Chapter 1: Morning at the Benson Ranch
The sun hadn't yet cleared the horizon when Pops shuffled into the kitchen, his worn boots scuffing against the hardwood floor. At 76, he moved like a man who'd earned every creak in his joints—Vietnam had given him some, and fifty years of ranch work had provided the rest. He poured himself two fingers of brandy into a coffee mug, then filled the rest with actual coffee.
"Jesus Christ, it's too early for this shit," he muttered to no one in particular, fishing a cigar from his shirt pocket.
"Morning to you too, Pops," Sarah called from the stove where she was already working on breakfast for the small army that lived under her roof. "And you're not smoking that in my kitchen."
"Your kitchen? Last I checked, my great-grandfather built this goddamn house."
"And last I checked, your son married me thirty-two years ago, which means I run this kitchen." Sarah pointed her spatula at him. "Outside."
Pops grumbled something that included at least three curse words and headed for the back porch, taking his coffee-brandy hybrid with him.
Upstairs in the frat house, the first signs of life were stirring. Billy kicked the bottom of Jake's bunk above him. "Get your ass up. Mom's making breakfast and if we're late, Louisiana will eat everything."
"Fuck off," Jake mumbled, but he swung his legs over the side anyway.
Across the room, Celab was already pulling on his boots. "Y'all are slower than molasses. Billy Jr.'s been up for an hour already messing with those drones."
"That's 'cause Junior's half robot," Jake said, climbing down. "Kid probably dreams in binary code."
Louisiana rolled off his mattress between the bunks, his Baton Rouge drawl thick with sleep. "Y'all gonna talk all morning or we gonna eat? I can smell bacon from here and I ain't missin' out."
The sound of boots thundering down the stairs made Sarah shake her head, but she was smiling. Seventeen years of raising four boys had taught her that hungry men moved like a cattle stampede, and there was no point fighting it.
They crashed into the kitchen just as Tom came in from the barn, his oldest son Josh right behind him.
"Morning, Dad. Morning, boys," Tom said, washing his hands at the sink. "Everyone sleep alright?"
"Would've if Jake didn't snore like a damn chainsaw," Billy said, dropping into his chair.
"That's rich coming from you," Jake shot back. "Sounded like a freight train all night."
"Both of you shut it and eat," Sarah said, setting down platters of eggs, bacon, biscuits, and gravy.
Pops came back inside, cigar finished, and took his seat at the head of the table. "Where the hell is Billy Jr.?"
"Command center," Josh said. "He and his buddies have been up since 0500 running some kind of test on the satellite phones."
"That boy's gonna turn into a computer," Pops said, but there was pride in his voice. "Smart as hell though. Gets it from his great-grandpa."
"Pretty sure he gets it from Rebecca," Sarah said pointedly.
"Rebecca's smart 'cause she married into this family," Pops countered, shoveling eggs onto his plate.
Billy Jr. appeared in the doorway, barely sixteen but already tall and lean like his father. "Sorry I'm late. We were calibrating the—"
"Sit down and eat, Junior," Tom interrupted. "You can tell us about your gadgets after breakfast."
The table filled quickly with the sounds of eating and conversation. Celab was telling some story about a fence repair gone wrong, gesturing wildly with his fork. Louisiana kept interjecting with commentary in his heavy drawl that made even the simplest observations sound colorful. Billy and Jake traded insults between bites, their decades of brotherhood evident in every jab.
"So Billy," Jake said with a grin, "You and Edna Nelson set a date yet, or you gonna make that poor girl wait forever?"
"At least I got a girlfriend," Billy fired back. "When's the last time you even talked to a woman who wasn't Mom or Rebecca?"
"I talk to plenty of women."
"The cashier at the feed store don't count."
The table erupted in laughter. Even Tom was chuckling, though Sarah tried to hide her smile behind her coffee mug.
"Alright, alright," Pops said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Speaking of the Nelsons, Wade called last night. Said they're moving some cattle through the south pass today, so stay clear of that area."
"Good to know," Josh said. He was already mentally organizing the day's work. As the ranch's general manager, coordinating a operation this size—especially with the consortium agreements—was like conducting an orchestra.
"Josh, after breakfast I need to see your assignment list," Tom said. "Ray's got some budget numbers I want to review, but the ranch work takes priority."
"Got it, Dad."
Louisiana reached for another biscuit and Celab slapped his hand. "Save some for the rest of us, you damn vacuum cleaner."
"There's plenty," Sarah said, already heading back to the stove. "I made extra knowing you boys would eat me out of house and home."
Pops leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee-brandy and surveying the table with satisfaction. Four generations of Bensons under one roof—five if you counted Billy Jr.—plus the Beaumont boys who'd become family. His great-grandfather would be proud.
"Pass the gravy," Jake said to Billy.
"Say please."
"Please pass the fucking gravy."
"Jake!" Sarah warned.
"Sorry, Mom. Please pass the gravy."
Pops snorted into his coffee. These boys were going to be the death of him—or keep him alive forever. Hard to say which.
Chapter 2: The Day's Assignments
After breakfast, the men gathered in Tom's office—a converted mudroom off the back of the house that smelled like leather, old paper, and gun oil. Josh spread a map of the ranch across the desk while Ray pulled up spreadsheets on his laptop.
"Alright, listen up," Josh said, tapping the map with his finger. "We got about six different jobs today and not enough hands to do 'em all at once, so we're splitting up."
"Story of our lives," Billy muttered.
"Billy, you and Celab are taking the west pasture. We got about twenty head that need to be moved closer to the water troughs. Should take you most of the morning."
"Got it."
"Louisiana, you're with me on the equipment shed. That tractor's been acting up and I need an extra set of hands to pull the engine."
"Yes sir," Louisiana drawled.
Josh turned to Jake. "Jake, I need you on the northern fence line. Wade mentioned yesterday that he saw some posts leaning near the property marker. Take the toolbox, wire, and extra posts. Shouldn't be more than a couple hours' work."
"By myself?" Jake asked.
"Yeah, it's a one-man job. Unless you need Billy to hold your hand."
"Fuck you," Jake said, grinning. "I can handle it."
"Course you can, princess," Billy said. "Want me to pack you a lunch?"
"Want me to punch you in the mouth?"
"Boys," Tom warned, but there was no heat in it.
Josh continued. "Billy Jr., you and your crew are staying in the command center. Keep monitoring those satellite feeds and run diagnostics on the drone fleet. Your dad wants a full report by this afternoon."
"We're already on it," Billy Jr. said. "Billy Renzo found a firmware update that might extend battery life by fifteen percent."
