billy Jr.'s shoulder. "Can you get his location?"

"Working on it, Grandpa!" Tears streamed down Billy Jr.'s face. The GPS signal started populating on his screen. "Uncle Billy, where are you? Can you tell me anything?"

The voice came back, weaker. "Barn... old... can't... hurts..."

"I know it hurts, I know!" Billy Jr.'s voice cracked. "Just hold on! We're coming for you!"

Sarah pushed through the crowd, shoving people aside. "Billy? Baby, can you hear me?"

"The line's open," Billy Jr. said. "Uncle Billy, if you can hear us, we're tracking your phone right now!"

The command center was wall-to-wall bodies now. Everyone who'd been scattered throughout the house had converged. The hallway was packed. People pressed into the doorway, craning to see.

The GPS coordinates locked in.

"GOT IT!" Billy Jr. shouted. "Thirty-two miles east! Old Morrison barn off County Road 47!"

"I know that place!" Ray said. "Been abandoned for fifteen years!"

Wade was already on his radio. "All units, we have a location. Morrison barn, County Road 47, thirty-two miles east of Benson Ranch."

Tom's voice boomed through the house. "Everyone who can shoot, get ready! We mobilize in five minutes!"

The command center exploded into action. People ran in every direction. Down the stairs to grab weapons. To the trucks to prep vehicles. The organized chaos of a family going to war.

Billy Jr. kept the phone pressed to his ear. "Uncle Billy? Uncle Billy, can you still hear me?"

Faint breathing. Then Billy's voice, barely a whisper. "Jake... get Jake too... please..."

"We're getting both of you!" Billy Jr. said, his voice breaking. "I promise!"

Sarah grabbed the phone from Billy Jr.'s hand. "Billy! Baby, it's Mama! You hold on, you hear me? Your daddy and your brothers are coming for you!"

More faint breathing. Then: "Mama..."

Sarah's sob echoed through the command center. "Yes, baby, I'm here! We're all here!"

Pops pushed forward, taking the phone. "Billy! You listen to me, boy! You and Jake hold on! You hear me? You hold the hell on because we're coming and God help those sons of bitches when we get there!"

A weak sound that might have been a laugh. Or a sob. "Pops..."

"Damn right it's Pops!" The old man's voice was shaking with rage and fear. "Now you stay awake! Billy Junior's gonna keep this line open and you're gonna stay awake until we get there!"

Tom turned to the room. "Robert, get every man who can shoot to the front yard NOW. Wade, you and your boys get the tactical gear. Josh, Ray—every rifle we have. We're going in armed and we're going in fast."

People scattered. Down the stairs, out to the vehicles, grabbing weapons from gun safes.

Billy Jr. took the phone back from Pops. "Uncle Billy, we're coming now. Thirty minutes. You and Jake just hold on for thirty more minutes."

He pulled up the drone interface with his free hand. "Billy, Ryan, Daniel—redirect all drones to Morrison barn. I want thermal imaging. I need to know how many kidnappers and exactly where they are."

"On it," Daniel said, his fingers flying across his iPad.

Wade turned to his sons. "Wilson, Ryan—get the rifles from my truck. Body armor for everyone who fits. Suppressed weapons if we have them."

"What about us?" Billy Renzo asked.

"Drones," Billy Jr. said. "We keep eyes overhead. Real-time intel on movement inside that barn."

Celab stood up. "I'm going."

"Me too," Colt added, his Louisiana drawl thick. "They're my brothers."

Tom nodded. "Get your rifles. You're with us."

Rebecca grabbed her son's arm. "No! Billy Junior, you're not—"

"Mom, I have to! I'm the only one who can run the drone network!"

"Then you stay behind the line," Rebecca said, her voice shaking. "You don't engage. You're tech support only."

"Yes ma'am."

"Same goes for the rest of you," Wade said to Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. "You're intel. Eyes on those iPads."

More people thundered up the stairs. The Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez fathers, armed with hunting rifles.

"What do you need, Sheriff?" Mr. Renzo asked.

"Four armed kidnappers holding Billy and Jake in a barn thirty-two miles east," Wade said. "Place might be soaked in gasoline. We go in fast, we go in quiet, and we bring those boys home."

"We're with you," Mr. Mattern said.

Tom turned to Billy Jr. "What's the thermal imaging showing?"

The first drones had reached the barn. Billy Jr. pulled up the feed. "Four heat signatures inside. Two hanging—that's Billy and Jake. Two moving around on the ground. Wait—" He zoomed in. "Three kidnappers on the ground floor. One outside near a vehicle."

"The white pickup?" Josh asked.

"Has to be." Billy Jr. switched views. "Yeah, white pickup out front. No plates."

"What about the gasoline?" Ray asked.

Billy Jr. enhanced the image. "Can't tell from thermal. But if it's there—"

"We know," Tom said grimly. "Which is why we don't miss."

Pops grabbed Billy Jr.'s phone again. "You still with us, boy?"

A weak response. "Still... here..."

"Good! Your daddy and your brothers are loading up right now. We're coming for you. You and Jake both. You understand?"

"Jake's... bad... been hanging... long time..."

