Revenge

  

PrologueThey pushed Billy Benson into the barn, soaked with sweat, his white undershirt clinging to him like a second skin, his wrists crossed and tied in front of him to his waist. The rope had cut grooves into his skin during the ride here—wherever "here" was.

His eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through gaps in the rotting wood. There was his brother Jake, slumped against a post, ropes binding him tight, blood crusting at the corner of his mouth. Behind him stood somebody they called the "Boss"—a man with dead eyes and an AK-47 pointed casually at Jake's head.

"Welcome, Billy." Boss's voice was flat, empty of emotion. "Your brother Jake has been waiting for you. Been real patient, haven't you, Jake?" He kicked Jake's leg. Jake flinched but didn't make a sound through the gag.

"Lash him to the post next to his brother," Boss ordered. "We'll take some ransom photos."

Rough hands grabbed Billy. They untied his wrists, and for one desperate second he thought about fighting, running—but the barrel of the AK-47 tracked his every movement. Within moments, they had him lashed to the post beside Jake, the ropes so tight he could barely breathe.

When Billy was secured, one of them—a younger guy with a face full of hate—yanked a filthy rag over both brothers' eyes. Darkness swallowed everything. Billy heard Jake's muffled breathing beside him, rapid and panicked.

Then he felt it: cold steel against his stomach. Boss was dragging the rifle butt across their bellies, slowly, methodically, like he was savoring it.

"Even when they pay the ransom," Boss whispered close to Billy's ear, his breath reeking of cigarettes and rage, "you boys are dead. Your family took everything from us. Now we take everything from them."

Billy's heart hammered against his ribs. Through the blindfold, all he had was Jake's breathing beside him and the certain knowledge that these men meant every word.

This was only the beginning.

Chapter 1: The Last Normal Day

The door to the frat house slammed open with a bang that rattled the windows.

"Get your lazy asses out of bed!" Pops's voice cut through the pre-dawn darkness like a chainsaw. "Sun's been up for ten goddamn minutes and you bastards are still snoring!"

Billy groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. Above him on the top bunk, Jake muttered something that sounded like a curse word he'd learned from Pops himself.

"I ain't joking!" Pops hollered, stomping into the room from his bedroom next door. The smell of cigar smoke and coffee followed him like a cloud. "Billy! Jake! Celab! Billy Junior! And you—Louisiana! Get the hell up!"

"Yes sir, Pops," came the groggy voice with a thick Southern drawl from the mattress on the floor between the two bunk beds.

"I don't care if you're tired! Get up!"

Billy swung his legs over the side of the bottom bunk and dropped to the floor, his bare feet landing inches from Colt's head. Across the room on the other bunk bed, Billy Jr. was already sitting up on the bottom bunk, rubbing his eyes, while Celab scrambled down from the top bunk.

"Pops, you're gonna give somebody a heart attack one of these days," Jake grumbled from above Billy, his face appearing over the edge of the bunk.

"Good! Build some character!" Pops barked. He squinted at the floorboards near the bunks, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "And I better not find any beer cans under these goddamn floorboards or I'll tan every one of your hides."

Billy Jr. tried to suppress a grin and failed. "Pops, we'd never—"

"Bullshit!" Pops interrupted, but there was a twinkle in his eye. "I invented that hiding spot in 1967. You think I'm stupid?"

"No sir," all five voices said in unison.

"Damn right." Pops turned toward the door, then paused. "Breakfast in fifteen minutes. Your mama's making biscuits and gravy, and if you're late, I'm eating your share. Move it!" He gestured down the second-floor hallway. "And don't all of you try to use that one bathroom at the same time. Work it out!"

He stomped out, his bedroom door slamming shut behind him.

Jake dropped down from the top bunk, landing next to Billy. Even at twenty-two and twenty-one, the two brothers still moved in sync, the way they had since they were toddlers sharing this same bunk bed. Jake punched Billy's shoulder. "Your turn to shower first."

"Like hell it is. I went last yesterday."

"Yesterday was Sunday. New week, new rotation."

"That's not how it works—"

"Both of you shut up and flip a coin," Celab said, pulling on his jeans. "Some of us want hot water too."

Colt was already rolling up his mattress, shoving it into the corner where it lived during the day. "Y'all argue about this every mornin'," he said in his Louisiana drawl. "Just let Billy Junior go first and be done with it."

The frat house was cramped—two bunk beds, five guys sharing one bathroom on the second floor of the ranch house, and barely enough room to turn around—but none of them would trade it for anything. Right next door was the command center with all their tech equipment, and Pops's bedroom was just down the hall.

Billy Jr. grabbed a towel and grinned at his uncles. "I'll just go first while you two argue about it."

"Like hell you will!" Jake lunged for him, but Billy Jr. was already out the door, laughing.

---

Fifteen minutes later, they piled downstairs into the main house kitchen, still damp from rushed showers, pulling on shirts as they walked. The kitchen was already crowded with family.

Tom Benson stood at the head of the table, reading something on his phone. Sarah was pulling a massive pan of biscuits from the oven, her face flushed from the heat. Ray sat at the corner, laptop open, probably already working on some business deal. Josh leaned against the counter, drinking coffee and talking quietly with Rebecca, who still wore her hospital scrubs from the night shift.

"About damn time!" Pops announced from his seat, a plate already piled high in front of him. "Thought I was gonna have to send out a search party."

"Pops, they've got three minutes to spare," Sarah said without looking up from the biscuits.

"Three minutes late in my book," Pops grumbled, but he was grinning.

The boys filled their plates—biscuits drowning in sausage gravy, scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns. Billy slid into his usual seat next to Edna's empty chair. She'd be here later, after her shift at the Nelson ranch.

"Billy Junior!" Pops called down the table. "You practicing that Henry rifle like I showed you?"

"Yes sir. Every day."