"Good. That's exactly the kind of thing I want to hear." Josh looked around the room. "Dad, you and Ray are doing budget reviews?"
"Yeah," Tom said. "Consortium meeting's next week and I want our numbers solid. Ray's been working on the projections."
Ray adjusted his glasses. "We're looking good. Cattle prices are up, feed costs are stable, and the land acquisitions from last quarter are already showing returns. I'll have everything ready for your review in an hour."
"Perfect." Josh folded up the map. "Alright, we all know what we're doing. Radios on, check in every hour. If something comes up, we adjust."
The group started to disperse, grabbing gear and heading to their respective tasks. Jake pulled on his work gloves and grabbed his hat from the peg by the door.
"Hey, Jake," Billy called after him. "Try not to get lost out there. Northern fence line's a long way from civilization."
"Try not to let Celab do all the work while you flirt with your phone, waiting for Edna to text you back."
Celab laughed. "He's got you there, Billy."
"Both of you can go to hell," Billy said, but he was grinning.
Louisiana clapped Jake on the shoulder as they walked out together. "You need anything, brother, you holler on that radio. We got your back."
"Appreciate it, Colt. But it's just fence posts. What's the worst that could happen?"
Outside, the morning sun was climbing higher, burning off the last of the cool air. Jake loaded his gear into one of the ranch trucks—toolbox, coil of wire, four replacement posts, and a thermos of coffee Sarah had pressed into his hands on his way out.
He climbed into the cab, adjusted the rearview mirror, and fired up the engine. The northern fence line was about forty minutes out, right on the edge of the property where Benson land met open range. Quiet. Isolated.
Perfect for a morning alone.
He turned up the radio—some old country station Pops loved—and headed down the dirt road, dust kicking up behind him.
Behind him, back at the house, Billy Jr. was already in the command center with Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez, cycling through drone feeds and running system checks.
In the west pasture, Billy and Celab were saddling up horses.
In the equipment shed, Josh and Louisiana were pulling tools off the rack.
And in Tom's office, Ray was pulling up spreadsheets while Tom poured himself another cup of coffee.
It was just another day on the Benson Ranch.
Until it wasn't.
Chapter 3: The Kidnapping
The northern fence line was quiet except for the wind moving through the grass and the occasional call of a hawk overhead. Jake had been working for about an hour, replacing a couple of rotted posts and tightening wire. Simple work. The kind he could do in his sleep.
He was kneeling by a fence post, twisting wire with his pliers, when he heard the truck.
Jake looked up. A pickup was coming down the access road, dust trailing behind it. Out here on the edge of the property, it could be anybody—consortium families crossed through all the time. But something made him pause. The way it was moving. Fast. Purposeful.
The truck pulled up thirty feet away and the engine cut off. Four men got out.
Jake recognized Ryan Hendricks immediately—a lean, weathered man in his mid-forties with a hard edge to him. His three sons climbed out after him. All four were carrying rifles. And rope. And duct tape.
"Morning, Hendricks," Jake said, straightening up but keeping his voice casual. "You lost?"
"Not lost, Benson." Ryan's voice was flat, cold. "We're right where we need to be."
Jake's hand drifted toward his radio clipped to his belt, but one of the sons—the oldest one, maybe twenty-five—raised his rifle.
"Don't."
"The fuck is this?" Jake said, his temper flaring despite the guns pointed at him. "You boys having a bad day or something?"
"You could say that." Ryan stepped closer, his sons spreading out to flank Jake. "See, your family and that goddamn consortium of yours have been having real good days. Meanwhile, we're losing everything."
"That's not our problem," Jake shot back.
"It is now." Ryan nodded to his sons. "Get him."
Jake threw a punch at the first one who came at him, catching him in the jaw, but the other two were on him before he could follow through. They slammed him face-first into the dirt, one knee driving into his back while hands grabbed his arms and yanked them behind him.
"You're kidnapping me?" Jake snarled into the dirt. "You stupid sons of bitches—"
"Shut up, Benson." Ryan crouched down next to him. "Put your arms behind your back. We're going to tie you up."
"Fuck you, Hendricks! You think my family's gonna let this slide? You think Pops is gonna—"
One of the sons shoved a rolled-up bandanna into Jake's mouth, cutting off his words. Jake tried to spit it out but another hand clamped over his face, holding it in.
They worked fast. Professional, almost. They tied his left wrist to his right bicep and his right wrist to his left bicep behind his back, the rope biting deep into his skin. Then they wrapped more rope around his forearms, cinching them tight together and adding frapping to make sure there was no give. His shoulders screamed as they pulled everything tighter.
Jake's boots were next—tied together at the ankles. Then they ran a rope from his bound ankles up to his tied forearms, pulling him into a brutal hogtie. His back arched painfully, his body bent like a bow.
"Eyes," Ryan said.
Duct tape went over Jake's eyes, plunging him into darkness. He could hear them moving around him, feel hands grabbing him under his arms and legs.
"Get him in the truck."
They lifted him—none too gently—and dumped him into the bed of the pickup. His shoulder hit the metal hard enough to make him grunt through the gag. A tarp was thrown over him, rough and smelling like diesel and dirt.
The truck doors slammed. The engine roared to life.
And then they were moving.
Jake lay there in the darkness, rope cutting into his wrists and ankles, his shoulders burning, his fury building with every breath.
They had no idea what they'd just started.
Chapter 4: The Torture
The truck ride felt endless. Every bump in the road sent fresh agony through Jake's shoulders, the hogtie pulling tighter with each jostle. The rope around his wrists had already rubbed his skin raw, and he could feel the warm trickle of blood where the bindings cut deepest.
He tried to keep track of time, of turns, of anything that might help later. But the pain made it hard to think. His back was cramping from the arch, his leg muscles screaming from being bent backward. Every breath through his nose was labored, the bandanna gag filling his mouth and making him fight the urge to panic.
Breathe. Just breathe. Billy and the crew will figure this out. They always do.
The truck finally stopped. Doors opened. Hands grabbed him again, dragging him out of the bed. His body hit the ground and he grunted, the impact driving what little air he had from his lungs.
"Get him inside."
They hauled him across rough ground—dirt, then concrete. The air changed. Cooler. Echoey. A barn, maybe. Or a warehouse.
Jake heard the creak of rope, the rattle of a pulley. Then hands were fumbling with the hogtie rope at his forearms.
"Hook it up."
Something metal clicked around the rope binding his forearms together. And then—
They pulled.