Sarah's hand flew to her mouth. "How long?"

Billy Jr. checked the timestamp from the ransom photos. "At least four hours. Maybe more."

"Jesus Christ," Ray whispered.

"Then we better hurry," Wade said. He keyed his radio. "All units, weapons check. We roll out in two minutes."

The house was chaos. Men checking rifles, loading magazines. The women—Sarah, Rebecca, Edna, Mary, Caroline—gathered around the kitchen table with iPads.

"We'll monitor from here," Mary said. "Keep the radio channel open."

Billy Jr. handed his mother an iPad. "Keep this feed up. That's the thermal imaging. If anything changes—if more heat signatures show up—you radio us immediately."

Rebecca hugged her son tightly. "You come home. All of you."

"We will, Mom."

Tom grabbed his rifle. "Okay, listen up! Thirty minutes to Morrison barn. Wade's taking tactical command. When we get there, we split into three teams. Team Alpha flanks north. Team Bravo south. Team Charlie—me, Josh, and Wade—straight in the front."

"What about the gasoline?" Robert asked.

"We're betting they haven't lit it yet," Wade said. "And we're going in so fast they won't have time. Suppressed weapons. Coordinated shots."

"And if they do light it?" someone asked.

"Then we grab Billy and Jake and we run like hell," Tom said flatly.

Pops drained his brandy and grabbed a shotgun. "I'm riding with Wade."

"Pops, you're drunk," Josh said.

"I'm drunk enough to shoot straight and pissed enough not to miss," Pops growled. "Now let's go get my boys."

Tom turned to Billy Jr. "You keep that line open with Billy. I don't care if he can't talk. You keep him awake."

"Yes sir, Grandpa."

Billy Jr. spoke into the phone. "Uncle Billy? We're coming now. Thirty minutes. You and Jake just hold on for thirty more minutes."

A long pause. Then, so faint Billy Jr. almost couldn't hear it: "Hurry..."

---

The convoy formed up in the ranch yard.

Wade's sheriff truck took point—Pops in the passenger seat with a shotgun across his lap, Wilson and Ryan Nelson in the back with tactical rifles. Behind him, Tom and Josh in Tom's heavy-duty pickup, both armed with hunting rifles.

Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, Celab, and Colt climbed into the bed of Tom's truck. Each of the four wiz kids had an iPad. Celab and Colt both carried rifles.

Ray and Robert Beaumont took another truck, loaded with ammunition and medical supplies. The Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez fathers formed the rear guard—six more armed men.

"Drones in position?" Tom called back.

"All ten overhead," Billy Jr. confirmed, phone still pressed to his ear. "We've got full coverage."

In the kitchen, Sarah, Rebecca, Edna, Mary, and Caroline stood at the window, watching the convoy. Each held an iPad, monitoring feeds.

"God protect them," Mary whispered.

Sarah's hands shook as she stared at her screen. Somewhere in that barn, her youngest sons were dying.

"Hold on, babies," she whispered. "Just hold on."

Wade's voice crackled through the radio. "All units, final radio check. Sound off."

"Tom's truck, copy."

"Ray here, copy."

"Renzo family ready."

"Mattern family, we're with you."

"Rodriguez family, copy."

"Good," Wade said. "Billy Jr., you've got command of intel. Keep those drones overhead. I want constant updates."

"Copy that, Grandpa Wade," Billy Jr. said, phone in one hand, iPad in the other. "Uncle Billy, we're rolling out now. Stay with me."

Faint breathing on the other end. Still alive.

Wade looked at Pops. "You ready, old man?"

"I was ready three hours ago," Pops growled. "Now drive, Sheriff."

Wade keyed his radio one more time. "All units. Let's bring our boys home."

The engines roared to life. Headlights cut through the darkness. The convoy pulled out, dust kicking up behind them as they headed east on County Road 47.

Inside the lead truck, Pops stared out the window, his jaw set. "Those sons of bitches better pray we get there before I do."

Wade didn't disagree.

In the back of Tom's truck, Billy Jr. kept his phone pressed to his ear. "Uncle Billy? You still there?"

Nothing but breathing. Shallow. Labored.

"Just hold on," Billy Jr. whispered. "We're coming."

The convoy sped through the Texas night—armed men racing to save two young men hanging upside down in a barn thirty-two miles away.

Behind them, five women watched drone feeds and prayed.

Ahead of them, four kidnappers prepared for a fight.

And somewhere between consciousness and death, Billy and Jake hung on.

Just barely.

Chapter 5: The Rescue

The convoy was fifteen minutes out, headlights cutting through the darkness on County Road 47.

In the bed of Tom's truck, Billy Jr. sat hunched over his iPad, watching the drone feeds. His three friends were doing the same, each monitoring different angles of the Morrison barn.

"Still got four heat signatures inside," Daniel said. "Two hanging, two moving around."

"Wait—" Billy Renzo leaned closer to his screen. "One of them just went outside."

Billy Jr. switched to that drone's feed. The thermal imaging showed a figure emerging from the barn, looking up. Then the figure pulled something from his pocket.