"Good. You keep that up, you'll be a better shot than your old man by the time you're eighteen." He jabbed his fork toward Josh. "No offense, Josh."

Josh rolled his eyes. "None taken, Pops."

"And quit rolling your eyes at me, boy. You may be thirty-two, but I'll still whoop your ass."

"Pops!" Sarah's voice was sharp. "Language!"

"Sorry, honey." Pops didn't sound sorry at all. He winked at Billy Jr., who was trying not to laugh.

The room filled with the comfortable chaos of family—plates passing, conversations overlapping, someone asking for the salt, Pops telling a story about Vietnam that everyone had heard a hundred times but nobody interrupted. This was the rhythm of the Benson Ranch. This was home.

When breakfast wound down, Josh straightened and cleared his throat. "Alright, listen up. Got assignments for today."

The table quieted. Josh might be their brother and son, but when he put on his General Manager hat, everyone listened.

"Ray and I have meetings with the Mattern and Rodriguez families about that land parcel near the county line. Dad, you're coming with us." Tom nodded. "Celab and Colt, you're helping with the cattle rotation in the north pasture. Billy Jr., you're with the vet—we've got three horses that need checking."

Billy Jr. groaned. "I was supposed to meet Anna this afternoon."

"You'll survive," Josh said. "Billy, Jake—I need you two to check the fence line in the south pasture. Some of the posts are loose after that storm last week. Take the truck, bring tools, and fix what you can. If it's too much, radio in and we'll send help."

Billy and Jake exchanged a glance. The south pasture was only about fifteen minutes from the main ranch, but the fence line stretched for miles. It'd be a long day.

"Got it," Billy said.

"Good. Everyone clear?" Josh looked around the table. "Then let's get to it."

Chairs scraped back. The family dispersed like water finding its level—some to the barns, some to the trucks, some back to the office. Billy grabbed his hat and gloves, Jake did the same, and they headed for the equipment shed.

"At least we're together," Jake said as they loaded fence posts and wire into the truck bed. "Could be worse."

"Could be better. Could be sitting with Edna."

Jake laughed. "You're pathetic, you know that?"

"You're just jealous."

"Of what? Your ugly girlfriend?"

Billy shoved him. Jake shoved back. They were still laughing as they climbed into the truck and headed south, the ranch disappearing behind them in a cloud of dust.

---

The south pasture was quiet. Too quiet.

They'd been working for two hours, replacing rotted posts and tightening wire, when Jake said he was going to check the eastern section. "Might as well knock it all out while we're here."

"You want me to come?" Billy asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"Nah. You finish this stretch. I'll radio if I need help."

"Alright. Don't get lost."

"Bite me."

Jake grabbed the tool bag and headed east along the fence line, disappearing over a small rise. Billy turned back to his work, pounding a new post into the hard Texas soil.

Thirty minutes passed. Then forty.

Billy pulled out his radio. "Jake, you good?"

Static.

"Jake?"

Nothing.

Billy frowned. Sometimes the radios got spotty out here, but Jake should've been back by now. He tossed his tools into the truck and started walking east, following the fence line.

"Jake!" he called. "Where you at?"

The wind was the only answer.

Billy picked up his pace, his gut tightening. Something was wrong. He could feel it, the way you feel a storm coming before you see the clouds.

He crested the rise and saw the tool bag lying in the dirt, tools scattered like someone had dropped it in a hurry. Deep tire tracks cut through the grass, leading away toward the county road.

"Jake!"

Then he heard it—the roar of an engine behind him.

Billy spun around just as the van came barreling over the hill, three men hanging out the sides. He ran, but there was nowhere to go. They were on him in seconds.

He fought. God, he fought. His fist connected with someone's jaw, his boot caught someone in the ribs, but there were too many of them. A blow to the back of his head sent him sprawling. Rough hands grabbed him, yanked his wrists together and crossed them in front of his stomach, binding them tight with rough hemp rope. More rope circled his waist, lashing his bound wrists against his gut. They slapped duct tape across his mouth before he could yell.

"Got him!" someone shouted.

They dragged him to the van and threw him inside. His head was spinning, blood running down his neck. Through blurred vision, he saw Jake's hat on the floor of the van.

The doors slammed shut. The van lurched forward.

Billy's last thought before the darkness took him was: We should've stayed together.

---

When Billy came to, the van had stopped. Hands yanked him out into blinding sunlight. His wrists were still crossed and tied in front of him, the hemp rope cutting into his skin, lashed tight to his waist. The duct tape pulled at his lips. His white undershirt was soaked through with sweat and blood.

They marched him forward, and he realized where they were—some kind of barn, old and rotting, in the middle of nowhere.

The door creaked open.

They pushed him inside.

And that's when Billy saw him.

Jake.

Chapter 2: Discovery

Josh checked his watch for the third time in five minutes. 4:47 PM. Billy and Jake should've been back an hour ago.

He pulled out his radio. "Billy, Jake, you copy?"

Static.

"Billy? Jake? Come in."

Nothing.

Josh walked down the extension hallway past Ray's room to the business office where Ray sat hunched over spreadsheets from the Mattern meeting. "You heard from Billy and Jake?"

Ray looked up. "Not since this morning. Why?"

"They're not answering the radio. Should've been back by now."

"Maybe they found more damage than they thought. You know how those two get—start one project, find three more."

"Yeah, maybe." But Josh's gut was telling him something different. He keyed the radio again. "Celab, Colt, you guys still in the north pasture?"

Celab's voice crackled back. "Yeah, just finishing up. What's up?"

"You seen Billy and Jake?"

"Not since breakfast. They went south, we went north. Why?"

"They're not responding. Probably nothing, but—"

"Want us to swing by the south pasture on our way back?"

"Yeah. Do that. Let me know what you find."

Josh tried the radio twice more over the next fifteen minutes. By 5:15, Celab called back, and the tone in his voice made Josh's blood run cold.