Jake's body lifted off the ground as they hoisted him up by his bound forearms. The weight of his entire body hung from his arms tied behind his back, and the pain was immediate and blinding. His shoulders felt like they were being ripped from their sockets, every muscle and tendon stretched beyond its limit.
He couldn't stop the muffled scream that tore through the gag.
His feet dangled uselessly beneath him, still bound at the ankles, offering no relief. He twisted involuntarily, and the movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating from his shoulders down his spine.
"That's high enough," Ryan Hendricks' voice said. "Now let's see how tough you really are, Benson."
Jake hung there, breathing hard through his nose, sweat already soaking through his shirt. Every second was torture. His arms felt like they were on fire, the ropes cutting deeper, his shoulders grinding in ways they were never meant to move.
Footsteps circled him.
"You Bensons think you own this county," Ryan said. "You and your consortium buddies. Buying up everything, driving prices so high the rest of us can't survive. Well, now you're gonna pay."
Jake tried to swing toward the voice, tried to show defiance even though every movement was agony.
Something hard—a stick, maybe a piece of pipe—cracked across the back of his bound arms.
The pain exploded white-hot. Jake's body convulsed, jerking in the ropes, which only made his shoulders scream louder. Another blow landed. Then another. They were methodically beating the backs of his forearms, right where the ropes already bit deepest.
Through the haze of pain, Jake heard a phone chime.
"Recording," one of the sons said.
"Good." Ryan's voice was closer now. "I'm gonna take that gag out, Benson. And you're gonna tell your family exactly what's happening to you. You're gonna tell them we want two million dollars, or next time it won't be sticks. Understand?"
Jake's chest heaved. His shoulders were screaming. But fury—pure, burning fury—was building behind the pain.
Hands grabbed his head, and the bandanna was yanked from his mouth. Jake gasped, sucking in air, his jaw aching from being forced open so long.
"Well?" Ryan demanded. "Got something to say?"
Jake lifted his head as much as he could, even though he couldn't see through the duct tape over his eyes. His voice came out hoarse but steady.
"Yeah. I got something to say."
"Then say it. Camera's rolling."
Jake's lips pulled back in a snarl.
"Go fuck yourself, Hendricks."
The stick cracked across his arms again, harder this time. Jake grunted but didn't scream.
"You think this is a joke?" Ryan shouted. "You think we won't kill you?"
"I think," Jake spat, "that you just signed your own death warrant. You and your boys. 'Cause when Pops finds you—and he will—you're gonna wish you never heard the name Benson."
Another blow. Jake's body jerked, but he kept talking through gritted teeth.
"Billy's gonna put a bullet in you. Tom's gonna watch. And Pops? That old man's a Vietnam vet. He knows a hundred ways to make you suffer before you die."
"Shut him up!" Ryan barked.
But Jake wasn't done. Even as they shoved the gag back in his mouth, even as the stick came down again and again on his bound arms, even as his shoulders felt like they were tearing apart—he made noise. Growls of defiance. Fury that couldn't be silenced.
"Keep recording," Ryan said, breathing hard. "Let them see what happens when they don't pay."
The beating continued. Jake lost track of how many blows landed. His arms were numb now, or maybe just so consumed with pain that his brain couldn't process it anymore. His shoulders felt dislocated, though he knew they probably weren't—not yet.
He hung there, swaying slightly, the rope creaking above him.
Hold on, he told himself. Just hold on. They're coming.
"That's enough," Ryan finally said. "Send it."
Jake heard the phone chime again. Then footsteps walking away.
He hung in the darkness, alone with his pain and his rage, counting his breaths.
And planning exactly what he was going to do to Ryan Hendricks when he got free.
Chapter 5: The Video Arrives
Billy checked his watch for the third time in ten minutes. Jake should've radioed in by now—they'd agreed on hourly check-ins, and it had been almost two hours since he'd left for the northern fence line.
"He probably just lost track of time," Celab said from atop his horse, but there was doubt in his voice.
Billy pulled his radio. "Jake, you copy? This is Billy."
Static.
"Jake, come on, man. Check in."
Nothing.
A cold weight settled in Billy's gut. Jake was a lot of things—hothead, smartass, pain in the ass—but he wasn't careless. Not about radio protocol.
"We should call it in," Celab said.
Billy was already spurring his horse toward the house.
Ten minutes later, the command center was packed. Billy Jr. sat at the main console with Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez flanking him, fingers flying across keyboards. Tom stood behind them, arms crossed, jaw tight. Josh was pulling up maps. Ray was analyzing GPS data from Jake's truck.
Sarah stood in the doorway, one hand pressed to her mouth.
"His truck's still at the northern fence line," Ray said, pointing at the screen. "Engine's cold. Been there for over an hour."
"And his radio?" Tom asked.
"Either off or destroyed," Billy Jr. said. "Last ping was at 0947."
The door opened and Pops walked in, followed by Louisiana. The old man's face was carved from stone.
"What've we got?" Pops asked.
"Jake's missing," Billy said, his voice tight. "Truck's abandoned. Radio's dead."
"How long?"
"At least ninety minutes."
Pops cursed, low and vicious.
Billy Jr.'s computer chimed. An email notification. Unknown sender.
"Wait," Billy Jr. said, clicking it open. "We got something."
A video file. No message. Just a file labeled: BENSON_RANSOM.mp4
"Play it," Tom said.
Billy Jr. hit play.
The screen filled with grainy footage—a barn or warehouse, dim lighting. And there, in the center of the frame, was Jake.
Sarah's gasp was the only sound in the room.
Jake hung suspended in the air, his arms tied behind his back in some kind of brutal configuration, his body weight pulling on his shoulders in a way that made Billy's stomach turn. His eyes were covered with duct tape. A gag filled his mouth. His face was twisted in pain.
Then Ryan Hendricks stepped into frame.
"You Bensons and your consortium think you run this county," Hendricks' voice came through the speakers. "Drove up land prices so high the rest of us are drowning. Well, now you're gonna pay. Two million dollars. You got forty-eight hours."
He nodded to someone off-camera, and a stick came down hard across Jake's bound arms.
Even through the gag, Jake's scream was audible.
"Jesus Christ," Josh breathed.
Another blow landed. Then another. Jake's body jerked with each impact, the rope creaking above him.
Then they pulled the gag out.
"Tell them, Benson," Hendricks said. "Tell your family what happens if they don't pay."
The camera zoomed in on Jake's face. His jaw was set, blood trickling from where the rope had cut his wrists. When he spoke, his voice was raw but defiant.
"Go fuck yourself, Hendricks."
Billy's hands clenched into fists.
