Billy Benson Junior strained against the ropes binding him to the chair, sweat saturating his shirt and the coarse fibers burning his arms. He watched helplessly as his Uncles Billy and Jake, strung up before him, were beaten and gut-punched until they sagged lifelessly in their restraints. When the captors turned the camera toward him, his face revealed only anger and determination. The consortium knew that Junior was already planning how to save his uncles from further torture.
Chapter 1: The Trap
The door to the frat house burst open with a bang that rattled the windows.
"Get your lazy asses out of those bunks!" Pops bellowed, his gravelly voice cutting through the pre-dawn darkness. "Sun's burning daylight and you bastards are still snoring like a bunch of goddamn hogs!"
Billy groaned from the top bunk, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Pops, the sun ain't even up yet."
"Then you're already behind!" Pops flicked on the overhead light, flooding the cramped room with harsh fluorescence.
Jake sat up in the bunk below Billy, squinting and grinning. "Morning, Pops. Sleep well?"
"Better than you will tonight if you don't get moving." Pops moved through the room like a drill sergeant, nudging Celab's bunk with his boot. "Up, Beaumont. You too, Louisiana." He kicked the mattress on the floor where Celab's cousin sprawled. "And Junior, I know you're awake. Stop playing possum."
From the other top bunk, Billy Jr. swung his legs over the side, already half-dressed. At sixteen, he'd learned that the fastest way through Pops' wake-up calls was cooperation. "I'm up, Pops."
"That's my boy." Pops surveyed his troops with satisfaction, then his eyes drifted to the corner of the room. He shuffled over to the loose floorboard near Jake's bunk and knelt down with a grunt. "You boys are running low on provisions."
Billy's head popped over the edge of his bunk. "Pops, you don't have to—"
"Shut it." Pops pulled up the board and retrieved two empty Lone Star bottles. From his jacket pocket, he produced four fresh ones, cold and sweating. He tucked them carefully into the hiding spot and replaced the board. "Your grandmother would skin me alive if she knew, so keep your damn mouths shut."
"Yes, sir," they chorused, grinning.
Pops stood, knees popping. "Now get dressed and get to breakfast. Your mama's making biscuits and gravy, and if you're late, Ray's gonna eat your share." He paused at the door. "And Junior?"
"Yeah, Pops?"
"Wear your good boots. Josh has you boys moving supplies today, and I don't want you bitching about blisters."
The door slammed behind him.
Celab's cousin sat up on his mattress, hair sticking up in every direction. "Does he wake y'all up like that every morning?"
"Pretty much," Billy said, dropping from the top bunk in one smooth motion. "You get used to it."
"I kind of like it," Jake admitted, pulling on his jeans. "Beats an alarm clock."
Junior was already lacing up his boots. "Come on, before Ray eats everything."
The kitchen was chaos in the best possible way.
Sarah Benson moved between the stove and the counter with practiced efficiency, pulling fresh biscuits from the oven while Tom poured coffee for the early risers. Ray and Josh were already seated, plates half-empty, discussing feed prices and market projections. Rebecca was packing Josh's lunch, occasionally swatting at Billy Jr. when he tried to steal bacon from the serving platter.
"Morning, Mama," Billy said, kissing Sarah's cheek before grabbing a plate.
"Morning, baby. There's gravy on the stove."
The frat house crew filled in around the long table, passing platters and bowls in a well-rehearsed dance. Pops settled into his chair at the head, brandy-laced coffee in hand, and surveyed his kingdom with satisfaction.
"Alright," Josh said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Ray and I are meeting with the Matterns about that cattle contract. Dad, you and Rebecca are handling the feed delivery to the north pasture."
Tom nodded. "Got it."
"Billy, Jake, Junior—I need you three to move supplies out to the south line shack. We've got fencing materials, tools, and about two dozen salt licks that need to get out there before the weekend crew starts repairs."
"How much are we hauling?" Jake asked.
"Enough to fill the flatbed. Celab, you and your cousin are with Ray and me."
Celab looked disappointed. "Aw, I wanted to go with Billy and Jake."
"Next time," Josh said. "I need the extra hands for the contract meeting."
Billy Jr. was already calculating logistics in his head. "We taking the Chevy or the Ford?"
"Ford. It's got the better suspension for the back roads."
"When do we leave?" Billy asked.
"Thirty minutes. Load up, head out, get it done." Josh stood, grabbing his hat from the peg. "Should take you most of the morning. Radio in when you're heading back."
"Yes, sir," the three said in unison.
Pops pointed his fork at Junior. "You got your sat phone?"
Junior patted his pocket. "Always."
"Good. Keep it on. And don't let these two idiots get you killed."
"Hey!" Billy and Jake protested together.
Sarah swatted Pops with a dish towel. "Don't say things like that."
"I'm just being realistic, woman."
The table erupted in laughter.
Twenty minutes later, Billy, Jake, and Junior were loading the last of the salt licks onto the Ford's flatbed. The morning sun was just cresting the horizon, painting the ranch in shades of gold and amber. Junior secured the load with ratchet straps while Billy and Jake double-checked the tool boxes.
"Think we'll be done by lunch?" Jake asked.
"If we don't screw around," Billy said. "But we're definitely screwing around."
Junior grinned. "Race you to the shack?"
"You're on."
They climbed into the cab—Billy driving, Jake riding shotgun, Junior squeezed in the middle—and pulled out of the ranch yard. The radio crackled with morning check-ins from the other consortium families. Wilson Nelson reported clear conditions on the east side. The Renzos confirmed their crew was moving cattle to fresh pasture.
"Normal day," Billy said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
"Best kind of day," Jake agreed.
They drove south, leaving the main ranch buildings behind, following the dirt road that cut through open pasture and mesquite groves. The south line shack was a forty-minute drive, located near the boundary between Benson land and the Rodriguez property.
Junior had his window down, one arm hanging out, enjoying the cool morning air. He noticed the tracks first.
"Hey, you see that?"
"See what?" Billy glanced over.
"Tire tracks. Fresh ones. Crossing our road up ahead."
Jake leaned forward. "Could be the Rodriguez crew. They've been doing fence work too."
"Maybe." But something in Junior's gut told him otherwise.
They rounded a bend, and Billy hit the brakes.