"Josh, you need to get down here. Now."

"What's wrong?"

"The truck's here. Tools are scattered everywhere. But Billy and Jake—they're gone."

---

Twenty minutes later, Josh, Tom, Ray, and Pops stood in the south pasture staring at the abandoned truck. The driver's door hung open. Tools littered the ground near a half-repaired fence section. To the east, more tools lay scattered in the dirt like someone had dropped them in a hurry.

"Jake was working over there," Celab said, pointing. "Looks like he got jumped first."

Deep tire tracks scarred the grass, leading toward the county road. Tom knelt beside them, his face pale. "These aren't ranch vehicles. These are van tracks. Maybe a cargo van."

"Where's Billy's radio?" Josh asked, scanning the ground.

"Here." Colt held up a radio, the casing cracked. "Found it in the grass."

Pops moved slowly along the eastern section, his eyes reading the ground the way he'd learned fifty years ago in Vietnam. He stopped, crouched, touched something dark in the dirt. When he stood, his fingers were red.

"Blood," he said quietly.

The word hung in the air like a gunshot.

Tom pulled out his phone. "I'm calling Wade."

"Wait—" Ray started.

"No waiting. My sons are missing. There's blood on the ground. We're calling the sheriff." Tom's voice cracked on the last word.

Sheriff Wade Nelson arrived fifteen minutes later with his sons Wilson and Ryan, both in their deputy uniforms. Wade was a big man, six-three and solid, with a face that had seen too much over thirty years in law enforcement. But when he saw the scene—the blood, the tire tracks, the scattered tools—something flickered across his expression that made Josh's stomach drop.

This wasn't good.

"When's the last time anyone heard from them?" Wade asked, pulling out a notepad.

"This morning, around 9 AM when they left the ranch," Josh said. "They were supposed to radio in around noon. When they didn't, I figured they were just busy. But when they didn't come back by 4:30..."

Wade nodded, walking the scene. Wilson photographed everything with his phone while Ryan examined the tire tracks. The three lawmen moved with quiet efficiency, and Josh realized this wasn't the first time they'd worked a scene like this.

"These tracks lead to County Road 12," Ryan said. "But after that, could be anywhere."

"We need to organize a search," Tom said. "Call the consortium families, get everyone—"

"Tom." Wade's voice was gentle but firm. "This isn't a search party situation. These boys didn't wander off. They were taken."

The word 'taken' hit like a physical blow.

Sarah arrived then, Rebecca driving her in the ranch truck, both women pale and terrified. When Sarah saw the blood, her knees buckled. Tom caught her.

"Oh God. Oh God, no. Tom—"

"We'll find them," Tom said, but his voice shook. "We'll find them."

Back at the ranch house, the command center on the second floor was already humming with activity. Billy Jr. had heard the radio chatter and mobilized immediately. By the time the adults returned, he had Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez crammed into the small room next to the frat house, all four teenagers surrounded by screens and equipment.

"Tell me you've got something," Josh said, bursting through the door after running up the stairs.

Billy Jr. didn't look up from his laptop. "We're reviewing drone footage from earlier today. We had one doing a routine patrol over the south section this morning."

"And?"

"Still looking." His fingers flew across the keyboard. Ryan Mattern was coordinating with the other consortium families on the encrypted network. Daniel Rodriguez had pulled up satellite phone logs. Billy Renzo was running facial recognition software against security footage from the main gates.

These kids had built a system that would make most police departments jealous, and right now it was their best hope.

Pops appeared in the doorway, breathing hard from climbing the stairs, a cigar clenched between his teeth. His face was granite, but his eyes burned with something dangerous.

"You boys find them," he said, his voice low and deadly. "Whatever you need, you got it. Money, equipment, any goddamn thing. You understand me?"

"Yes sir," all four said in unison.

"Good. Because when we find the sons of bitches who took my grandsons, I'm gonna put a bullet in every last one of them."

"Pops—" Josh started.

"Don't 'Pops' me. You know I mean it. Now get the hell out of their way and let them work."

Downstairs, the main house was filling with people. The living room had become command central. Sarah sat in her bedroom off the living room with Mary Nelson, both women holding each other, crying. The Beaumonts arrived first—Robert and Caroline rushing through the front door, their faces stricken. Then the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. The consortium families gathered around the dining table in the kitchen, a council of war forming.

Wade Nelson stood at the head of the table. "I've put out an alert to every department in a hundred-mile radius. We've got highway patrol watching the main roads. But I'll be straight with you—first twenty-four hours are critical."

"It's been eight hours already," Josh said from the doorway of his bedroom in the extension.

"I know."

"What about the FBI?" Ray asked, stepping out of his room. "Kidnapping is federal—"

"We can bring them in," Wade said carefully. "But that takes time. Paperwork, jurisdiction issues. And if whoever took Billy and Jake sees federal vehicles rolling up..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.

Rebecca came out of the bedroom she shared with Josh, her nurse's training barely keeping her composed. Edna had arrived and sat curled in a chair in the living room, her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking. Anna—Billy Jr.'s girlfriend—sat beside her, tears streaming down her face.

The room felt like a funeral.

Upstairs, Billy Jr. suddenly shouted. "Got it!"

Everyone who could move rushed up the stairs to the command center, cramming into the small room. On the screen, drone footage showed the south pasture from earlier that day. Billy Jr. scrubbed forward to 11:43 AM.

"There," he said, freezing the frame.

A white cargo van, partially hidden by trees near the fence line.

"Can you get the plate?" Wade asked.

"Working on it." Billy Jr. enhanced the image, but the angle was wrong. The license plate was obscured. "But I can track its movement."

He scrubbed forward. At 11:51, two figures—Billy and Jake—were visible working on different sections of fence. At 12:14, the van moved. At 12:22, Jake disappeared from view near the eastern section. At 12:47, Billy walked toward where Jake had been working.