"You think this is a joke?" Hendricks shouted in the video.
"I think," Jake said through gritted teeth, "that you just signed your own death warrant. When Pops finds you—and he will—you're gonna wish you never heard the name Benson."
The stick came down again. Harder.
"Billy's gonna put a bullet in you," Jake snarled. "Tom's gonna watch. And Pops? That old man's a Vietnam vet. He knows a hundred ways to make you suffer before you die."
They shoved the gag back in. The beating continued. Jake's muffled screams filled the command center.
Sarah turned away, tears streaming down her face. Tom pulled her into his arms, but his eyes never left the screen, burning with a fury Billy had never seen before.
The video ended.
Silence.
Then Pops spoke, his voice cold as winter steel. "Hit the emergency button. Now."
Billy Jr.'s hand moved to the red switch on the console—a button they'd installed but never used. He flipped the cover and pressed it.
Throughout Kings County, eighteen satellite phones and radios crackled to life simultaneously with an automated alert:
"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. BENSON RANCH. BILLY JUNIOR."
The message repeated three times, then the encrypted channel opened.
"Benson Ranch, this is Renzo. Confirm emergency. What's your status?" Mr. Renzo's voice came through immediately.
"Mattern family confirming. We're receiving. What do you need?"
"Rodriguez here. We copy. Standing by."
"Beaumont family confirms. What's happened?"
"Nelson residence confirming," Sheriff Wade's voice cut through. "I'm five minutes out."
Billy Jr. leaned into the microphone. "Jake's been kidnapped. Ransom demand. I'm sending video to all encrypted devices now. Be advised—content is violent."
His fingers flew across the keyboard, pushing the video file through their secure network to every consortium family's devices.
Tom stepped up to the mic. "This is Tom Benson. We need every able man at the ranch house immediately. Come armed. This is off the books."
A chorus of confirmations came through:
"Renzo family en route. ETA twelve minutes."
"Mattern family moving now. Ten minutes."
"Rodriguez rolling. Fifteen minutes."
"Beaumont family on our way."
Throughout the county, families gathered around their screens. In the Renzo household, Mr. Renzo's face went pale as he watched the video, his sons Billy Renzo already grabbing their gear. Mrs. Renzo's hand went to her mouth, tears forming.
At the Mattern ranch, the family stood in shocked silence as Jake's screams echoed from their monitor. Ryan Mattern looked at his father. "We're going."
"Damn right we are," Mr. Mattern said, already heading for the gun safe.
The Rodriguez family watched together, Mr. Rodriguez's jaw tightening with each blow that landed on Jake. "Daniel, get your gear. We leave in two minutes."
At the Nelson house, Sheriff Wade Nelson watched the video with his wife Mary at his side, his sons Wilson and Ryan flanking him. His face was carved from granite.
"Wade—" Mary started.
"I know," Wade said quietly. "Call Rebecca. Tell her to get to the ranch. They're going to need a nurse when we bring him back."
The radio crackled again. "This is Wade Nelson. I'm coming in official capacity as family, unofficial in every other way. Wilson and Ryan are with me. Rebecca's being notified."
Robert Beaumont's voice came through next. "Beaumont family watched the video. That's Jake. That's family. We're all coming. Caroline's calling the other ladies—they'll coordinate support at the ranch."
"Acknowledged," Tom said, his voice tight with emotion. "Thank you. All of you."
Pops stepped up to the microphone. "This is Pops Benson. When you get here, come ready for war. The Hendricks family just made the worst mistake of their lives."
Over the next twenty minutes, trucks and SUVs poured into the Benson Ranch. The Renzo family arrived first—Mr. Renzo and his sons carrying rifles, Mrs. Renzo heading straight for the kitchen where Sarah was trying to hold herself together.
The Matterns came next, then the Rodriguezes. The Beaumonts—Robert and Caroline rushing in, Robert already conferring with Tom and Josh.
Sheriff Wade Nelson arrived with his wife Mary, his sons Wilson and Ryan right behind him. Rebecca came running from the hospital still in her scrubs, her face pale with fear.
The men gathered in and around the command center, grim-faced and armed. The women congregated in the kitchen with Sarah.
"What can we do?" Caroline Beaumont asked, wrapping Sarah in a hug.
"Just... be here," Sarah said, her voice cracking. "And pray we get him back."
Mary Nelson squeezed Sarah's hand. "We will. Wade won't stop until Jake's home."
Mrs. Renzo was already pulling out coffee. "We all saw that video. Every man out there is ready to move heaven and earth for your boy."
Rebecca was torn between her mother and the command center where her husband Josh was coordinating. "I should prepare medical supplies," she said suddenly. "He's going to need treatment when they bring him back."
"Good thinking," Mary said. "I'll help you."
Edna Nelson appeared in the doorway, her eyes red from crying. She went straight to Sarah. "Mrs. Benson, I'm so sorry—"
"Sweetheart, you're family," Sarah said, pulling the girl into an embrace. "Billy's going to bring Jake home. I know he will."
In the kitchen, Mrs. Renzo and Mrs. Rodriguez had already started organizing food. "We need to keep everyone fed," Mrs. Renzo said. "It's going to be a long night."
"I'll make sandwiches," Mrs. Mattern offered.
The women moved with purpose, finding comfort in the familiar rhythm of caring for their families even as fear gnawed at their hearts.
In the command center, Wade stood with his arms crossed, watching the video replay on one of the monitors. His face was granite.
"I'm telling you right now—this goes off the books," Wade said to the assembled men.
"Wade—" Tom started.
"I'm not arguing, Tom. You call this in official, we got jurisdictional red tape, federal involvement because of the ransom demand, and by the time we get clearance to move, Jake's dead." Wade's jaw tightened. "This is family. Consortium family. We handle it ourselves."
"You could lose your badge," Josh said.
"Don't give a damn about the badge. Rebecca's my daughter. Billy Jr.'s my grandson. Jake's family." Wade looked around the room at the assembled men from all six consortium families. "We all are. So here's how this works—officially, I don't know anything. Unofficially, every man here is with you."
Heads nodded around the room. Robert Beaumont stepped forward. "Whatever you need. Manpower, equipment, money. It's yours."
Mr. Renzo crossed his arms. "My boys and I are ready to move."
"Same here," Mr. Mattern said.
Mr. Rodriguez put his hand on Daniel's shoulder. "We ride together."
Pops stepped forward, and the room went quiet. The old Vietnam vet's presence commanded attention.
"Good," Pops said. "Because we're going to find my grandson. And when we do, the Hendricks family is going to learn what happens when you fuck with a Benson."