Two trucks were parked across the road, blocking their path. Four men stood in front of the vehicles, arms crossed, faces hidden behind bandanas and ball caps.
"What the hell?" Jake muttered.
Billy threw the Ford into reverse, but before he could accelerate, another truck roared up behind them, boxing them in. Two more men jumped out.
"Out of the truck! Now!" one of them shouted, raising a shotgun.
Billy's hand moved toward the sat phone in the center console, but a man appeared at his window, gun barrel pressed against the glass.
"Don't even think about it, boy. Out. All three of you."
Junior's heart hammered in his chest. His hand went to his own sat phone in his pocket, fingers fumbling for the emergency button. He managed to press it twice before the door was yanked open and rough hands dragged him out.
"Phones! Give me your phones!"
They were shoved to the ground, hands bound behind their backs with rough rope that bit into their wrists. Junior watched helplessly as one of the kidnappers smashed their sat phones under his boot heel. The emergency signal had gone out—he was sure of it—but would it be enough?
Billy struggled, earning a rifle butt to the ribs. Jake cursed, thrashing until someone kicked his legs out from under him. Junior went still, forcing himself to think, to observe, to remember everything.
"Gag them," the leader ordered. "I don't want to hear a goddamn word out of any of them."
Dirty bandanas were shoved into their mouths and tied tight. Junior gagged on the taste of oil and dust, forcing himself to breathe through his nose.
"Load them up," the leader said. "We're on a clock."
They were thrown into the back of one of the trucks, a tarp pulled over the bed. The engine roared to life, and they were moving, bouncing over rough terrain, heading away from the ranch.
Away from help.
In the darkness, Junior felt Jake shift beside him, heard his muffled grunt through the gag. Billy was on the other side, his breathing harsh and labored from the hit to his ribs.
Junior closed his eyes and focused. The emergency button. He'd pressed it. Twice.
The command center would light up. Colt and the wiz kids would see it. They'd know something was wrong.
They just had to stay alive until help came.
The truck hit a pothole, bouncing them hard against the bed. Junior's shoulder slammed into the wheel well, and he bit down on the gag to keep from crying out.
Stay alive.
He could do that.
He had to.
Chapter 2: First Contact
The truck lurched to a stop, and Junior heard the tailgate slam open. Rough hands grabbed his ankles and dragged him out. He hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Through watering eyes, he caught glimpses of his surroundings: weathered wood siding, rusted metal roofing, overgrown weeds choking a gravel lot. An abandoned feed warehouse, maybe. Remote. Isolated.
Perfect for what these bastards had planned.
Billy and Jake were hauled out next, both struggling despite their bound hands and the gags still choking them. One of the kidnappers—a stocky man with a scar running down his left cheek—punched Jake in the kidney. Jake's muffled grunt was barely audible through the bandana. His knees buckled.
"Move!" Scar-face barked.
They were shoved through a side door into the dim interior of the warehouse. The air was thick with dust and the smell of old grain and motor oil. A single work light hung from a crossbeam, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor.
Junior's stomach dropped when he saw what waited for them.
Two ropes hung from an overhead beam, about six feet apart. A heavy wooden chair sat between them, bolted to the floor.
"String 'em up," ordered a tall man with a snake tattoo crawling up his neck. He seemed to be in charge. "The big one and the hothead."
Four men moved with practiced efficiency. They cut the ropes binding Billy's and Jake's wrists, only to immediately retie them. Billy's right wrist was lashed to Jake's left wrist, binding the brothers together. Then their free arms were raised and tied to the overhead ropes, stretching them up on their toes, forcing them to support each other's weight or hang painfully from their shoulders.
Within minutes, both men were strung up, already sweating from the strain, gags still firmly in place.
Junior was shoved into the chair. His legs were tied to the chair legs, ankles wrapped tight with coarse rope. His arms were wrenched behind the chair back and bound at the wrists and elbows. Someone added another rope across his chest, pinning him firmly to the seat. He tested the bonds. Solid. For now.
His gag remained tight across his mouth.
Snake Tattoo stepped forward, pulling down his bandana to reveal a weathered face with cold, calculating eyes. Maybe mid-forties. A man who'd done this sort of thing before.
"Name's Vance," he said casually, as if introducing himself at a barbecue. "Don't matter if you know it. You ain't gonna be talking to nobody who can do anything about it." He gestured to his crew. "That's Derek." Scar-face nodded. "Emmett, Luis, and the twins—Carson and Cole. We're gonna be spending some quality time together."
Billy's muffled protest came from behind his gag. His eyes blazed with fury.
Vance smiled and drove his fist into Jake's stomach. The sound was sickening—a meaty thud followed by Jake's choked, muffled gasp. His knees buckled, and Billy staggered sideways as Jake's dead weight pulled on their bound wrists. Billy strained to keep them both upright, the cords in his neck standing out, sweat already pouring down his face.
"Real touching," Vance said. "Now, let me explain how this works. Your families—the Bensons, the Nelsons, all those rich consortium bastards—they're gonna pay us two million dollars. Cash. Unmarked bills. They got forty-eight hours."
Billy thrashed against his ropes, trying to shout through the gag. It came out as an incoherent, muffled roar.
Vance drove another fist into Billy's gut. Billy doubled over as much as the ropes allowed, coughing and wheezing behind the gag. Sweat was already soaking through both brothers' shirts.
Junior watched, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached around the fabric in his mouth. He memorized every face. Every voice. Every detail.
"They will pay," Vance continued, "because we're gonna send them a little video. Show them we mean business." He nodded to Luis, who set up a camera on a tripod facing the three captives. "Lights, camera, action."
The camera's red recording light blinked on.
Vance stepped into frame, addressing the camera directly. "Benson family. Nelson family. All you consortium sons of bitches listening. We got three of yours. You want 'em back in one piece, you deliver two million dollars to the location we'll send you. Forty-eight hours. If we see cops, if we see drones, if we see anything we don't like—these boys die. Understand?"
He turned to Derek. "Show them we're serious."
Derek grinned and approached Billy and Jake. He drove his fist into Billy's gut—once, twice, three times. Billy's body jerked with each impact, sweat flying, muffled grunts escaping through the gag. Jake tried to twist away, but Derek caught him next, pounding his stomach until Jake's face went red and he gagged against the bandana, fighting not to vomit.