"What's he doing?" Ryan Mattern asked.

The figure stood at the barn entrance. Then Billy Jr. saw it—a small heat bloom. A flame.

"Oh my God," Billy Jr. whispered.

The flame touched the ground. Fire spread instantly, racing across the barn floor in the thermal feed, climbing the walls.

"FIRE!" Billy Jr. screamed into the radio. "FIRE! FIRE! FIRE! THEY'RE BURNING THE BARN!"

Wade's voice crackled back. "Say again?"

"THEY LIT IT! THE BARN'S ON FIRE! UNCLE BILLY AND UNCLE JAKE ARE STILL INSIDE!"

In the lead truck, Wade's foot slammed the accelerator to the floor. "ALL UNITS, FULL SPEED! THEY'RE BURNING THE BARN!"

The convoy roared forward, engines screaming. Tom's truck lurched as Josh pushed it to the limit. In the back, Billy Jr. and his friends grabbed the sides to keep from being thrown out.

"How bad is it?" Tom shouted back.

Billy Jr. stared at his screen. The fire was spreading fast, but not everything was engulfed yet. "We've got maybe five minutes before the whole thing goes up!"

"Then we better get there in four," Tom said grimly.

The speedometer climbed. Eighty. Ninety. The trucks flew down the county road, throwing up dust and gravel.

Billy Jr. kept his eyes on the screen. Through the thermal imaging, he could still see Billy and Jake's heat signatures—hanging motionless in the center of the barn. The fire was spreading toward them.

"Come on, come on," he muttered.

"Movement outside!" Daniel said. "Four figures running toward the pickup truck!"

"They're trying to escape," Billy Jr. said into the radio. "Kidnappers are fleeing the barn!"

"Copy that," Wade's voice came back, cold as ice. "We'll be ready for them."

The barn came into view ahead—orange flames already visible through the walls, black smoke pouring into the night sky.

"Three minutes," Billy Renzo said, watching his screen. "Maybe less before those support beams give out."

Wade's truck skidded to a stop a hundred yards from the barn. Through the headlights, four men were visible, running for the white pickup.

"KIDNAPPERS FLEEING!" Wade shouted. "All units, weapons free! Do NOT let them escape!"

Pops was out of the truck before it fully stopped, shotgun raised.

"YOU SONS OF BITCHES!" he roared.

He fired.

The buckshot caught one of the men square in the back. He went down hard, face-first into the dirt. Didn't move.

Wade and his sons were out next, rifles up. Wilson fired—a clean shot that dropped the second kidnapper near the truck's tailgate.

Tom's truck screeched to a halt behind them. He and Josh jumped out, rifles already shouldered.

"Light the barn?!" Tom snarled. "You light the goddamn barn?!"

He fired. The third kidnapper—Dutch—spun and fell, clutching his chest.

Garrett made it to the driver's door. His hand was on the handle when Pops' second shot caught him in the shoulder. He stumbled, tried to raise his pistol.

Wade's rifle cracked. Garrett dropped.

All four kidnappers lay motionless in the dirt.

"CHECK THEM!" Wade ordered. Wilson and Ryan moved forward, weapons trained, checking pulses.

"All dead, Sheriff," Wilson called back.

But the barn was fully engulfed now. Flames roared through the structure, the heat so intense it could be felt from fifty yards away. Black smoke poured into the night sky.

"BILLY! JAKE!" Tom shouted, starting toward the barn.

Then Billy Jr. was past him, sprinting full speed toward the flames.

"UNCLE BILLY!" he screamed. "UNCLE JAKE!"

Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez were right behind him. Celab and Colt followed, all five of them running straight for the burning barn.

"BILLY JUNIOR, STOP!" Josh shouted.

They didn't stop.

"Those damn kids!" Pops roared. He dropped his shotgun and ran after them despite his age.

Tom, Wade, and Robert Beaumont exchanged one look and then sprinted after the boys.

Billy Jr. hit the barn door first. The heat was like a physical wall, but he didn't stop. He plunged into the smoke and flames.

The interior was hell. Flames climbed the walls on all sides. The support beams were burning. Smoke choked the air, thick and black. Billy Jr. couldn't see more than a few feet.

"UNCLE BILLY!" he screamed, coughing. "WHERE ARE YOU?!"

"There!" Daniel pointed through the smoke.

Billy and Jake. Hanging upside down from the center rafter, maybe fifteen feet ahead. Surrounded by flames. The rope holding their boots was starting to smolder.

Billy Jr. ran. His friends followed. The heat was unbearable. His lungs screamed for air but there was only smoke.

Then Pops was beside him, coughing but moving. "I got Jake! You get Billy!"

Tom and Wade appeared through the smoke, Robert right behind them.

"Cut them down!" Tom shouted. "NOW!"

Wade pulled a knife from his belt and reached up toward Jake's boots. The rope was thick, the angle awkward. He sawed at it while Pops and Robert positioned themselves to catch Jake when he fell.

Tom and Billy Jr. went for Billy. Tom boosted Billy Jr. up so he could reach the rope around his uncle's boots.

"I got it!" Billy Jr. said, his knife blade biting into the rope. "Almost—"

The rope snapped.