Billy was already at the gun safe with Celab and Louisiana.
"Billy," Sarah called from the doorway, her voice breaking. "Please—"
"Mom, it's Jake," Billy said, turning to face her. His eyes were red but his voice was steady. "He'd do it for me. You know he would."
Sarah nodded, wiping her tears. "Bring him home."
"We will," Billy promised. "And we're bringing hell with us."
Billy Jr. pulled up a thermal satellite map. "I've got the drones prepping for launch. We'll start with a grid search of every property associated with Hendricks or his family within a fifty-mile radius."
"Billy Renzo, Ryan, Daniel—get every piece of equipment online," Billy Jr. continued. "I want eyes in the sky in ten minutes."
"On it," the three sixteen-year-olds said in unison, their fingers already flying across keyboards.
Tom looked at his father. At Wade. At his sons. At the consortium families who'd dropped everything and come running.
"Let's get our boy back."
Chapter 6: The Hunt Begins
The command center had transformed into a war room. Every screen was alive with data—satellite maps, drone feeds, property records, and the video of Jake playing on a loop as Billy Jr. and his crew analyzed every frame.
"Okay, listen up," Billy Jr. said, his voice cutting through the chatter. At sixteen, he commanded the room like a seasoned operator. "We've got forty-eight hours, but we're not waiting that long. Billy Renzo, what've you got on audio?"
Billy Renzo pulled up a waveform on his screen. "Running the background noise through filters now. There's wind... metal creaking... and listen to this." He isolated a sound. A distant, rhythmic clanging. "That's a windmill. Old one, by the sound of it. Bearings are shot."
"Good. Mark every property in the county with an old windmill." Billy Jr. turned to Ryan Mattern. "Ryan, what about the video itself?"
Ryan's fingers flew across his keyboard. "Analyzing light patterns and shadows. Based on the angle of natural light coming through those gaps in the walls, I'd say we're looking at a structure facing northeast. The sun's position puts the recording time around 1100 hours."
"Which matches when Jake went missing," Josh said, leaning over Ryan's shoulder. "They didn't waste time."
"Daniel, property records?" Billy Jr. asked.
Daniel Rodriguez pulled up a county map covered in red markers. "Hendricks family owns three properties. Main ranch house here"—he pointed—"a smaller place his oldest son lives at here, and they lease grazing land here. But none of those have structures matching what we see in the video."
"Expand the search," Wade said. "Look for properties they've lost to foreclosure, places owned by relatives, anywhere they might have access."
"On it." Daniel's search widened. "Wait. Here. Ryan Hendricks' brother-in-law owned a property twelve miles west of the main Hendricks ranch. Went into foreclosure eight months ago. Bank still owns it. Hasn't been sold yet."
Billy Jr. zoomed in on the satellite image. An old barn. Corrugated metal roof. And next to it—
"Windmill," Billy Renzo said. "Northeast facing structure. It fits."
"Is there a windmill?" Pops asked, moving closer to the screen.
"Right there," Billy Jr. pointed. "Old-style farm windmill. Probably hasn't worked in years."
Tom crossed his arms. "That's got to be it. How sure are we?"
"Eighty percent," Billy Jr. said. "But we can confirm. Launching drone three now."
His fingers danced across the controls. On the screen, a thermal imaging display activated. One of their ten high-end drones lifted off from the ranch, its night-vision and thermal capabilities powering up as it streaked toward the target coordinates.
"ETA seven minutes," Billy Jr. said.
The room went quiet except for the hum of equipment and the distant sound of the drone's rotors through the external speakers. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the screen.
Wade pulled out his encrypted satellite phone. "Wilson, Ryan—get your gear. We're moving as soon as we have confirmation."
"Copy that," Wilson's voice came back.
Billy was already checking his rifle. Celab and Louisiana flanked him, their faces set with grim determination.
Across the room, Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez were opening the weapons locker. Each of them pulled out their Glocks—part of ranch protocol that required every ranch hand to have their carry license the day they turned sixteen. All four boys had gotten theirs on their birthdays, along with their Texas driver's licenses. Pops had insisted on it.
"You boys know what you're doing with those?" Mr. Renzo asked, though there was pride in his voice.
"Yes sir," Billy Renzo said, checking his magazine. "Pops made sure of it."
"Damn right I did," Pops said from across the room. "Best shooters in the county, these boys. Billy Jr. can outshoot half the men in this room."
"More than half," Billy Jr. said with a grim smile, holstering his Glock.
"Billy," Tom said quietly. "When we find him—"
"I know, Dad," Billy said, his voice hard. "No mistakes. We get Jake out alive."
"And the Hendricks?" Pops asked.
Billy met his great-grandfather's eyes. "They don't walk away from this."
Pops nodded slowly. In Vietnam, he'd made harder calls than this. "Good."
On the screen, the drone was closing in on the target. Billy Jr. switched to thermal imaging. The old barn appeared as a dark outline against the cooler ground. And inside—
"I've got heat signatures," Billy Jr. said, his voice tight. "Five total. Four grouped here"—he pointed to the north end of the barn—"and one here. Isolated. Center of the structure."
"That's him," Billy whispered. "That's Jake."
Sarah's sob from the doorway made everyone turn. She stood there with the other women, her hand pressed to her mouth.
"He's alive," Tom said, pulling her close. "He's alive, Sarah."
Billy Jr. zoomed in tighter. The thermal signature in the center of the barn wasn't moving much. Just small shifts. But it was there.
"Adjust angle," Wade said. "Can you see what position he's in?"
Billy Jr. manipulated the drone. The image sharpened. "Looks like... he's elevated. Not standing. Maybe suspended."
"They've still got him strung up," Josh said, his jaw clenching.
"How long until we can move?" Robert Beaumont asked.
Wade checked his watch. "We need to plan this right. It's 1400 now. If we go in daylight, they'll see us coming. We need darkness."
"That's four hours," Billy said. "Four more hours of them—"
"I know," Wade said. "But if we go in half-cocked and they kill him, we've lost everything. We do this smart."
Pops stepped forward. "Wade's right. In 'Nam, we learned patience. You rush a hostage situation, the hostage dies. We wait until dark, we go in quiet, and we end this."
Billy Jr. kept the drone circling. "I can maintain eyes on target. If anything changes—if they move him, if more people show up—we'll know immediately."
"Good," Wade said. "Keep that drone up there. Billy Renzo, Ryan, Daniel—I want a complete tactical map of that property. Entry points, sight lines, cover positions. Everything."
"Yes sir," the three said in unison, their Glocks holstered, already turning back to their computers.