Their bodies trembled, supporting each other's weight, arms shaking from the strain and the beating.
Vance walked over to Junior. He reached down and yanked the gag from Junior's mouth.
Junior gasped for air, then immediately shouted, "You cowards! You—"
Vance slapped him hard across the face. The crack echoed through the warehouse. Junior's head snapped sideways, his cheek burning, but he turned back immediately, glaring pure hatred at Vance.
"You got something to say, kid?"
Junior stared into the camera. Not pleading. Not crying. His face was a mask of controlled rage and iron determination. Let them see it. Let Pops see it. Let the wiz kids see it. Let everyone know: Junior wasn't broken. He was planning.
Vance laughed and slapped him again, harder. Junior's vision blurred, but he kept his eyes locked on that camera lens.
"Forty-eight hours," Vance said to the camera. "Or the next video shows bodies."
He shoved the gag back into Junior's mouth and tied it tight.
Luis hit the stop button. The red light went dark.
"Get that uploaded and sent," Vance ordered. "Encrypted channel, just like we planned. Make sure it hits all their fancy sat phones."
The kidnappers moved toward the door, their boots echoing on the concrete. Carson—or was it Cole?—stayed behind, leaning against the wall with a rifle across his lap. Guard duty.
Billy and Jake hung in their ropes, chests heaving behind their gags, sweat dripping onto the floor. The strain of supporting each other's weight was already showing in their trembling arms and legs. Their eyes met Junior's—exhausted but defiant.
Junior tested the ropes behind his back again, feeling for any give, any slack. Nothing yet. But he'd find it. He had to.
The guard lit a cigarette, bored, scrolling through his phone with one hand.
Junior closed his eyes and thought about the emergency button. Two presses. Clear signal.
Right now, somewhere out there, Colt was at the command center. The wiz kids were firing up the drones. Pops was loading his guns. Wade was coordinating search patterns.
They were coming.
But Junior couldn't wait for them. Billy and Jake couldn't wait. They couldn't even call out for help, couldn't speak, could barely breathe with those gags choking them.
He opened his eyes and stared at the overhead beam, at the ropes, at the door, at the guard.
Forty-eight hours.
He'd be free in twelve.
Chapter 3: Command Center Activated
Colt was already at the command center when the alarm screamed to life.
He'd been tinkering with the new satellite relay system, running diagnostics on the drone fleet, when every screen in the room flashed red. The emergency protocol—the one they'd built but never thought they'd actually need—erupted across all eighteen monitors.
EMERGENCY SIGNAL DETECTED
CALLER: BILLY BENSON JR.
LOCATION: SOUTH SECTOR - COORDINATES TRANSMITTING
STATUS: ACTIVE DISTRESS
"Holy shit," Colt breathed, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. He activated the consortium-wide alert, then grabbed his sat phone. "Command center to all units. We have an emergency signal from Junior. South sector. I'm initiating search protocols now."
His phone lit up with responses almost immediately.
Billy Renzo: "Got it. Fifteen minutes out."
Ryan Mattern: "On our way. Grabbing Daniel."
The Benson family would be closer—probably already moving toward the command center. But the other wiz kids were scattered across their family ranches. Colt was on his own for now.
He forced himself to focus, to use the training they'd drilled a hundred times. Pull up Junior's GPS coordinates. Check signal strength—weak, then gone. Sat phone destroyed. Launch preliminary drone protocols. Get the thermal imaging systems warming up. Send encrypted alerts across the entire consortium network.
His hands were shaking.
"Come on, come on," he muttered, pulling up maps, flagging search zones, trying to think like Junior would. Where would kidnappers take them? Somewhere remote. Abandoned. Off the main roads.
The minutes crawled by. Five. Ten. Twelve.
Footsteps thundered in the hallway. Tom and Sarah Benson burst through the door, followed by Josh and Rebecca. Ray was right behind them.
"What happened?" Tom demanded.
"Junior's emergency signal." Colt didn't look away from the screens. "0847 hours. Two presses. South sector, then nothing. I've got the coordinates here, but the signal's dead now."
Sarah's hand flew to her mouth. "Billy and Jake were with him."
"I know, ma'am. I'm getting the drones ready. The other guys are on their way."
Josh moved to the monitors, his face pale. "Show me the exact location."
Colt pulled it up. "Here. South access road. About three miles from the Rodriguez property line."
"That's where we sent them," Josh said quietly. "Moving supplies to the south line shack."
The quad engine roared outside, then cut off. Boots pounded across the gravel.
The door burst open. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez piled in, still in their work clothes, breathing hard from the ride.
"What've we got?" Billy Renzo demanded, sliding into the seat next to Colt.
"Junior hit the panic button twice." Colt pulled up the GPS coordinates again. "Here. About fifty-five minutes ago now. Signal went dead after that—sat phones smashed, probably."
"Billy and Jake were with him," Daniel said, pulling up the consortium work assignments on another monitor. "Moving supplies to the south line shack."
Ryan was already launching the first drone. "Getting eyes in the air. Thermal imaging active."
The encrypted sat phones across Kings County continued buzzing. Within minutes, more consortium families started arriving—Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes, Beaumonts, all demanding answers, all wanting to help.
Then Pops walked in, followed by Sheriff Wade Nelson.
The room fell silent.
Pops moved to the center monitor, his face carved from stone, eyes harder than Colt had ever seen them. Wade stood beside him, already in sheriff mode—calm, focused, dangerous.
"Show me," Pops said quietly.
Colt's hands trembled as he pulled up the tracking data. "Junior's emergency signal came through at 0847 hours. Two button presses. Clear distress call. Then nothing. We've got their last known coordinates here." He highlighted the map. "South access road, about three miles from the Rodriguez property line."
"Any drone footage yet?" Wade asked.
"First drone's approaching now," Ryan said. "Should have visual in ninety seconds."
Sarah Benson's voice cracked. "Where are my boys?"
Before anyone could answer, every sat phone in the room buzzed simultaneously.
ENCRYPTED MESSAGE RECEIVED
SOURCE: UNKNOWN
ATTACHMENT: VIDEO FILE
Wade grabbed his phone. "Everyone hold. Don't open it yet." He looked at Pops. "Could be malware. Could be a trap."