Then at 12:52, the van appeared again, this time much closer. Three men jumped out. Billy ran. They caught him within seconds.

Sarah gasped and turned away, Tom catching her before she fell. Pops's jaw clenched so hard the cigar snapped in half.

"Son of a bitch," he growled.

The footage showed Billy fighting—landing punches, kicking—before they overwhelmed him. They dragged him to the van. At 12:56, the van drove away, heading toward County Road 12.

"White cargo van, older model, maybe ten years old," Wilson said, taking notes. "Three visible suspects, possibly more in the van. They knew the property, knew where to wait, knew the boys would be separated."

"This was planned," Wade said grimly.

"By who?" Tom demanded. "Who the hell would do this?"

"I don't give a damn who they are," Pops snarled. "When we find them, they're dead. Every last one of those bastards."

"Dad—" Tom started.

"Don't you 'Dad' me! Those are my grandsons out there, Tom! Your boys! And some motherfuckers took them off our land!" Pops's voice shook with rage. "Wade, you do your sheriff thing, follow your rules, I don't care. But when you find where they are, you tell me first. You hear me?"

Wade looked at the old man—a decorated Vietnam veteran who'd killed men before and wouldn't hesitate to do it again. "I hear you, Pops."

As night fell over the Benson Ranch, the house stayed lit up like a beacon. No one slept. The command center never stopped humming. The four teenagers worked in shifts, two sleeping in the frat house while two monitored the systems, searching for any trace, any clue.

Pops sat in his chair on the front porch, a fresh cigar in his mouth, his old .45 in his lap, staring into the darkness. He'd seen men taken prisoner before, back in the jungle. He knew what happened to them. The things men did to other men when there were no rules, no witnesses.

But these weren't soldiers in a war zone.

These were his grandsons. Billy and Jake. The boys who'd shared bunk beds their whole lives, who made him laugh at breakfast, who hid beer under the floorboards like he'd done fifty years ago.

And somewhere out there in the Texas night, they were in the hands of people who'd planned this, who'd waited for them, who'd taken them with purpose.

"I'm coming for you, boys," Pops whispered into the darkness. "Hold on. We're coming."

Inside, Tom sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Ray paced the business office, unable to sit still. Josh stood in the doorway of his bedroom, watching Rebecca try to hold herself together. Sarah hadn't left her bedroom, couldn't stop crying.

The question that haunted everyone was simple:

Why?

The answer would come at 7:32 the next morning, and it would be worse than any of them imagined.

Chapter 3: The Demand

The email arrived at 7:32 AM.

Billy Jr. saw it first. He'd been at his laptop for six hours straight, eyes burning, surviving on energy drinks and determination. The alert pinged on his screen—an anonymous message sent through a relay server, bouncing through half a dozen countries before landing in the consortium's secure inbox.

"Everyone get up here!" he shouted. "Now!"

His voice carried down the stairs. Within seconds, footsteps pounded up to the command center. Tom, Josh, Ray, Wade, Pops—everyone who'd stayed at the ranch overnight crowded into the small room.

"What is it?" Tom asked.

Billy Jr.'s face was pale. "Email. You need to see this."

He clicked it open.

The message was short:

You took everything from us. Now we take everything from you. $5 million in unmarked bills. Instructions to follow. No police. No FBI. Or your boys die screaming.

Below the text were three photographs.

The first showed Billy and Jake lashed back against wooden posts in what looked like an old barn. Their hands were tied behind them, disappearing behind the posts. Thick hemp rope circled their necks, bit into their chests above and below their pecs, wrapped across their guts, bound their legs, even secured their boots to the base of the posts. Duct tape was plastered across their mouths, sealing them shut. Their white undershirts were soaked through with sweat, clinging to them like they'd been hosed down. They looked utterly helpless, unable to move even an inch.

The second photo was closer. Billy's face, tape gagged, his eyes squeezed shut, his neck straining against the rope. Sweat poured down his face. Blood crusted at his temple where they'd hit him.

The third was Jake, his head pulled back against the post by the neck rope, the duct tape stretched tight across his mouth and jaw. His chest heaved as he struggled to breathe. Rope burns were already visible on his exposed skin.

Sarah's scream cut through the room like a knife. Tom caught her as her legs gave out. Rebecca turned away, hand over her mouth. Edna and Anna were sobbing.

Pops stared at the screen, his face carved from stone. Then he turned and punched the wall so hard the drywall cracked. "Those fucking animals!"

"Pops, your hand—" Josh started.

"I don't give a shit about my hand!" Pops roared. His knuckles were bleeding but he didn't seem to notice. "Those are my boys! Look at them! Look what they're doing to them! They've got them trussed up like goddamn animals!"

Wade moved closer to the screen, his sheriff's training kicking in even through the horror. "Billy Jr., can you trace this?"

"Already on it." Billy Jr.'s fingers flew across the keyboard. "But they're routing it through TOR networks, VPNs, encrypted relays. This is sophisticated."

"How sophisticated?" Ray asked, his voice tight.

"Professional. Or someone who knows what they're doing." Billy Jr. pulled up another screen. "Billy, help me with the metadata."

Billy Renzo moved to a second laptop, his hands shaking but steady enough to work. "Looking for embedded data in the photos. Sometimes cameras leave GPS coordinates, timestamps..."

"Keep working," Wade said. He turned to Tom. "We need to talk about this. All of us. Downstairs."

---

Ten minutes later, the consortium families gathered around the kitchen table. Tom, Josh, Ray, Robert Beaumont, the Renzo father, the Mattern father, the Rodriguez father. Wade stood at the head with Wilson and Ryan flanking him. Pops sat at the far end, his bleeding hand wrapped in a kitchen towel, his .45 on the table in front of him.

"Five million dollars," Robert Beaumont said. "That's the demand?"