Billy dropped. Tom caught him, staggering under the weight. Billy was completely limp, unconscious, his face dark red from hanging upside down for hours. His wrists were still bound behind his back, the rope cutting deep into his skin.

"Got him!" Tom gasped. "Let's move!"

Wade's rope snapped a second later. Jake fell into Pops' arms, nearly knocking the old man down. Robert grabbed Jake's legs, and together they held him.

"GO! GO! GO!" Wade shouted.

They turned toward the door. The flames had spread. A support beam cracked and fell, missing Celab by inches. The ceiling was collapsing.

Billy Jr. grabbed his uncle's shoulders while Tom held his legs. They ran, stumbling through flames and smoke. Behind them, Pops and Robert carried Jake, Wade and the other boys clearing debris out of their path.

The barn door was ahead—a rectangle of darkness against the orange flames.

They were ten feet from it when Billy Jr. heard the sound.

A low hiss. Then a roar.

"PROPANE!" Wade screamed. "RUN!"

They burst through the door and into the night air. Billy Jr.'s legs gave out and he fell, still clutching his uncle. Tom dragged them both forward, away from the barn.

Behind them, the propane tanks exploded.

The blast was deafening. A ball of fire erupted from the barn, consuming what was left of the structure. The shockwave knocked everyone flat. Burning debris rained down around them.

Billy Jr. lay on the ground, gasping for air, his uncle's unconscious body beside him. His ears were ringing. Everything hurt.

"Billy?" he croaked. "Uncle Billy?"

Hands pulled him up. His dad. Josh was there, coughing, soot-covered.

"You okay?" Josh asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. But Uncle Billy—"

Tom was already kneeling beside Billy, knife out. He cut through the rope binding Billy's wrists. The bindings had cut so deep they'd bled through his shirt. When Tom pulled the rope away, Billy's hands were purple, swollen, the circulation completely cut off.

"Jesus," Tom whispered.

A few feet away, Pops was cutting Jake free, his hands shaking. "Come on, boy. Come on."

Jake's wrists looked just as bad. Raw. Bleeding. The rope had dug grooves into his skin.

Sarah appeared, running from the trucks. Rebecca was right behind her, medical bag in hand.

"My babies!" Sarah dropped to her knees beside Jake. "Oh God, look at them—"

"They're alive," Wade said. He had his fingers on Jake's neck, checking his pulse. "Pulse is weak but steady."

Rebecca moved to Billy, checking his airways, his breathing. "He's got smoke inhalation. Possible brain swelling from hanging upside down that long."

Billy's eyes fluttered open. Barely. Unfocused.

"B-Billy Junior?" he whispered.

"I'm here!" Billy Jr. grabbed his uncle's hand. "I'm right here! We got you! You're safe!"

"Jake..."

"Jake's here too. We got you both."

Billy's eyes closed again.

"We need to get them to a hospital," Rebecca said. "Now. Both of them need—"

"No."

It was Billy. His voice was weak but firm. His eyes opened again, clearer this time.

"No hospital," he said.

"Billy, you've been hanging upside down for hours," Rebecca said. "You need—"

"No. Hospital." Billy's hand tightened on Billy Jr.'s. "Home. Just... home."

Jake stirred beside him. "No... hospital..." he echoed, his voice barely audible.

Sarah looked at Rebecca, tears streaming down her face. "Can you treat them at home?"

Rebecca hesitated. Then she looked at her father. Wade nodded slowly.

"I can stabilize them," Rebecca said. "But if they deteriorate—"

"We know," Tom said. He looked at his sons. "You boys want to go home?"

"Home," Billy whispered.

"Damn right," Pops said. He stood up, his face black with soot, his eyes red. "Benson boys don't run crying to hospitals. We take care of our own."

Wade stood. "Alright. Let's get them loaded up. Gently. Keep their heads elevated. They've had enough blood in their brains for one night."

Tom and Josh lifted Billy carefully while Pops and Robert did the same with Jake. They carried them to Tom's truck, laying them in the bed on blankets the women had brought.

Billy Jr. climbed in beside his uncles, still holding Billy's hand. The other wiz kids crowded in around them. Celab and Colt sat at their feet.

"You boys did good," Tom said quietly to Billy Jr. "Real good. That early warning saved their lives."

"We all did it together, Grandpa," Billy Jr. said, his voice shaking.

Sarah climbed into the truck bed too, cradling Jake's head in her lap. Rebecca sat beside Billy, monitoring his breathing.

The convoy reformed. Slower this time. More careful. The burning barn lit up the night behind them as they pulled away.

Inside Wade's truck, Pops stared out the window, his shotgun across his lap.

"Those sons of bitches got what they deserved," he said quietly.

Wade didn't disagree.

Behind them, the Morrison barn collapsed in on itself, flames consuming the last of the structure. By morning, there would be nothing left but ash and four dead kidnappers lying in the dirt.

But Billy and Jake Benson were going home.

Alive.