Colt was already running security protocols. "Give me ten seconds... okay, it's clean. But it's heavily encrypted. Whoever sent this knows what they're doing."
"Open it," Pops said.
The video filled the main monitor.
What followed was two minutes and seventeen seconds of hell.
Billy and Jake, strung up by their wrists, their arms tied together, sweat pouring down their faces as a man with a snake tattoo explained the ransom demands. Two million dollars. Forty-eight hours. Then the beating started—gut punches that made both brothers' bodies jerk and convulse, their muffled cries barely audible through the gags choking them.
Sarah Benson sobbed. Rebecca turned away, her hand over her mouth.
Then the camera panned to Junior. Tied to a chair, gag ripped from his mouth, face twisted with rage as he shouted defiance before being slapped twice. Hard. His cheek blooming red. But his eyes—his eyes never left the camera. Never broke. Never begged.
The video ended with Vance's threat: "Forty-eight hours. Or the next video shows bodies."
The command center erupted in chaos. Voices shouting over each other. Sarah crying. Tom trying to hold his wife. Josh's face was white with fury.
Then Pops spoke.
"Everybody shut the hell up!"
Silence.
Pops stood in front of the monitor, staring at the frozen image of Junior's defiant face. When he spoke, his voice was low and deadly, every word laced with fury.
"Listen to me, you goddamn bastards. I don't know who the hell you are, but you just made the biggest fucking mistake of your miserable lives. You took my great-grandson. You took my boys. And you think—you think—we're gonna sit here and wait forty-eight hours while you beat them like dogs?"
He turned to face the room, his weathered face twisted with rage.
"Like hell we are. Those sons of bitches want a war? We'll give 'em a goddamn war. Wade, you're running point. I want every inch of Kings County searched. I want those drones in the air until we find them. And when we do..." He looked back at the screen. "When we do, those bastards are gonna wish they'd never heard the name Benson."
Wade stepped forward, already coordinating. "Alright, listen up. We're going to find them, but we're going to do this smart. These kidnappers are organized. They've got a plan. So we need a better one."
He moved to the map. "Colt, Ryan—I want every drone we've got searching a twenty-mile radius from that last known position. Thermal imaging, pattern recognition, everything. They're in a building somewhere—abandoned structure, old barn, warehouse. Find it."
"Yes, sir," they said in unison, fingers already moving across keyboards.
"Tom, Josh, Ray—start calling in every consortium family. I want eyes on every road, every property line, every piece of land within fifty miles. If a truck moves, I want to know about it."
He turned to the Mattern and Rodriguez fathers. "I need you coordinating with your crews. Set up checkpoints on every major route out of the county. Nobody moves without us knowing."
"What about the ransom?" Tom asked. "They want two million—"
"We're not paying shit," Pops snarled. "Not until we know exactly where they are."
Wade nodded. "Agreed. But we'll act like we're cooperating. I'm going undercover—gonna make contact, pretend we're working on gathering the money. Buy us time, maybe get a location."
"Undercover?" Rebecca looked worried. "Wade, if they recognize you—"
"They won't." Wade's jaw was set. "I'll go in as an intermediary. Someone from the consortium. Not the sheriff. Just a rancher trying to save his family."
Pops pointed at him. "You wear a wire. You stay in contact every goddamn second."
"Agreed."
Sarah wiped her eyes, her voice steadier now. "What about Junior? And Billy and Jake—how long can they...?"
She couldn't finish.
Wade's expression softened slightly. "Junior's smart. He got that distress signal out, and you saw his face in that video. He's not broken. He's planning. And Billy and Jake are tough—they'll hold on."
"Damn right they will," Pops said. "Because they know we're coming."
Colt pulled up the drone feed. "Sheriff, we've got the first thermal sweep complete. Negative on the immediate search area, but we've got six potential structures flagged within the extended radius. Old Williams feed depot, abandoned Rodriguez line shack, the old Krenshaw place—"
"Send me the list," Wade said. "We'll check each one systematically. Quiet. No sirens, no obvious search parties. Just recon for now."
"How long?" Josh asked.
"Hours, not days," Wade said firmly. "We'll find them."
Billy Renzo looked up from his monitor. "Second drone launched. Third one's ready to go."
Daniel was typing furiously. "I'm running an analysis on the video—background sounds, any visual clues. Maybe we can narrow down the location."
"Good," Wade said. "Colt, I want you coordinating all drone feeds. Billy, Ryan, Daniel—you three are on tech support. Anything we need, you make it happen."
"Yes, sir."
Pops moved to the monitor showing the frozen image of Junior's face. He stared at it for a long moment, then placed his hand flat against the screen.
"Hold on, boy," he said quietly. "We're coming. Just hold on."
Behind him, the command center hummed with activity. Drones launching. Coordinates being plotted. The consortium mobilizing.
The hunt had begun.
Chapter 4: Captive
Time moved differently in the warehouse.
Junior had no watch, no phone, no way to track the hours except by the shifting light that filtered through the grimy windows near the ceiling. The sun had been directly overhead when they'd made the video. Now it slanted from the west, painting long shadows across the concrete floor.
Four hours? Five? He couldn't be sure.
Billy and Jake still hung from the overhead beam, their bodies trembling with exhaustion. Sweat had soaked through their shirts, darkening the fabric, dripping steadily onto the floor beneath them. Their arms, bound together at the wrists and stretched overhead to the ropes, had gone from shaking to a constant, fine tremor. Their legs could barely support their weight anymore.
Junior watched them, his chest tight with helpless rage. Every few minutes, one of them would sag, and the other would grunt behind his gag, straining to take more of the weight. They were keeping each other alive, but they couldn't last much longer like this.
The guard—Carson, Junior thought, though the twins were hard to tell apart—sat on an overturned crate near the door, rifle propped against his leg. He'd been scrolling through his phone for the past hour, occasionally glancing up to check his prisoners, but mostly bored.
Junior had been watching him. Watching all of them.
Six kidnappers total. Vance, the leader with the snake tattoo. Derek with the scar. Emmett, Luis, and the twins Carson and Cole. They rotated guard duty every few hours. Two men would leave, two would stay. Right now it was just Carson, which meant they were getting comfortable. Confident.
That was good. Confident men made mistakes.