Wade turned to the assembled men. "We've got four hours to plan this. Tom, Josh, Pops—let's talk strategy. Everyone else, gear up. We move at sunset."
Mr. Renzo stepped forward. "My sons and I are coming."
"So are we," Mr. Mattern said.
"Rodriguez family too," Mr. Rodriguez added.
Wade nodded. "Then we'd better make damn sure we get this right. Because we're not just bringing Jake home—we're sending a message. You don't touch consortium family."
On the screen, the thermal image of Jake hung motionless in the center of the barn. Still alive. Still waiting.
"Hold on, brother," Billy whispered. "We're coming."
Chapter 7: Tactical Planning
The dining room table had been cleared, replaced by a large tactical map of the foreclosed property. Pops stood at the head of the table, a cigar clenched between his teeth, his eyes sharp and focused in a way that made everyone in the room remember he'd survived a war.
"Alright, listen up," Pops said, his voice carrying the weight of command. "We do this once, we do it right, and we bring Jake home alive. Wade, what're we looking at?"
Wade spread aerial photos from the drone feeds across the map. "Single structure—barn, corrugated metal. Two entry points. Main door here on the south side, smaller access door on the east. Windows are boarded up, but there's gaps in the siding. Four hostiles inside, grouped at the north end. Jake's suspended in the center."
"Sight lines?" Pops asked.
Wilson Nelson, who'd done two tours in Iraq, pointed at the map. "Open ground on three sides. They'll see us coming if we approach direct. But there's a drainage ditch here that runs along the western edge. Gives us cover to within fifty yards."
"That's our approach," Pops said. "We split into two teams. Team One takes the ditch, breaches the south door. Team Two circles wide, comes in from the east. Simultaneous breach—they won't know which way to shoot first."
"What about Jake?" Josh asked. "He's right in the middle. If they start shooting—"
"That's why we do it fast and clean," Pops said. "First man through each door takes out the nearest hostile. Second man secures Jake. Third man covers. No hesitation, no mercy. These sons of bitches tortured my grandson. They don't get a second chance."
Tom stepped forward. "I'm going in."
"Tom—" Sarah started from the doorway.
"He's my son, Sarah," Tom said, his voice firm but gentle. "I have to be there."
Sarah's eyes filled with tears, but she nodded. "Just... bring both of you home."
"I will," Tom promised.
Billy was already loading magazines. "I'm on Team One. I'm going through that door first."
"The hell you are," Pops said. "You're too emotional. You'll get Jake killed."
"Pops—"
"I said no, Billy. You're going in, but you're third man. Celab goes first, Louisiana second. You cover and secure the perimeter."
Billy's jaw clenched, but he nodded. Pops was right. He was too angry, too scared for Jake. He'd make a mistake.
"Team Two," Wade said. "Wilson, Ryan, and I take the east door. I'm first in. Wilson second. Ryan covers."
"I'm with Team Two," Josh said. "Fourth man."
"And I'm going with Team One," Tom said.
Robert Beaumont stepped forward. "I'm going. You might need an extra man."
Pops looked at him, then nodded. "You're with Team Two. Fifth man."
"What about us?" Mr. Renzo asked. "My boys and I didn't come here to sit on our hands."
"You're perimeter security," Wade said. "Hendricks might have someone watching the property, or backup we don't know about. I need you and your sons covering our six. Matterns and Rodriguezes, same. Form a defensive ring around the structure. Anyone shows up who isn't us, you stop them."
"Copy that," Mr. Renzo said.
Billy Jr. was already moving. "Billy Renzo, Ryan, Daniel—help me get the portable command center loaded. We're bringing it with us."
"Good thinking," Wade said. "We'll need real-time intel on site."
The four sixteen-year-olds moved quickly, unplugging laptops and loading equipment into ruggedized cases. Billy Jr. grabbed the portable satellite uplink while Billy Renzo collected the encrypted radio base station. Ryan Mattern packed the portable monitor array, and Daniel Rodriguez secured all sixteen iPads into their carrying case.
"Each team leader gets an iPad," Billy Jr. said, distributing them. "Wade, Pops, you'll have live drone feeds, thermal imaging, GPS tracking of all personnel, and encrypted radio. Everyone else will be visible on your screens in real-time."
"Outstanding," Pops said, examining the iPad. The screen showed a tactical overview with friendly forces marked in blue, the target building outlined in red, and Jake's last known position marked with a yellow icon.
"We'll set up the portable command center in one of the trucks about a quarter mile out," Billy Jr. continued. "Close enough to maintain signal strength, far enough to stay out of the line of fire. We'll have three drones overhead—thermal, night vision, and standard visual. You'll see everything we see."
Wade nodded approvingly. "This is good tech, Junior. Real good."
"Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel will be monitoring with me," Billy Jr. said. "Anything moves, anywhere on that property, we'll alert you immediately over encrypted radio."
"What's our timeline?" Pops asked.
Wade checked his watch. "Sunset's at 1827. Full dark by 1900. I want to be in position by 1845, breach at 1900 sharp."
"That gives us ninety minutes to gear up and move," Pops said. "Everyone knows their jobs?"
A chorus of affirmatives.
"What about extraction?" Rebecca asked from the doorway. She'd been quiet, but her nurse's training was kicking in. "Jake's going to need immediate medical attention."
"We'll have the truck ready," Mary Nelson said. "I've got medical supplies packed. Soon as they bring him out, we get him stabilized and decide if we need the hospital."
"He's going to need it," Rebecca said quietly. "From what I saw in that video... his shoulders could be dislocated. The rope burns, possible nerve damage. He might go into shock."
"Then we move fast," Wade said. "In and out in under five minutes."
Pops looked around the room at the assembled men. "Any questions?"
Celab raised his hand. "What if they try to use Jake as a shield?"
"That's why we breach both doors at once," Pops said. "They can't cover two angles. The second they turn to one door, the other team takes them out."
"And if they've got him rigged to kill him if we come in?" Louisiana asked.
"Then we go faster than they can react," Wade said. "It's a risk. But leaving him there is a bigger one."
Pops leaned forward, both hands on the table. "These boys made a choice when they took Jake. They chose violence. They chose to hurt a member of this family. Now we're making a choice. We're choosing to end this. Tonight."
Billy looked at his father, at Josh, at Pops. At Wade and his sons. At Celab and Louisiana who'd become his brothers in everything but blood.
"Let's bring Jake home," Billy said.
"Damn right," Celab said.
Tom turned to the assembled men. "Gear up. We roll out in thirty minutes."