Chapter 6: Home

Doc Peterson's truck pulled into the ranch yard thirty minutes after the convoy arrived, his medical bag already in hand before he'd fully stopped. He was seventy-four years old, retired from Kings Hospital five years ago, but still kept his license active. And when Pops Benson called, you answered. Especially when Pops called.

They'd served together in Vietnam—1st Cavalry Division, 1968. Pops had saved Doc's life in the Tet Offensive. Doc had returned the favor three months later outside Hue. Fifty-six years later, they still talked twice a week and drank together once a month.

"Where are they?" Doc asked, climbing the porch steps.

"Upstairs," Tom said, meeting him at the door. "Second floor. Rebecca's with them."

Doc took the stairs faster than a man his age should. Behind him, Pops followed with a bottle of Jack Daniels.

"You bring the whole bar, Benson?" Doc asked without turning around.

"Medicinal purposes, Peterson."

"That's what you said in Da Nang right before you got us kicked out of that bar."

"That wasn't the whiskey's fault. That was the Marine's fault for having a big mouth."

"You threw the first punch."

"He insulted the 1st Cav."

"He said we couldn't shoot straight."

"Exactly. An insult."

Doc shook his head, grinning. "Fifty-six years and you're still looking for fights."

"Found one tonight," Pops said, his voice going hard. "Four sons of bitches learned what happens when you mess with Benson boys."

Doc stopped at the top of the stairs and looked at his old friend. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. My grandsons almost weren't. But they are now. Let's keep it that way."

The frat house room was crowded. Billy and Jake lay in their bunk beds—Billy on the bottom left, Jake on the bottom right. Rebecca had already started IVs on both of them, fluids dripping steadily. Their wrists were bandaged, white gauze wrapped around the rope burns. Both were conscious now, but barely—eyes half-open, faces still flushed from hours of hanging upside down.

Sarah sat between the beds, one hand on each of her sons. Josh stood behind her, his face drawn. Tom and Ray filled the doorway.

Doc Peterson set his bag down and went to Billy first. "Let's see what we got here, son."

He checked Billy's pupils with a penlight, his pulse, listened to his lungs with a stethoscope. "Smoke inhalation's not too bad. Lungs sound clear enough. Pulse is coming back strong." He moved to Billy's wrists, gently lifting the bandages. "Rebecca, you do this?"

"Yes sir," Rebecca said.

"Good work. Textbook. You learn that from me or your fancy medical books?"

"Little of both," Rebecca said, smiling slightly.

"She learned it from me," Pops said. "I taught her field medicine when she was twelve."

"You taught her how to make a tourniquet out of a belt," Doc said. "I taught her actual medicine."

"Same thing."

"Not even close."

Doc looked at Billy. "You feel anything in your fingers yet?"

"Tingles," Billy croaked. "Hurts like hell."

"Good. Pain means the nerves are waking up. Means you're not permanently damaged." Doc moved to Jake, repeating the examination. "Same here. You boys are damn lucky. Another hour hanging like that and we'd be talking stroke, brain damage, maybe worse. Much worse."

"They're going to be okay?" Sarah asked, her voice shaking.

"They'll be sore for a week. Wrists will take longer to heal—two, maybe three weeks before they can use their hands normally. But yeah, they'll be fine." Doc looked at Pops. "Now about that Jack Daniels you promised me..."

Pops grinned and poured two shots into plastic medicine cups. Doc handed one to Billy, one to Jake.

"Doctor's orders," Doc said. "For the pain and the nerves. Drink up."

Billy downed his without hesitation. Jake did the same, wincing.

"That's horrible," Jake muttered.

"It's supposed to be," Doc said. "Builds character. Isn't that what you always said in 'Nam, Benson?"

"Still say it," Pops said. He poured two more shots—one for himself, one for Doc. They clinked plastic cups.

"To stupid kids who run into burning buildings," Doc said.

"And to the boys who survive it," Pops added.

They drank together.

"Remember that hooch fire outside Pleiku?" Doc said. "You ran in to save that case of whiskey."

"Wasn't just whiskey," Pops protested. "There were important documents."

"It was whiskey."

"There might have been documents near the whiskey."

"You almost died for bourbon."

"And I'd do it again," Pops said. "Priorities, Peterson."

Rebecca adjusted Jake's IV, shaking her head at the two old men. "You two are impossible."

"We prefer 'experienced,'" Doc said.

"We prefer 'survivors,'" Pops corrected.

Outside, vehicles were arriving. Lots of them. The entire consortium was converging on the ranch—word had spread fast. The Beaumont family pulled up first, followed by the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. Sheriff Wade and his family were already there.

By the time the sun fully set, the ranch house was packed. People filled the kitchen, the living room, the porch. Everyone wanted to see Billy and Jake, to hear the story, to celebrate that the boys were alive.

And then Jake's Steak House arrived.

Three delivery trucks pulled up, loaded with food. Brisket, ribs, chicken, sides—enough to feed an army. Jake Martinez himself climbed out of the lead truck.

"Heard you boys had a hell of a day," Jake said, shaking Tom's hand. "This one's on the house. Consortium takes care of its own."