Junior tested the ropes around his wrists again, flexing against them, feeling for any give. Still tight. But the chair itself—that was different. When Carson wasn't looking, Junior had been rocking slightly, putting pressure on the legs, the joints, the bolts that held it to the floor.
The wood was old. The bolts were rusted. There was a crack developing in the left rear leg, just above where it met the seat. Junior had been working it, carefully, incrementally, every time the guard looked away.
If he hit it right—slammed his weight backward hard enough—the leg would snap. The bolts would tear free. He'd go over backward, hit the concrete hard, but the chair would break. Then it was just a matter of getting the ropes off and freeing Billy and Jake before the kidnappers could react.
The door opened, and Vance walked in with Luis behind him. Carson looked up from his phone.
"Anything?" Vance asked.
"Quiet as church mice," Carson said, nodding toward the prisoners.
Vance walked over to Billy and Jake. He studied them for a long moment, then reached up and yanked the gag down from Jake's mouth.
Jake gasped for air, coughing, his voice hoarse. "Go... to hell..."
Vance smiled. "Still got some fight in you. Good. We might need to make another video soon. Show your family we're serious." He looked at Billy. "What about you, big man? You got anything to say?"
He pulled Billy's gag down.
Billy sucked in air, his face red, veins standing out in his neck. "When... my family... finds you..." He couldn't finish, too exhausted.
"If they find us," Vance corrected. He shoved the gags back into place, tying them tight. "Which they won't. We've been planning this for months. Every detail. Every contingency." He turned to look at Junior. "Even the kid's little emergency button. You think we didn't expect that? We're twenty miles from where you got grabbed, in a building that doesn't exist on any current maps. By the time they search this far out, we'll have our money and be gone."
Junior stared at him, memorizing every word, every detail. Twenty miles. Abandoned building. Off the maps. The wiz kids would find it eventually—but Vance was right. It would take time.
Time Billy and Jake didn't have.
Vance crouched down in front of Junior's chair. "You're the smart one, aren't you? The tech wizard. Built all those fancy systems with your little friends." He tapped Junior's forehead. "I can see you thinking. Planning. Figuring out how to be the hero."
Junior didn't move, didn't blink.
"Here's the thing, kid. There's no hero move here. No last-minute escape. No cavalry coming to save the day. In about thirty-six hours, your family's gonna pay us two million dollars, and we're gonna disappear. And if they don't..." He stood, looking back at Billy and Jake. "Well. You saw what happens in the next video."
He walked toward the door, Luis and Carson following. "Cole's on next shift. Nobody goes near them until I say so."
The door slammed shut.
Silence filled the warehouse, broken only by Billy's and Jake's labored breathing behind their gags.
Junior counted to sixty. Then another sixty. Making sure they were alone.
Then he tested the chair again. Rock forward. Rock back. Put pressure on that cracked leg. Feel it give, just slightly.
Billy's eyes found his across the warehouse floor. Even exhausted, even in pain, there was something in his uncle's gaze. Trust. Belief.
Junior nodded slowly. Just once.
I'm getting us out.
Billy closed his eyes and nodded back.
Junior settled into the chair and waited. Watched the shadows lengthen. Listened for the next guard change. Counted the seconds and minutes and hours.
Outside, somewhere far away, he heard it. A faint mechanical hum. There and gone so quickly he almost thought he'd imagined it.
A drone.
They were looking. They were searching.
But Junior couldn't wait.
He closed his eyes and visualized it. The exact motion. The exact angle. How hard to throw his weight backward. Where to hit the concrete to maximize the chair's breaking without knocking himself unconscious.
One chance. Maybe two if he was lucky.
He opened his eyes and stared at the door, at the windows, at Billy and Jake hanging in their ropes.
Soon.
Very soon.
Chapter 5: Convergence
"Got something!" Ryan's voice cut through the command center chatter. "Thermal signatures. Multiple bodies. Twenty-two miles south-southwest."
Colt was at his shoulder in an instant, eyes locked on the drone feed. "How many?"
"Nine heat signatures. Building structure matches—old warehouse, corrugated metal roof, concrete foundation." Ryan's fingers flew across the keyboard, enhancing the image. "Six in the main room, three together... wait." He zoomed in. "Two of them are elevated. Hanging position. Third one's stationary, seated."
"That's them," Billy Renzo breathed. "That's gotta be them."
Daniel pulled up the property records. "Old Krenshaw feed depot. Been abandoned for eight years. Off the main roads, no power, no water. Perfect spot."
Colt grabbed the radio. "All units, we have confirmed location. Repeat, confirmed location. Old Krenshaw depot, coordinates transmitting now."
The command center exploded into motion.
Pops was already grabbing his rifle. "Load up! Now!"
Wade yanked off his sheriff's badge and tossed it on the desk. "I'm going as family. Not law enforcement."
Tom was pulling keys from the pegboard. "Three trucks. Spread out, approach from different angles."
"I'm going with you," Sarah said, but Josh caught her arm.
"Mama, no. We need you here."
"The hell you do—"
"Sarah." Pops' voice was quiet but firm. "Billy and Jake are gonna need medical when we get them out. You and Rebecca stay here, get the clinic ready."
Sarah's jaw worked, but she nodded. "You bring my boys home."
"Yes, ma'am."
Billy Renzo was already packing equipment into a tactical bag. "We're coming too. Ryan, Daniel, grab the portable setup. We'll coordinate from my truck."
"Mobile command center," Colt confirmed, unplugging laptops and tablet arrays. "We can track the drones and coordinate intercept points from the road."
Within four minutes, the convoy was rolling out. Three trucks from the Benson ranch, two more from the Matterns, one from the Rodriguezes. Pops and Wade in the lead vehicle. Billy Renzo's truck in the middle, packed with the wiz kids and their equipment, tablets mounted to the dashboard, satellite uplink active.
"Drone Two, maintain overwatch," Colt transmitted from the passenger seat. "Drone Three, swing wide, cover the north approach."
"Roger that," Ryan confirmed from the back seat, managing the feeds on three tablets simultaneously.
The trucks ate up the miles, dust plumes rising behind them. The radio crackled with terse updates.
"Renzo team, two minutes out from Position Alpha."
"Mattern team in position, southwest quadrant."