The room erupted into motion. Men checking weapons, loading magazines, strapping on body armor. Billy Jr. and his crew loaded the portable command center equipment into the back of a heavy-duty pickup truck—laptops secured, satellite uplink mounted, portable generator for power, and all sixteen iPads charged and synced.
"Drones are ready," Billy Renzo said, doing a final pre-flight check. "All three are fueled and equipped with spotlights if we need them."
"Comms are encrypted and tested," Ryan Mattern said. "Everyone's on the same channel. We'll have constant contact."
"GPS trackers are active on all personnel," Daniel Rodriguez added, checking his screen. "We'll know exactly where everyone is at all times."
Billy Jr. looked at the thermal feed of Jake still hanging in that barn on one of the monitors. "We're coming for you, Uncle Jake. Just hold on a little longer."
Mr. Renzo walked over to where the boys were working. "You boys did good. This tech might just save Jake's life."
"That's the idea, sir," Billy Jr. said, his young face set with determination.
Outside, the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon. In ninety minutes, it would be dark.
And the Hendricks family was about to learn what happened when you came after a Benson.
Chapter 9: Homecoming
The convoy rolled back into the Benson Ranch just after 2100 hours. The house was blazing with lights, and Sarah was on the porch before the trucks even stopped.
They carried Jake inside carefully, Rebecca and Mary flanking him on either side. Dr. Peterson was waiting in the living room—a weathered man in his seventies with kind eyes and steady hands that had patched up more Benson boys than anyone could count.
"Well, well," Doc Peterson said, looking Jake over. "Heard you got yourself in a spot of trouble, son."
"Nothing I couldn't handle," Jake said through gritted teeth, then winced as they laid him on the couch.
"Sure looks that way," Doc said dryly. He turned to Rebecca. "Let's see what we're working with."
The examination took twenty minutes. Doc Peterson worked methodically, checking Jake's shoulders, cleaning and dressing the rope burns, testing nerve responses. Rebecca assisted, her nurse training evident in every movement.
"Shoulders are subluxated, not fully dislocated," Doc finally announced. "That's good news. Means we can manipulate them back into place without surgery. Bad news is, it's gonna hurt like hell."
"Just do it," Jake said.
"That's my boy," Pops said from the doorway, arms crossed.
Doc looked at Tom and Josh. "I need you two to hold him steady. This ain't gonna be pleasant."
What followed made Jake curse in ways that would've made Pops proud. But when it was over, his shoulders were back in their sockets, properly bandaged, and in a figure-eight brace that would keep them immobilized for the next few weeks.
"Rope burns will heal," Doc said, wrapping the last bandage. "No permanent nerve damage that I can see, but we'll monitor it. You're gonna be sore as hell for a month, and you're not lifting anything heavier than a beer bottle for at least six weeks."
"I can live with that," Jake said. Then his stomach growled. Loudly. "I'm starving. They didn't exactly feed me in there."
Sarah's eyes filled with tears, but she was smiling. "I'll make you something—"
"Mom, I'm not eating soup or some light meal," Jake interrupted. "I want real food. Like, a steak."
Billy laughed—the first real laugh since Jake had disappeared. "That's how I know he's gonna be okay. He's already being difficult."
"I'll make steaks," Sarah started, but Tom shook his head.
"No, Sarah. We're all hungry. The whole damn consortium just went to war tonight." Tom looked around at the assembled families filling their house. "We're doing this right."
"BBQ?" Josh suggested.
"Hell yes, BBQ," Billy said. "We got enough steaks in the freezer?"
"We got plenty," Sarah said. "But they're frozen solid—"
"Hot water," Louisiana drawled. "Defrost 'em in hot water. Be ready in thirty minutes."
The men moved with purpose. Billy, Celab, and Louisiana raided the massive chest freezer in the garage, pulling out every steak they could find—had to be thirty pounds of meat. They dumped them in coolers of hot water while Josh and Wilson fired up the massive grill on the back patio.
The women took over the kitchen—Mrs. Renzo, Mrs. Mattern, Mrs. Rodriguez, Caroline Beaumont, Mary Nelson, and Sarah working together to throw together sides. Baked beans, coleslaw, potato salad, cornbread. The kind of meal you made for an army.
And Pops? Pops wheeled out his portable bar.
The old man's portable bar was legendary—a custom-built cart on wheels with two shelves full of liquor, a dozen glasses, and a small ice chest. He'd built it himself twenty years ago, and it had been the centerpiece of every ranch celebration since.
"Alright, boys," Pops announced, parking the bar in the living room where Jake was propped up on the couch. "We're celebrating. Jake's home. The Hendricks are dead. And nobody got hurt except the people who deserved it."
He pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels—the good stuff, not the cheap shit—and started pouring.
"Jake gets the first one," Pops said, handing him a generous pour. "For being a tough son of a bitch."
Jake took the glass with his less-injured hand and knocked back half of it in one swallow. "Damn, that's good."
"Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan, Daniel—get over here," Pops called to the wiz kids.
The four sixteen-year-olds approached cautiously.
"You boys did good work tonight," Pops said, pouring four more glasses. "Real good work. That tech of yours saved Jake's life. So you're drinking with the men tonight."
Billy Jr. took his glass, trying not to grin too wide. "Thanks, Pops."
"Don't make me regret it," Pops said, but there was pride in his voice.
Tom, Josh, Wade, and the other men gathered around as Pops kept pouring. Robert Beaumont. Mr. Renzo and his sons. Mr. Mattern and his boys. Mr. Rodriguez and Daniel's older brothers.
Doc Peterson pulled up a chair next to Pops. "You still drinking that rotgut, you old bastard?"
"It's Jack Daniels, you pretentious ass," Pops shot back, grinning. "Not all of us drink your fancy bourbon."
"Jack Daniels is Tennessee whiskey, not bourbon," Doc said, accepting his glass anyway. "There's a difference."
"Only difference is the price," Pops said. "And I ain't paying thirty dollars more for a label."
"That's 'cause you got no class."
"I got plenty of class. I just also got common sense."
The banter continued—the same argument they'd been having since Da Nang in 1968. Everyone in the room had heard it a hundred times, but it never got old.
Outside, the steaks were hitting the grill. The smell of searing meat filled the air, and Billy's stomach growled in response.
"Fifteen minutes!" Josh called through the window.
Jake was already looking better—color back in his face, the whiskey and the company doing more for him than any medicine could. Edna Nelson sat beside him on the couch, her hand carefully resting on his good leg, just being close.