"That's what they're starting with," Wade said. "In kidnapping cases, the first demand is rarely the last."

"I don't care if it's fifty million," Tom said, his voice raw. "We pay it. Whatever they want, we pay it."

"Agreed," said Mr. Renzo.

"Without question," added Mr. Mattern.

Wade held up his hand. "I understand. But we need to think this through. These people said no police, no FBI. They're watching. If they see law enforcement—"

"Then we don't use law enforcement," Josh said. "We handle this ourselves."

"Josh—"

"No, Wade. I appreciate everything you're doing, but these are my brothers. If paying the ransom gets them back alive, we pay. If keeping law enforcement out of sight keeps them safe, that's what we do."

Wade looked around the table. Every face showed the same determination. He sighed. "Alright. But I'm not backing off completely. My boys and I will work behind the scenes. No uniforms, no official vehicles, nothing that tips them off. But I'll be damned if I'm sitting this one out."

"Agreed," Tom said. "Ray, can we get five million together?"

Ray was already calculating on his laptop. "Between the six families, we can have it in cash by tonight. I'll coordinate with the banks, keep it quiet."

"Do it," Tom said.

Upstairs, Billy Jr. and his three friends were tearing apart the email's digital footprint. Daniel Rodriguez had the photos open in photo analysis software. Ryan Mattern was cross-referencing the relay servers against known proxy networks. Billy Renzo was examining every pixel of the images for clues.

"Got something," Daniel said. "Look at this." He zoomed in on the background of one photo. Behind Billy and Jake, barely visible, was a window. Through the window, blurred but there—a landscape. "Trees, open field, and is that... a water tower?"

"Enhance it," Billy Jr. said.

Daniel worked his magic with the image processing software. The water tower became clearer. There was text on it, but it was too degraded to read.

"There can't be that many water towers in a hundred-mile radius," Ryan Mattern said. "We can map them, compare the terrain—"

"Do it," Billy Jr. said. "Billy, you find anything in the metadata?"

"They scrubbed most of it, but..." Billy Renzo frowned at his screen. "The photos were taken with a Samsung phone, probably two or three years old. And look at this—the timestamp says they were taken at 6:47 AM this morning."

"So they've had them overnight," Billy Jr. said. "At least twelve hours, maybe more."

Celab appeared in the doorway with Colt behind him. "We want to help. What can we do?"

Billy Jr. looked at them. "Celab, you know the county better than any of us. Start mapping every abandoned property, every old barn, every place someone could hide a van and two hostages. Colt, you're from Louisiana but you've been here over a year—help him. Think like the kidnappers. Where would you go?"

"On it," Celab said.

The two young men headed downstairs to the business office to use the land registry computers.

At 10:15 AM, a second email arrived.

Billy Jr. opened it, his stomach churning.

We know you're trying to trace us. Stop. We're smarter than you. We're smarter than your sheriff friends. The money buys you time. Maybe. If we're feeling generous. But your boys? They're ours now. And we're going to enjoy every second of making them suffer for what you did to us.

You remember the Carver family? You should. You destroyed us. Took our land, our business, our future. My father put a gun in his mouth because of you. My mother died broken. You consortium bastards thought you could just swallow up everyone in Kings County and no one would fight back.

Wrong.

Instructions for the money drop coming soon. Start praying your boys last that long.

Attached was a video file.

Billy Jr.'s hand hovered over it. He didn't want to open it. God, he didn't want to open it.

But he had to.

He clicked play.

The video was shaky, shot on a phone. It showed Billy and Jake still lashed back against the posts, hands tied behind them, roped at the neck, chest, gut, legs and boots. The duct tape sealed their mouths completely. They were drenched in sweat, their bodies trembling from the strain of being bound so tightly for so long.

A man's voice—deep, cold, emotionless—spoke off camera.

"Say hello to your family, boys."

Neither Billy nor Jake could respond through the tape gags, but their bodies tensed.

There was a sound—a sharp crack—and Billy's body jerked against the ropes. He'd been hit. Jake strained against his bonds beside him, trying to turn toward his brother but unable to move.

"Comfortable?" the voice mocked. "You're going to be there a long time. Might as well get used to it."

Another crack. This time Jake took the blow. His head snapped to the side as much as the neck rope would allow.

The voice laughed. "Got some fight in you still. Good. This'll be more fun."

The camera moved closer, showing the brothers in brutal detail. Their faces were bruised and swollen. Dried blood caked their necks where the ropes had rubbed raw. Their breathing was labored, chests heaving against the restraints. The ropes were so tight they could barely expand their lungs.

"You're watching this, aren't you?" the voice said, addressing the camera directly. "Tom and Sarah Benson. Josh, Ray. All you consortium scum. You're watching your precious boys tied up like hogs for slaughter. Good. Now you know how it feels."

The video ended.

Billy Jr. sat frozen, staring at the black screen. Behind him, he heard footsteps on the stairs. Tom appeared in the doorway.

"Was that another—"

He saw Billy Jr.'s face and stopped.

"They sent a video," Billy Jr. whispered.

Tom's eyes closed. "Show me."

"Dad, you don't want to—"

"Show. Me."

Billy Jr. played it again.

Tom watched in silence. When it ended, he stood there for a long moment, his hands gripping the back of Billy Jr.'s chair so hard his knuckles went white.

Then he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with something dark and final.

"The Carver family. Wade!" he called down the stairs. "Get up here! I know who has my sons!"

Within minutes, the command center was packed again. Tom explained through clenched teeth. "The Carver family. They owned a mid-sized ranch on the eastern border of the county. About three years ago, they overextended—bad loans, bad investments. When cattle prices dropped, they couldn't make payments. We tried to work with them, offered to buy some parcels, give them time. They refused. Said we were trying to steal their legacy."