"Rodriguez team, we've got eyes on the building."
In Billy Renzo's truck, Daniel suddenly tensed. "Wait. Movement on Drone Two feed. Someone's outside the warehouse. Looking up."
"Shit," Colt muttered, zooming the image. "They spotted the drones."
Inside the warehouse, Emmett burst through the door, his face pale. "We got company! Drones! Multiple drones circling!"
Vance's head snapped up. "What?"
"They found us!" Emmett pointed at the ceiling. "I saw them through the window. Three, maybe four drones, thermal imaging rigs. They know we're here!"
"Son of a bitch!" Vance grabbed his rifle. "Derek, Luis—get the trucks started! Carson, Cole—grab everything! We're leaving! Now!"
"What about them?" Carson gestured to the captives.
"Forget them! They'll slow us down!" Vance was already heading for the door. "Move! Move!"
The warehouse erupted into chaos. Boots pounding. Doors slamming. Engines roaring to life outside.
Junior's heart hammered as he watched them go. The guard who'd been watching them—Cole—took one last look at the three captives, then bolted after the others.
The side door slammed shut.
Then... silence.
Junior counted to ten. Twenty. Thirty.
They were gone. The kidnappers had actually left them behind.
This was his chance. Maybe his only chance.
He took a breath, then threw his weight backward with everything he had.
The chair slammed into the concrete. The crack was like a gunshot—the left rear leg snapping clean off, the rusted bolts tearing free from the floor. The impact drove the air from Junior's lungs, stars exploding across his vision, but the chair was broken, the back splintered, the ropes suddenly loose.
Junior wrenched his arms free, ignoring the rope burns, rolling away from the shattered chair. His hands were shaking, adrenaline flooding through him. He scrambled to his feet and ran toward Billy and Jake.
Billy's eyes were wide above the gag, watching Junior sprint toward them. Jake was barely conscious, his head hanging forward.
Junior reached the overhead beam, jumped, grabbed the rope tied to Billy's wrist. His fingers fumbled with the knots—tight, wet with sweat, but he'd watched the kidnappers tie them. He knew how they worked.
"Hold on," Junior gasped, working the knot. "Hold on, I got you."
The rope came free. Billy collapsed, and Junior caught him, both of them crashing to the floor. Billy groaned behind his gag, his legs unable to support his weight after hours strung up.
Junior pulled Billy's gag down. "Uncle Billy, can you stand?"
"Give me... a second..." Billy gasped, trying to get his legs under him.
Junior was already lunging for Jake's rope, pulling, tearing at the knot. It gave. Jake fell, and Junior barely managed to break his fall. Jake hit the concrete hard, unconscious or close to it.
"Jake!" Billy crawled over, yanking his brother's gag free. "Jake, come on, stay with me."
Jake's eyes fluttered. "Billy...?"
"We gotta move," Junior said, looking toward the door. "They could come back. We gotta get out of here."
Billy tried to stand, but his legs buckled. Junior caught him. "Easy. Lean on me."
Together, they got Jake to his feet. The older man was dead weight, barely conscious. Billy took one side, Junior the other, and they half-carried, half-dragged him toward the side door.
Junior kicked it open. Sunlight flooded in, blinding after the dim warehouse. The gravel lot was empty—the trucks gone, dust still hanging in the air where they'd peeled out.
"Which way?" Billy panted.
Junior looked around wildly. Trees to the east. Open pasture to the west. The access road to the north where the kidnappers had fled.
"East," he decided. "Into the trees. We can hide until help—"
The sound of engines cut him off. Multiple vehicles, moving fast, coming from the south.
Junior's breath caught. Was it the kidnappers coming back? Or—
A truck crested the rise, followed by two more. Junior recognized the lead vehicle instantly.
"That's Rodriguez!" he shouted. "That's Daniel's dad!"
He waved his free arm, staggering into the open, supporting Jake with the other. "Here! We're here!"
"They're running!" Daniel shouted from Billy Renzo's truck, watching the drone feed. "Two trucks, heading north on the access road!"
"All units, targets are mobile!" Colt transmitted. "Heading north from the depot. Intercept, intercept!"
Pops' voice crackled through the radio. "Wade, you got the north road?"
"On it. Matterns, Rodriguez—set up the roadblock at the junction. Don't let them through."
"Wait!" Ryan interrupted, zooming in on Drone Three's feed. "Movement at the warehouse! Three people, east side exit!"
"That's them!" Colt shouted. "That's Billy, Jake, and Junior!"
"Are they—" Pops' voice was tight.
"They're on their feet," Daniel confirmed. "Two supporting the third. They're out. They're alive."
"Rodriguez team," Wade ordered. "Break off, secure the warehouse. Get our boys."
"Roger that, on our way."
"Everyone else," Pops snarled, "stay on those bastards. We're not letting them get away."
The convoy split. Three trucks peeling off toward the warehouse. The rest continuing north, pursuing the fleeing kidnappers.
Junior watched the Rodriguez trucks slide to a stop in the gravel, men jumping out. Daniel's father reached them first.
"Easy, easy, we got you." He took Jake's weight from Junior. Another man helped Billy. "Medic! We need a medic here!"
Junior's legs gave out. He sat down hard on the gravel, his whole body shaking now that the adrenaline was crashing.
"You okay, son?" Mr. Rodriguez asked, kneeling beside him.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm... they left. They just left us and ran."
"Smart choice for them. Gave us two problems instead of one." He squeezed Junior's shoulder. "You did good, kid. Real good."
A medic appeared, checking Billy and Jake. Both brothers were being treated for dehydration, rope burns, severe muscle strain, and the beating they'd taken. But they were alive. They were safe.
"Junior." Billy's voice was hoarse. He reached out, grabbed Junior's hand. "You got us out. You actually got us out."
"I heard the drones," Junior said, his voice cracking. "I knew you were coming. I just had to... had to get us ready..."
Jake managed a weak grin, even as the medic wrapped his wrists. "Told Billy... you'd figure something out..."
In Billy Renzo's mobile command center, racing north with the pursuit convoy, the wiz kids coordinated the intercept.
"Mattern team, targets approaching your position, thirty seconds!"
"We're ready," came the response.
"Drones tracking. They've got nowhere to go."
Colt's voice was cold. "Good. End this."