The food was set up buffet-style in the dining room and kitchen. People loaded plates, grabbed drinks, and spread throughout the house. The atmosphere shifted from relief to celebration. Voices rose, laughter echoed. Stories were already being told and retold.

Pops held court on the porch, bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, glass in the other. Doc Peterson sat beside him in a rocking chair, his own glass never empty. A crowd gathered around them—the consortium fathers, Sheriff Wade, Robert Beaumont.

"Seventy-six goddamn years old," Pops was saying, "and I'm still faster than those sons of bitches. Dutch went down like a sack of flour. Never saw it coming."

"Your first shot missed," Doc pointed out. "I was watching. You were three feet to the left."

"I was establishing a baseline."

"You were drunk."

"Drunk enough to shoot, sober enough to hit," Pops corrected. "Second shot was perfect."

"Because Wade shot him first."

"I softened him up," Pops insisted.

Wade grinned. "You were both shooting. One of us hit him. Does it matter which?"

"It matters," Pops said.

"It doesn't," Doc said. "What matters is he's dead and your boys are alive. That's a win in any war."

Pops raised his glass. "Amen to that."

They drank.

"You remember that ambush near Khe Sanh?" Doc said. "When you were convinced you'd shot three VC but it turned out I'd shot two of them?"

"That never happened."

"It absolutely happened. I counted the bodies."

"You counted wrong."

"I'm a doctor. I don't count wrong."

"You're a drunk. You count wrong all the time."

"Says the man on his fourth glass of Jack."

"Fifth," Pops corrected. "And I'm pacing myself."

Laughter rippled through the group. Mary Nelson shook her head at both of them.

"You two are going to drink yourselves to death," she said.

"We've been trying for fifty-six years," Doc said. "Haven't managed it yet."

"Clearly doing something wrong," Pops added.

Inside, Billy Jr. and his three friends sat at the kitchen table with Celab and Colt, plates piled high with brisket and ribs. They were still filthy—soot-covered, smelling like smoke, but grinning.

"You should've seen Billy Jr.," Daniel was saying to anyone who'd listen. "Didn't even hesitate. Just ran straight into the fire."

"We all did," Billy Jr. said.

"Yeah, but you were first," Ryan Mattern added. "Like, way first. You were ten feet ahead of us."

"I wasn't counting."

"We were," Billy Renzo said. "You went in like a crazy person."

Tom appeared beside the table with Pops and Doc Peterson, who were both carrying bottles—Pops with his Jack Daniels, Doc with a bottle of bourbon he'd pulled from his truck.

"You boys," Pops said, setting down seven shot glasses. "Line 'em up."

Rebecca looked up sharply from across the room. "Dad—"

"They earned it," Pops said firmly. He poured seven shots of Jack. "Billy Junior. Billy Renzo. Ryan. Daniel. Celab. Colt." He looked at each of them. "You boys ran into a burning building to save my grandsons. That takes guts. That takes heart. That takes balls the size of church bells."

"Pops!" Sarah said from the doorway.

"It's true!" Pops said. "Doc, back me up here."

Doc Peterson nodded solemnly. "Medical opinion: these boys have enormous balls."

"Doctor!" Mary said, scandalized.

"It's science," Doc said, completely straight-faced.

Josh stepped forward. "Pops, they're sixteen—"

"They're heroes," Pops interrupted. "And heroes get whiskey. Isn't that right, Doc?"

"That's what we did in Vietnam," Doc agreed. "Any man—or boy—who saves lives gets a drink. It's tradition."

"It's illegal," Rebecca said.

"So were half the things we did in 'Nam," Pops said. "We turned out fine."

"That's debatable," Wade muttered.

Pops ignored him. "Now drink up, boys. One shot. Then you're done. But you've earned this one."

Billy Jr. grabbed his glass. His friends followed. They downed the shots together, faces twisting at the burn.

"Oh God!" Billy Renzo coughed. "That's awful!"

"Welcome to manhood," Doc said.

"It gets better," Pops added. "Or you get used to it. One of those."

Then Pops reached into his jacket and pulled out a wooden box. Cuban cigars. The real deal. Illegal, expensive, and Pops' most prized possession besides his grandsons.

"Oh no," Tom said. "Pops, those are—"

"Special occasions only," Pops said. He opened the box, revealing six perfectly rolled cigars. "And if six boys running into a burning building to save family isn't a special occasion, I don't know what the hell is."

"I'll take one," Doc said immediately.

"You're a doctor!" Mary protested.

"I'm a retired doctor," Doc corrected. "Big difference." He took a cigar from Pops. "Besides, we smoked these in Saigon. What's one more going to hurt?"

Pops handed cigars to the six boys. "Boys, you light 'em like this..." He demonstrated with his lighter, puffing until the end glowed orange. "Don't inhale. Just puff and let the smoke sit in your mouth. Taste it. That's a fifty-dollar cigar right there."

"Seventy-five," Doc corrected. "I know what you paid."

"Sixty," Pops said.

"You told me seventy-five last month."

"I lied to make you jealous."

Soon all six teenagers were puffing on Cuban cigars, trying not to cough, looking simultaneously proud and nauseous. Pops and Doc sat back, grinning, their own cigars lit.