"They went bankrupt," Ray continued. "Lost everything in foreclosure. The bank auctioned the property. We bought some of it, the Matterns bought some, the Rodriguezes got a piece. But we didn't force them out. They did that themselves with bad business decisions."

"Apparently they don't see it that way," Wade said grimly. He pulled out his phone and made a call. "Wilson, I need everything you can find on the Carver family. Current addresses, known associates, vehicles, everything. Yeah, it's connected to the Benson case... No, I can't explain on the phone. Just do it. Fast."

Pops stood in the corner, his cigar clenched between his teeth, his eyes burning with cold fury. "How many Carvers are there?"

"The father's dead—suicide, apparently," Tom said. "The mother died a year ago. But there were three sons. Marcus, the oldest. Then twins—Derek and Cole. All in their thirties now."

"Find them," Pops said. "And when you do, you let me know first."

"Pops, if we find them, we call the—" Wade started.

"No." Pops's voice was absolute. "You find them, you tell me. I'm getting my boys back. And I'm putting down every son of a bitch who touched them. This ain't a negotiation, Wade. This is war."

No one argued.

Downstairs, Sarah sat in her bedroom with Mary Nelson and Rebecca, the video playing on loop in her mind even though she hadn't seen it. The descriptions were enough. Her babies. Her Billy and Jake. Tied up helpless, unable to move, unable to defend themselves. Being tortured. Being starved and beaten and...

She couldn't finish the thought.

"We're going to get them back," Mary said, holding her hand. "Wade won't stop until—"

"What if they're already dead?" Sarah's voice broke. "What if all of this is just them playing with us and Billy and Jake are already—"

"Don't," Rebecca said firmly. "Don't think that. They're alive. They have to be alive."

But none of them knew for sure.

And that not-knowing was its own special kind of torture.

Upstairs, Billy Jr. had printed out everything he could find on the Carver family. Property records, bankruptcy filings, obituaries, social media profiles. He spread it across the table like a detective's murder board.

"The Carver ranch was 2,400 acres," Daniel said, reading from a document. "Foreclosed three years ago. The main house was demolished. But there were outbuildings—barns, equipment sheds, a foreman's cottage."

"Were they demolished too?" Billy Jr. asked.

"Doesn't say. But if they weren't..." Daniel looked up. "That property backs up to federal land. Remote. No one goes out there anymore."

Billy Jr. felt his heart rate spike. "Can you pull up satellite images?"

Daniel's fingers flew. Within seconds, they were looking at overhead views of the old Carver property. The main house was gone—just a concrete foundation remaining. But there, near the eastern edge, were three structures still standing. One large barn. Two smaller outbuildings.

"That's where they are," Billy Jr. said with absolute certainty. "That's where they're keeping them."

He grabbed the radio. "Dad, Josh, Wade—get up here. I think we found them."

Chapter 4: Captivity

Time didn't exist anymore.

Billy had no idea how long they'd been lashed to these posts. Hours? Days? The barn was dark except for thin strips of light that filtered through the rotting boards. His wrists were tied tight behind the post, the hemp rope cutting into his skin every time he moved. More rope circled his neck, pressed into his chest above and below his pecs, wrapped across his gut, bound his legs and even his boots to the base of the post. The duct tape stretched across his mouth made every breath a struggle through his nose.

He could hear Jake beside him—the sound of his brother's labored breathing, the occasional grunt of pain when Jake tried to shift position and the ropes dug in deeper.

Billy tested his bonds for the hundredth time. Nothing. He couldn't move more than an inch in any direction. The ropes were professional—tight enough to immobilize but not quite tight enough to cut off circulation completely. Whoever these men were, they knew what they were doing.

The barn door creaked open.

Footsteps. Three, maybe four men. Billy tensed, every muscle in his body going rigid.

"Morning, boys." It was Boss's voice, cold and mocking. "Sleep well?"

Billy hadn't slept. Neither had Jake. How could you sleep when you were lashed upright to a post, barely able to breathe, your body screaming in pain?

"I said, did you sleep well?" Boss's voice was closer now. Right in front of Billy.

Billy didn't respond. Couldn't respond through the tape.

A hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head back against the post. The neck rope bit into his throat. "When I ask you a question, you nod or shake your head. You understand me?"

Billy glared at where he thought Boss's face was. He couldn't see—they'd taken the blindfolds off earlier but the barn was too dark.

Boss laughed and released him. "Still got spirit. Good. Breaking you is going to be fun."

Billy heard Jake make a muffled sound through his gag—probably cursing Boss out if he could.

"Oh, the hothead wants to say something?" Boss moved to Jake. "What's that? You want to tell me to go fuck myself? Is that it?"

Another muffled sound. Definitely cursing.

The crack of the blow echoed through the barn. Jake's body jerked against the ropes. Billy strained toward his brother but couldn't move, couldn't help, couldn't do anything but listen.

"Jake!" Billy tried to yell through the tape. It came out as a muffled grunt.

"Aw, Billy wants to protect his big brother. How touching." Boss's footsteps moved back toward Billy. "Let me tell you something, Billy. Your family? They don't give a shit about you. You know how I know? Because it's been over twelve hours and they still haven't paid. Five million dollars. That's what you're worth. And they're too busy counting their money to give a damn."

That was a lie. Billy knew it was a lie. His family was looking for them. Billy Jr. and his friends were probably tearing apart every database they could find. Pops was probably ready to kill someone. They were coming.

They had to be coming.

"Nothing to say?" Boss leaned in close. His breath smelled like cigarettes and hate. "That's okay. You'll be begging to talk soon enough."

The men left. The door slammed shut. Darkness again.

"Jake," Billy tried to say through the tape. "Mmph... mmkay?"

A grunt from Jake. It sounded affirmative. He was okay. Or as okay as you could be in this situation.

Time passed. Billy's legs were going numb. The rope across his gut made it hard to breathe deeply. His shoulders screamed from being pulled back behind the post. Sweat soaked through his undershirt, making the rope chafe worse.