Vance saw the roadblock too late.
Two trucks parked across the narrow road, men with rifles standing behind them. He slammed on the brakes, tires screaming. The truck behind him nearly rear-ended them.
"Back up!" he shouted. "Go back!"
But when Derek threw his truck into reverse, he saw more vehicles approaching from behind. Dust plumes rising from the east and west too.
They were surrounded on all sides.
"Out!" Vance grabbed his rifle. "Into the trees! We can—"
"Like hell you will."
The voice came from the tree line. Pops stepped out, rifle leveled. Behind him, Tom, Josh, Ray. And behind them, more men. Matterns, Rodriguezes, Beaumonts, Renzos. The entire consortium, armed and furious.
Wade appeared from the other side, flanked by Wilson and Ryan Nelson.
"Drop the weapons," Wade said quietly, his sheriff's badge back on his chest now. "It's over."
Vance looked around. Counted the guns pointed at him. Counted the number of men surrounding them. Counted his chances.
Zero.
His rifle clattered to the ground.
One by one, the others followed.
Pops stepped forward, and for a moment, Junior's great-grandfather looked like he might shoot Vance right there. His finger was on the trigger, his face carved from stone and rage.
"Pops." Wade's voice was quiet. "Let me do my job now."
Pops stared at Vance for a long, long moment. Then he lowered the rifle. "You're lucky Wade's here. Real lucky."
Wade moved in with handcuffs. "Vance Mitchell, Derek Coors, you're under arrest for kidnapping, assault, extortion..."
The rest of his words were drowned out by the radio crackling to life.
"All units, this is Rodriguez team. We have secured all three hostages. Repeat, Billy, Jake, and Junior are safe. Requesting medical transport to Benson Ranch."
Pops closed his eyes. His shoulders sagged. "Thank God. Thank God."
Tom grabbed the radio. "Rodriguez team, this is Tom Benson. How are they?"
"Banged up, dehydrated, but alive. Junior got them out on his own. Kid's a hero."
In Billy Renzo's truck, the wiz kids erupted in cheers. Colt was grinning so wide his face hurt. "I told you! I told you Junior would figure it out!"
"Get them home," Pops said into the radio. "We'll finish up here and meet you there."
An hour later, back at the Benson Ranch, the command center had transformed into a celebration.
Billy and Jake were laid up in the clinic, cleaned up, bandaged, rehydrated, and being fussed over by Sarah and Rebecca. Both brothers would be fine—sore for weeks, but fine.
Junior sat on the porch of the main house, a blanket around his shoulders despite the warm evening, watching as the consortium families gathered. The wiz kids surrounded him, reliving every moment of the drone search and the intercept.
"When you broke that chair," Billy Renzo said, shaking his head. "Dude. That was insane."
"I didn't have a choice," Junior said quietly. "They were going to die if I didn't do something."
"You saved them," Daniel said firmly. "Own it."
Ryan clapped him on the shoulder. "The thermal imaging on you breaking free was epic. We have it recorded."
"Of course you do," Junior said, but he was smiling now.
Pops came out onto the porch, two glasses in hand. He handed one to Junior. Lone Star. Cold.
"Don't tell your grandmother," Pops said.
Junior took it gratefully. They sat in silence for a moment, watching the sun set over the ranch.
"Those men are going away for a long time," Pops said finally. "Wade's got them on kidnapping, assault, extortion, conspiracy. They'll die in prison."
Junior nodded. He didn't feel triumph. Just exhaustion. And relief.
"You did good, boy," Pops said. "Better than good. You kept your head. You waited for the right moment. You saved your uncles." He looked at Junior. "You're a Benson through and through."
Junior's throat tightened. "Thanks, Pops."
"And you're grounded for a month for scaring the hell out of me."
Junior laughed, the sound a little watery. "Yes, sir."
Inside, through the window, they could hear Billy's voice raised in complaint about the IV, and Jake laughing at him. Sarah's scolding. The warmth of family.
The consortium had held. The family was whole.
And Junior had learned something that day: sometimes the cavalry doesn't arrive in time. Sometimes you have to save yourself.
He'd done it.
They all had.
Epilogue: The Gift
Two weeks after the kidnapping, life at the Benson Ranch had almost returned to normal.
Almost.
Billy and Jake still moved carefully, their bodies recovering from the ordeal. The rope burns on their wrists had faded to pink scars, and the bruises from the beatings had turned from purple to yellow-green. But they were alive, they were home, and they made sure everyone knew they owed it to Junior.
Which was why Junior was suspicious when Pops announced a "small BBQ" with the consortium families.
"It's not my birthday," Junior said, watching his mother and Rebecca set up tables on the back lawn.
"Can't a man throw a barbecue without the third degree?" Pops grumbled, flipping burgers on the massive grill.
"Not when you're involved," Junior muttered.
By noon, the ranch was full. The Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes, Beaumonts, and Nelsons had all shown up with side dishes, coolers of beer, and their families. The wiz kids congregated under a tree with their iPads, still reliving the drone footage and arguing about system upgrades. The older men gathered around Pops' grill, drinking and talking.
Billy and Jake kept disappearing into the barn, then coming back out grinning.
"What are you two up to?" Junior asked.
"Nothing," Billy said, far too innocently.
"Absolutely nothing," Jake agreed.
Junior narrowed his eyes. "I don't believe you."
After lunch, when everyone had eaten their fill of brisket, ribs, and Sarah's famous potato salad, Pops stood up and banged a spoon against his beer bottle.
"Alright, listen up!" The crowd quieted. "We're here because two weeks ago, this boy—" he pointed at Junior, "—saved my grandsons' lives. Broke out of a chair bolted to the floor, freed two grown men, and got them out alive. So Billy, Jake, and I got him something."
Junior's face went red as everyone turned to look at him.
Billy and Jake disappeared into the barn, then emerged carrying a large Pelican hard case between them. They set it on the picnic table in front of Junior.
"Open it," Billy said, grinning like a kid on Christmas.
Junior's hands shook slightly as he unlatched the case. When he lifted the lid, his breath caught.
Nestled in custom foam was the most beautiful rifle he'd ever seen. Carbon fiber barrel, sleek lines, a scope that probably cost more than his truck.