"Remember teaching those South Vietnamese how to smoke?" Doc said.

"Remember? I got them hooked on Cubans. Probably still smoking them."

"Probably why we lost the war," Doc said. "You corrupted them."

"I civilized them," Pops corrected.

"Same thing."

The party went on for hours. Food disappeared. Pops' bottle of Jack Daniels emptied and was replaced. Doc's bourbon bottle made the rounds. Stories were told—the discovery of the kitchen, the drone footage, the phone call, the shootout, the rescue. Each telling got more dramatic, more heroic.

Pops and Doc told their own stories from Vietnam—carefully edited for the younger audience, but still full of danger and close calls. By the end of the night, it was hard to tell where truth ended and legend began.

Billy and Jake were carried downstairs at one point so people could see them, congratulate them, thank God they were alive. Both were still weak, still in pain, but smiling. Sarah never left their sides.

"Thought we were done for," Jake admitted to the crowd. "Hanging there for hours. Couldn't feel our hands. Couldn't breathe right. Blood pounding in our heads. Then we heard Billy Junior's voice on that phone and we knew..."

"We knew you'd come," Billy finished weakly.

"Damn right we came," Pops said, raising his glass. "Bensons don't leave family behind. Isn't that right, Doc?"

"That's right," Doc said. "Nobody left behind. That was the rule in 'Nam. Still is."

By midnight, people started drifting home. The Beaumonts first, then the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. Hugs all around. Promises to check in tomorrow. The house slowly emptied until it was just the Bensons—Tom and Sarah, Josh and Rebecca, Ray, Pops, Doc Peterson, and the boys.

"You staying?" Pops asked Doc.

"You got a spare room?"

"I got a couch."

"Good enough," Doc said. "I'm too drunk to drive anyway."

"Lightweight," Pops said.

"I'm three years older than you."

"Excuses."

Billy and Jake were carried back upstairs to the frat house. This time, all the boys followed—Billy Jr., Celab, Colt. They squeezed into the small room, Billy Jr. climbing into his bunk above Billy, Celab into his above Jake. Colt sprawled on his mattress on the floor between the two bunk beds.

The room was dark and quiet. The adrenaline was finally wearing off. Exhaustion settling in like a weight.

"How you feeling?" Billy Jr. asked, leaning over the side of his bunk to look down at his uncle.

"Like I got hit by a truck," Billy said, his voice hoarse. "But alive. Thanks to you."

"We all did it," Billy Jr. said.

"You hit that emergency button," Jake said from his bunk. "You tracked the phone. You saw the fire on the drones. You ran in first. You saved us, Billy Junior."

"We all ran in," Billy Jr. said again.

"Yeah, but you went first," Celab added. "That takes guts."

"Or stupidity," Colt drawled. "Jury's still out, cher."

They lay there in the darkness, too tired to talk much but too wired to sleep just yet.

"Hey," Jake said suddenly. "Anybody else dying of thirst?"

"I could drink a gallon," Billy agreed.

Billy Jr. sat up. "I'll grab some water bottles—"

"Forget water," Colt said. He rolled off his mattress and went to the corner of the room, near the window. He knelt down and pulled up a loose floorboard.

Billy Jr. blinked. "What are you—"

Colt reached into the space under the floor and pulled out a six-pack of beer. Cold. Condensation dripping off the bottles.

"What the hell?" Billy Jr. said.

"You didn't know?" Colt grinned. "Pops keeps it stocked."

"Wait, what?" Celab sat up in his bunk.

Colt pulled out another six-pack. Then another. "There's like four cases under here. Pops fills it up every morning. Been doing it since we moved in."

"Are you serious?" Billy Jr. said.

The door opened. Pops stood there, Doc Peterson beside him, both holding their bottles.

"Found my stash, did you?" Pops said, grinning like the devil.

"Pops!" Billy Jr. said. "You've been—how long have you—"

"Since the day you boys moved in," Pops said. "Figured you'd need it eventually. And tonight seems like a damn good night to crack one open."

"I helped," Doc added. "Bought half those cases."

"You did?"

"Sure did. Boys need to be boys. Especially good boys. They earn some fun."

"Does Dad know?" Billy Jr. asked.

"Does Tom know what?" Tom's voice came from the hallway.

Pops and Doc turned. Tom stood there, Josh and Ray behind him, all three staring at the beer bottles Colt was holding.

"Is that—" Tom started.

"Beer," Josh finished flatly. "Under the floorboards."

"Pops, have you been hiding beer in the frat house?" Ray demanded.

"Hiding's a strong word," Pops said. "I prefer 'strategically placing for future morale purposes.'"

"That's not better," Tom said.

"How long?" Josh asked.

"Fourteen months," Pops said without hesitation.

Tom's jaw dropped. "Fourteen months? You've been stocking beer for sixteen-year-olds for over a year?"

"Seventeen now," Pops corrected. "Well, most of them. Billy Junior will be seventeen in two months. Close enough."

"Close enough?" Ray said. "Pops!"

"And I helped," Doc added cheerfully. "Don't forget that part."

"You're supposed to be a doctor!" Tom said.