He heard Jake moving—trying to work his wrists against the bonds. Billy did the same. If they could just loosen the rope a little...

But whoever tied them knew their business. The knots were out of reach, the rope layered in a way that made it impossible to find leverage.

The barn door opened again. This time, more light flooded in—someone had brought a lantern.

"Alright, boys. Time for another family video." It was a different voice this time. Younger. One of the Carver sons, probably. "Boss wants your folks to see you're still alive. For now."

Billy saw him now—a man in his thirties with Marcus Carver's face from the photos Billy Jr. had probably already found. He was holding a phone, setting up the shot.

"Derek, get them looking presentable," Marcus said.

Another man—the twin—stepped forward with a bucket. Before Billy could process what was happening, Derek threw cold water directly in his face. Billy gasped, choking, the water running down his taped mouth and soaked shirt. Jake got the same treatment.

"There. Nice and photogenic." Marcus held up the phone. "Smile for the camera, boys."

The red recording light started blinking.

"Day two of captivity," Marcus said into the camera. "Your boys are doing just fine. A little uncomfortable, maybe. A little scared. But alive. For now. The price just went up, by the way. Seven million. You got twenty-four hours. After that..." He walked over to Billy and grabbed his hair, yanking his head up to face the camera. "After that, we start sending pieces."

He released Billy and moved to Jake, doing the same thing. Jake tried to jerk away but the neck rope held him in place.

"Twenty-four hours," Marcus repeated. "Don't fuck this up."

The recording stopped.

But Marcus didn't leave. Instead, he pulled out a knife.

Billy's heart hammered in his chest. This was it. They were going to—

Marcus grabbed the bottom of Billy's soaked undershirt and sliced upward, cutting the fabric away. The shirt fell in strips, leaving Billy's torso exposed. The ropes dug into his bare skin now, even more painful without the fabric barrier.

"Boss wants you uncomfortable," Marcus said. He moved to Jake and did the same thing, cutting away his brother's shirt. "He wants you to suffer. And trust me, we're just getting started."

He left, taking the lantern with him.

In the darkness, Billy heard Jake's ragged breathing. They'd been stripped, humiliated, threatened. And there was nothing they could do about it.

Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Billy had lost all sense of time.

His throat was dry. When was the last time they'd had water? The barn was hot during the day, stifling. Sweat poured down Billy's bare chest and back, making the ropes slick but no looser.

"Mmph... mmkay..." Billy tried again. Are you okay?

"Mmph," Jake responded. Then, more deliberately, three grunts. A pattern they'd used since they were kids. I'm here. Still fighting.

Billy responded with three grunts of his own. Me too.

They were brothers. They'd been through everything together. They'd get through this.

They had to.

The door opened again. Billy had lost count of how many times. This time, it was Boss.

"Good news, boys. Your family's scrambling. Sheriff's department is sniffing around, but they don't know shit. The consortium families are pulling together money. Looks like you might actually be worth something after all."

Boss walked up to Billy, studying him in the dim light. "But you know what? I don't think I'm going to let you go. Even if they pay. Even if they give us everything we ask for. Because this?" He gestured to Billy and Jake lashed helplessly to the posts. "This feels too good. Watching you rich boys suffer. Knowing your family is going crazy wondering if you're alive. That's worth more than money."

He leaned in close to Billy's ear. "Your family destroyed mine. Took everything we had. My father killed himself because of you. So even when they pay—and they will pay—you're still going to die here. Both of you. And I'm going to enjoy every second of it."

Boss stepped back. "But first, we're going to have some fun."

He pulled a length of rope from his belt. Thick hemp, like the rope already binding them.

"You know what this is?" Boss wrapped one end around his hand. "This is a neck rope. And I'm going to show your family exactly what happens when they take too long to pay."

He moved to Jake first.

Billy's eyes went wide. He tried to yell through the tape, tried to thrash against the bonds, but he couldn't move. He could only watch in horror as Boss wrapped the rope around Jake's neck, over the existing neck rope, and pulled.

Jake's body went rigid. His chest heaved as he tried to pull in air through his nose, but the rope was too tight. His face started to change color.

"Stop!" Billy tried to scream. It came out as muffled desperation.

Boss held the rope for five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.

Jake's body was convulsing now, every muscle straining against the restraints.

Then Boss released the pressure. Jake sucked in air through his nose in great, gasping wheezes.

"See?" Boss said conversationally. "Not dead. Not yet. But close enough to remind him—and you—that I own you now."

He moved to Billy.

Billy saw the rope coming, tried to prepare himself, but nothing could prepare you for suffocation. The rope bit into his neck, cutting off air completely. His lungs burned. His vision started to go dark. He could hear Jake beside him, making muffled sounds of protest, trying to help even though he couldn't move.

The world was fading. Billy's body was shutting down. This was it. This was how he died.

Then the rope loosened.

Air flooded back into his lungs. Billy gasped and coughed and choked, his body shaking uncontrollably.

"There we go," Boss said. "Now you know. Now you both know. I can end you anytime I want. But I'm not going to. Not yet. We're going to take our time. Make this last."

He pulled out his phone. "And your family is going to watch every second of it."

The recording light blinked on.

"Day two, video two," Boss said into the camera. "Your payment is late. So we're helping motivate you."

He grabbed the neck rope again.

And Billy knew the nightmare was just beginning.

Chapter 5: The Hunt

Billy Jr. hadn't left the command center in thirty-six hours.

His eyes burned from staring at screens. His fingers cramped from endless typing. Empty energy drink cans littered the floor around his chair. But he didn't care. Somewhere out there, his uncles were tied up in a barn, being tortured, and he'd be damned if he stopped looking for them.

"Run it again," he said to Daniel Rodriguez, who sat at the adjacent laptop. "Cross-reference the water tower data with the terrain analysis."