"That's a Christensen Arms Ridgeline FFT!" Billy announced, his voice rising with excitement. "Carbon fiber wrapped, stainless steel barrel, sub-MOA accuracy guarantee! Weighs less than six pounds! Chambered in .308 Winchester!"
"Nightforce ATACR scope!" Jake jumped in. "Five to twenty-five power magnification, zero stop, first focal plane reticle!"
"Custom Timney trigger!" Billy continued. "Two-pound pull, crisp as hell!"
"Atlas bipod, quick detach!" Jake added.
"And I paid for the suppressor and the tax stamp," Pops said, stepping forward with a leather case. "So don't you dare shoot it without me, boy."
Junior stared at the rifle, then at his uncles, then at Pops. His throat was tight. "I... this is too much. I can't—"
"The hell you can't," Billy said, his voice suddenly rough. "You saved our lives, Junior. This doesn't even come close."
"Besides," Jake added, "we had it engraved."
Junior lifted the rifle carefully. On the carbon fiber stock, in elegant script, were the words: To Junior - The Bravest Benson - May 15, 2024
"You boys trying to make me cry in front of everyone?" Junior's voice cracked.
"Damn right we are," Billy said, pulling Junior into a hug. Jake joined in, and then Pops wrapped his arms around all three of them.
The consortium families erupted in applause and whistles.
When they finally broke apart, Pops turned to the crowd, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Well hell, we can't just look at the damn thing! We gotta shoot it!" He pointed toward the south pasture where he'd already set up targets at multiple distances. "I'm organizing a shooting contest. Hundred, two hundred, and three hundred yards. Twenty dollars entry fee. Winner takes the pot!"
The men perked up immediately.
"I'm in," Wade said, standing.
"Me too," Tom added.
"Oh, this is gonna be good," Ray said, pulling out his wallet.
Billy Renzo nudged Junior. "You're entering, right? With that rifle, you'll destroy them."
"Junior's gonna smoke all you old guys," Daniel called out.
"Old?" Tom protested. "I'll show you old!"
"Kid's got beginner's luck," Ray said. "That's all."
"Beginner's luck?" Billy shot back. "Junior can outshoot half of you with his eyes closed!"
Pops was already collecting money, stuffing bills into his hat. "Fifty dollars says none of the wiz kids can shoot for shit!"
"Hey!" Colt protested, but he was grinning.
"Fifty says I can outshoot Tom," Wade said, pulling out his wallet.
"You're on," Tom said, shaking his hand.
"A hundred says Pops can't hit the three-hundred-yard target," Josh called out.
Pops glared at him. "Boy, I was shooting targets at five hundred yards when you were in diapers. You just lost a hundred bucks."
The women shook their heads, settling into lawn chairs with drinks.
"Every time," Sarah said to Rebecca. "Every single gathering turns into a pissing contest."
"At least nobody's gotten hurt yet," Rebecca replied.
"Give them time," Mary Nelson said, laughing.
Twenty minutes later, the south pasture looked like a rifle range. Steel targets at a hundred, two hundred, and three hundred yards. Twenty-three men lined up, rifles in hand, money in the pot.
Pops appointed himself range master, naturally.
"Alright, here's the rules!" he bellowed. "One shot at each distance. Closest to center wins that distance. Best overall score takes the pot. Junior shoots first since it's his rifle!"
Junior stepped up to the firing line, his new rifle feeling perfect in his hands. He settled into position, the bipod steady, the scope crystal clear. The hundred-yard target looked close enough to touch.
He took a breath, let it out slowly, and squeezed the trigger.
The suppressed shot was a muffled crack. The steel target rang.
"Dead center!" Billy Renzo called from the spotting scope. "Holy shit, dead center!"
The crowd erupted in cheers and groans.
"That's my great-grandson!" Pops crowed. "Pay up, suckers!"
"He hasn't done two and three hundred yet," Ray muttered.
Junior moved through the other distances with the same precision. Two hundred yards—just left of center. Three hundred yards—bullseye.
By the time the other shooters finished, the results were clear:
Junior - near perfect score
Pops - refusing to accept second place
Wade - grinning at Tom who came in fourth
Billy and Jake tied for fifth
The wiz kids... well, Pops was right about them
"Rigged!" Pops declared. "The boy had the best rifle!"
"You helped buy it!" Junior shot back, laughing.
"Details!" Pops waved his hand dismissively, but he was grinning. He pulled the cash from his hat—over four hundred dollars—and handed it to Junior. "Here. For ammo. God knows you'll need it with how much you're gonna shoot that thing."
Junior tried to give it back. "Pops, I can't—"
"Take the damn money, boy. You earned it. Hell, you earned a lot more than that."
Billy clapped Junior on the shoulder. "Plus you get to lord it over all of us that you beat everyone on your first try with a new rifle."
"I'll never hear the end of this, will I?" Tom said, shaking his head.
"Not a chance," Josh agreed.
Jake stepped forward, his voice quieter than usual. "Junior. I mean it. Thank you. For everything. For getting us out. For not giving up."
"For being the toughest sixteen-year-old I've ever met," Billy added.
Junior looked at his uncles—these men who'd always been larger than life to him, who'd taught him to hunt and ride and shoot, who'd become his best friends. And who he'd saved.
"You're family," Junior said simply. "That's what we do."
Pops pulled Junior into a one-armed hug, his voice gruff. "Damn right that's what we do. Now come on, let's go celebrate properly. I got a bottle of good whiskey in the barn with our names on it."
"Pops, I'm sixteen—"
"And you just beat grown men in a shooting contest with a rifle worth more than some of their trucks. You earned a sip." He looked around at the gathered families, at the consortium that had come together to save them. "You all earned it. Hell of a thing, what we did. Hell of a family we got here."
As the sun set over the Benson Ranch, the families gathered around the fire pit. Stories were told, bets were settled, and Junior sat between his uncles with his new rifle propped carefully against the table.
The wiz kids were already planning the next upgrade to the drone system. Pops was arguing with Wade about who really won second place. The women were laughing about something Sarah had said.
It was normal. It was home.
And Junior had learned something these past weeks—something about fear and courage, about family and loyalty, about what it meant to be a Benson.
Sometimes you save yourself.
Sometimes your family saves you.
But most of the time, you save each other.
And that was enough.