"Retired doctor," Doc corrected. "Big difference. And medically speaking, these boys need to relax after today. Beer's good for that."

"That's not medical advice," Josh said.

"Sure it is," Pops said. "Doc prescribed it. Didn't you, Doc?"

"Absolutely," Doc said, nodding seriously. "One to two beers for stress relief and emotional processing. It's in all the medical journals."

"It absolutely is not," Rebecca called from downstairs.

"She doesn't know," Doc called back. "She's too young to have read the old journals!"

Tom looked at his father, then at Doc, then at the boys, then at the beer. His face was torn between anger and exhausted resignation. Finally, he sighed deeply.

"One beer each," Tom said. "That's it."

"Two," Pops countered.

"One."

"They ran into a burning building, Tom."

"While we're being honest," Doc added, "they also charged in before any of us could stop them. That's initiative. Leadership. Courage. All beer-worthy qualities."

Tom hesitated. Then: "Two. But that's it. And this stash is gone tomorrow morning."

"Sure it is," Pops said, winking at the boys.

"I mean it, Pops."

"I believe you mean it," Pops said. "Doesn't mean it's happening."

Tom, Josh, and Ray shook their heads and left, muttering about Pops and Doc and their terrible influence.

Pops and Doc handed out beers—one to each of the boys who could sit up. Billy and Jake got theirs in bed, struggling to open them with bandaged hands. Pops opened the bottles for them.

"You know," Doc said, settling into the desk chair, "in Vietnam, we'd do this after every bad mission. Sit around, drink a beer, decompress. Talk about what happened. Process it."

"Did it help?" Billy Jr. asked.

"Sometimes," Doc said. "Sometimes it just gave us something to do besides think about dying."

"That's cheerful," Celab muttered.

"War's not cheerful," Pops said. "But survival is. And you boys survived something today. Something big. Something most people never face. So you drink a beer, you toast to being alive, and you remember that you did something good. Something heroic."

He raised his bottle of Jack Daniels. "To family. To Bensons and those crazy enough to call themselves Bensons. To boys who become men when it matters most."

"And to boys who run into burning buildings," Doc added, raising his bourbon. "Because they're either very brave or very stupid."

"Both," Pops said. "Always both."

They clinked bottles and glasses together.

Billy took a long drink and sighed. "Best beer I've ever had."

"That's because you're alive to drink it," Doc said. "Everything tastes better when you shouldn't be here to taste it."

"Deep, Doc," Jake said.

"I'm drunk," Doc admitted. "It happens."

"You're always drunk," Pops said.

"Pot. Kettle. Black."

They sat in the darkness, drinking their beers, the two old men telling quiet stories about close calls and stupid decisions and the friends they'd lost. The boys listened, realizing that Pops and Doc had been through their own version of today fifty-six years ago. And they'd survived. And they'd kept surviving.

One by one, the beers emptied. Billy and Jake were asleep first, their bodies finally surrendering to exhaustion and medication. Colt followed, sprawled on his mattress. Then Celab, then Billy Jr., still clutching his empty bottle.

Pops and Doc stood quietly and left the room, closing the door behind them.

In the hallway, Doc looked at his old friend. "Hell of a day."

"Hell of a day," Pops agreed.

"Your boys are okay."

"Thanks to other boys who had the guts to save them."

Doc nodded. "Billy Junior's got your crazy, you know. That running-into-danger thing. That's all you."

"I know," Pops said. "Scares the hell out of me."

"But you're proud."

"Damn right I'm proud." Pops took a drink from his bottle. "He's got heart. They all do. That's what matters."

They walked downstairs together. Tom was waiting in the living room.

"They asleep?" Tom asked.

"Like the dead," Doc said. "Which, thank God, they're not."

"Amen to that," Tom said. He looked at his father. "Fourteen months, Pops? Really?"

"Really," Pops said unapologetically.

"And you're not going to stop."

"Nope."

Tom sighed. "At least tell me next time."

"Where's the fun in that?"

Doc laughed and headed for the couch. "I'm crashing here. Wake me if anyone dies."

"Reassuring," Tom said.

"I'm a doctor. It's my job."

Pops headed to his bedroom, still carrying his bottle. At the door, he turned back to Tom.

"Those boys did good today," Pops said. "All of them. Billy, Jake, Billy Junior, the whole crew. You raised them right, Tom. Your dad would be proud."

Tom's throat tightened. "Thanks, Pops."

"Now go to bed. Tomorrow we deal with the sheriff's report and the cleanup. Tonight, we sleep knowing everyone's home."

Pops closed his bedroom door.

Tom stood alone in the hallway for a moment, listening to the quiet house. Upstairs, his sons—all of them—were safe. Alive. Sleeping in their bunks.

He climbed the stairs one more time, opened the frat house door quietly, and looked inside. Five boys crammed into a room meant for four. Billy and Jake in their bunks, bandaged and breathing steadily. Billy Jr., Celab, and Colt sprawled in their spots. Empty beer bottles on the floor.

Tom smiled despite himself.

Benson boys.

All of them.

He closed the door and went to bed.

THE END