Billy Jr. and his crew had set up a laptop on the coffee table, showing the tactical footage from the drones. The men gathered around, watching the assault play out from above.
"Look at that," Wilson said, pointing. "Perfect timing on the breach. Both teams hit simultaneously."
"That's Pops' training," Wade said. "Old man still knows his tactics."
"Damn right I do," Pops said, refilling his glass.
Then Celab stood up, a grin spreading across his face. "Y'all want to see something really good?"
"What'd you do, Beaumont?" Billy asked suspiciously.
Celab pulled out a small camera from his tactical vest. "I was wearing a bodycam. Got the whole thing recorded."
The room went silent for a beat. Then everyone was talking at once.
"You what?"
"Play it!"
"I gotta see this!"
Billy Jr. grabbed the camera and plugged it into his laptop. "Give me two seconds to get it on the big screen."
He connected the laptop to the massive TV on the wall—the one they usually used for football games. The screen flickered to life, showing Celab's point-of-view from the assault.
The footage started with the approach—the drainage ditch, the tactical movements, Pops' hand signals. Then the breach.
The door kicked open. The interior of the barn. Muzzle flashes.
Celab's voice on the recording: "Contact!"
The room erupted in cheers as the first shots were fired.
"There's Hendricks!" someone shouted.
"Watch Celab drop him—there! Perfect shot!"
The women had come in from the kitchen, drawn by the noise. Even Sarah was watching, one hand over her mouth but not looking away.
The footage showed Billy running to Jake, Louisiana cutting him down. The raw emotion on Billy's face as he held his brother.
"Look at Billy," Celab said. "Man was about to cry."
"Fuck you, I was not," Billy said, but he was grinning.
"You totally were," Jake said from the couch. "It's okay, brother. I would've cried too."
The video continued—the cleanup, the extraction, Wade coordinating the teams. It was like watching a movie, except everyone in the room had lived it.
When it ended, the room exploded in cheers and hollers. Even the ladies were clapping—Mrs. Renzo wiping tears from her eyes, Caroline Beaumont hugging Sarah.
"That," Pops said, raising his glass, "is how you run an operation. Vietnam-style planning, modern technology, and a whole lot of consortium family coming together."
"To family!" Wade called out.
"To family!" everyone echoed, raising their glasses.
"Steaks are ready!" Josh shouted from outside.
The exodus to the back patio was immediate. Plates piled high with massive ribeyes, sirloins, and T-bones. The sides appeared from the kitchen—enough food to feed twice their number.
They ate standing, sitting, sprawled across the patio furniture. The conversation was loud and profane and full of laughter. War stories from the assault mixed with Pops' Vietnam tales and Doc Peterson's stories about patching up Bensons over the decades.
Jake managed to eat a entire steak one-handed, with Billy cutting it for him when needed. Louisiana kept his drink refilled. Celab made sure he had seconds on the potato salad.
Billy Jr. and his crew sat in a cluster with the adults, sipping their whiskey and trying not to cough when it burned going down. Pops watched them with barely concealed amusement.
"First taste of whiskey always hits different," Doc Peterson said to them. "Second one's easier."
"Don't encourage them," Rebecca said, but she was smiling.
As the night wore on and the food disappeared, people started to drift. The Mattern family headed home first, with promises to return tomorrow. Then the Rodriguezes. The Renzos.
The Beaumonts stayed late—Robert and Tom talking business and brotherhood on the patio while Caroline helped Sarah clean up inside.
Wade and his family were the last to leave, with Rebecca making Jake promise to call her if anything changed with his shoulders.
Finally, it was just the Benson household. Tom and Sarah. Josh. Ray. Billy and Jake. Celab and Louisiana. Billy Jr.
And Pops, of course. Still at his portable bar, still sipping Jack Daniels, a cigar between his teeth.
"Hell of a day," Pops said to no one in particular.
"Hell of a day," Tom agreed.
Jake was half-asleep on the couch, the whiskey and exhaustion finally catching up with him. Billy sat on the floor beside him, his head resting against the couch cushion.
"You good?" Billy asked quietly.
"Yeah," Jake said. "I'm good."
"You scared me, man."
"I know. Sorry."
"Don't do it again."
"Deal."
Sarah came in from the kitchen, surveying her living room full of her boys—all safe, all home, all together.
"Bed," she announced. "All of you. Especially you, Jake."
"Can't argue with Mom," Jake said, letting Billy and Celab help him to his feet.
They headed upstairs to the frat house—Billy supporting one side, Celab the other, Louisiana clearing the way. Billy Jr. ran ahead to make sure Jake's bunk was ready.
As they disappeared up the stairs, Sarah turned to Tom. "We could've lost him."
"But we didn't," Tom said, pulling her close. "The consortium came through. The boys came through. Everyone came through."
"This time," Sarah said quietly.
"This time," Tom agreed. "And hopefully, there won't be a next time."
Upstairs, they got Jake settled in his bunk—the bottom one, so he wouldn't have to climb. His shoulders were already stiffening up, the pain medication wearing off.
"Doc left more pills on the nightstand," Billy said. "And water. You need anything else?"
"I'm good," Jake said. "Just... thanks. All of you."
"That's what family does," Louisiana drawled.
"Damn right," Celab said.
Billy Jr. stood in the doorway, still holding his empty whiskey glass. "Uncle Jake?"
"Yeah, Junior?"
"You really told Hendricks that Pops knows a hundred ways to make someone suffer?"
Jake grinned despite the pain. "I did."
"That's badass."
"Language," Billy called automatically, then laughed. "Who am I kidding? That was badass."
They turned off the lights, leaving just the nightlight on in case Jake needed to get up. One by one, they climbed into their beds—Billy in his bunk, Celab in his, Louisiana on his mattress on the floor, Billy Jr. in the bunk above Celab.
The frat house was quiet for about thirty seconds.
"Hey Billy?" Jake said in the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"Next time I get the easy solo job, remind me to say no."
The room erupted in laughter—tired, relieved, grateful laughter.
"Deal," Billy said.
Downstairs, Pops finished his whiskey and wheeled his portable bar back to its spot in the garage. Doc Peterson had left an hour ago, with promises to return tomorrow to check on Jake.
The old Vietnam vet stood on the back patio, looking out over the ranch—his great-grandfather's ranch, his grandfather's ranch, his son's ranch. Four generations of Bensons, all still standing.
The Hendricks family had made their choice. They'd come after a Benson, come after the consortium.
And they'd learned what every enemy eventually learned:
You don't fuck with family.
Pops lit one more cigar, took a long drag, and smiled in the darkness.
Hell of a day indeed.
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