"Already on it." Daniel's fingers flew across the keyboard. Behind them, Ryan Mattern was on an encrypted call with Wilson Nelson, Wade's deputy son, coordinating intel. Billy Renzo was enhancing the latest video frame by frame, looking for any detail they might have missed.

The door opened. Pops shuffled in, a fresh cigar between his teeth, carrying a plate of sandwiches Sarah had forced him to bring up.

"You boys eat," Pops growled, setting the plate down. "Can't find shit if you pass out from hunger."

"Thanks, Pops," Billy Jr. said, not looking away from his screen.

Pops pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. At seventy-six, climbing the stairs multiple times a day was taking its toll, but wild horses couldn't keep him away from this room. "What've you got?"

"We're close," Billy Jr. said. "The water tower in the background of the photos—we've narrowed it to three possibilities. All within thirty miles of here."

"Three's too many," Pops said.

"I know. But the satellite imagery is outdated. We need real-time reconnaissance." Billy Jr. turned to Ryan Mattern. "How soon can we get drones in the air?"

"Wilson says Wade's got two units ready to go. Civilian models, nothing that screams law enforcement. But they need coordinates."

"Give me ten more minutes."

Celab and Colt appeared in the doorway, both holding printed documents. "We've got the property records for all three locations," Celab said. "Two are active farms. The third—"

"The Carver property," Billy Jr. finished.

"Yeah. Been abandoned for three years. No activity, no utilities, nothing." Celab spread out a detailed map. "But look at this. The property backs up against federal land. If you wanted to hide someone, it's perfect. No neighbors, no traffic, middle of nowhere."

Billy Jr. felt his pulse quicken. "Pull up the thermal drone footage from yesterday. The routine patrol over that sector."

Billy Renzo's fingers flew. Within seconds, they were looking at thermal imaging from 2 PM the previous day. Most of the Carver property showed cold—abandoned buildings losing heat. But there, near the large barn, was a heat signature. Faint, but there.

"Could be animals," Daniel said cautiously.

"Could be," Billy Jr. agreed. "Or it could be people trying to stay hidden." He zoomed in. The barn had been modified—boards nailed over windows, the main door reinforced. Someone had been there recently.

"That's it," Pops said with absolute certainty. He stood up, his hand instinctively going to the .45 on his hip. "That's where they got my boys."

"We need to confirm before—" Billy Jr. started.

"No." Pops's voice was final. "I know a prison when I see one, son. That's it. Now we go get them."

Billy Jr. grabbed the radio. "Dad, Josh, Wade—command center. Now."

Within three minutes, the small room was packed. Tom, Josh, Ray, Wade, Wilson, Ryan Nelson, Robert Beaumont, and the fathers from the other consortium families all crowded in, staring at the screens.

"Show them," Pops said.

Billy Jr. walked them through it. The water tower analysis. The property records. The thermal signature. The modified barn. By the time he finished, Tom's hands were clenched into fists.

"How certain are you?" Wade asked.

"Ninety percent," Billy Jr. said. "Maybe ninety-five."

"That's good enough for me," Tom said. "When do we go?"

"Hold on." Wade held up his hand. "If this is them—and I think it is—we need to do this right. These men are armed. They're desperate. And they've got hostages. If we go in guns blazing—"

"Then we go in smart," Pops interrupted. "I've done this before, Wade. Vietnam. Hostage extractions. You hit hard, you hit fast, and you don't give the enemy time to think."

"Pops, that was fifty years ago—"

"The principles don't change!" Pops's voice cracked like a whip. "You think I'm too old? You think I can't still shoot straight? Those are my grandsons in there, and I'm going in whether you like it or not."

Wade looked at the old man—seventy-six years old, Vietnam veteran, still dangerous as hell—and nodded slowly. "Alright. But we do this as a team. Coordinated. Professional."

"Agreed," Tom said. "What do we need?"

"First, confirmation," Wade said. "Billy Jr., can you get a drone over that barn within the hour?"

"Already on it." Billy Jr. was typing commands. "We've got one with thermal and night vision capability. I can have it over the Carver property in thirty minutes."

"Do it. Get me visual confirmation—vehicles, people, anything that proves they're there. Wilson, Ryan—get the tactical gear ready. No uniforms, no official vehicles. We're civilians on this one." Wade looked around the room. "Tom, Josh, Ray, Robert—I need shooters. People who can handle themselves in a firefight. How many can you field?"

"I'm in," Tom said immediately.

"Me too," Josh said.

"I can shoot," Ray added.

Robert Beaumont nodded. "Caroline will kill me, but I'm in. And I can bring three more from my ranch. All former military."

The other consortium fathers volunteered shooters. Within minutes, Wade was looking at a force of fifteen men.

"Good," Wade said. "But remember—our priority is getting Billy and Jake out alive. Not revenge, not justice. Rescue. Everything else is secondary."

"Rescue first," Pops agreed. "But if those bastards resist..." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.

Downstairs, Sarah sat in her bedroom with Mary, Rebecca, Edna, and Anna. None of them had slept. None of them could eat. The second video had arrived an hour ago—the one showing Boss choking Billy and Jake with the neck rope—and Sarah had vomited after watching it.

"They're going to die," Sarah whispered. "Those men are going to kill them and we're never going to see them again."

"Don't say that," Mary said, but her voice shook. "Wade and the boys are close. They're going to find them."

"But will they be alive when they do?" Sarah's voice broke. "Did you see that video? Did you see what they're doing to them?"

No one had an answer.

In the command center, Billy Jr.'s laptop pinged. The drone had reached the Carver property. Live feed started streaming to his screen.

"Got visual," he said. Everyone crowded around.

The drone circled the barn at 200 feet, its camera zooming in. There—parked behind one of the smaller outbuildings—was a white cargo van. The same make and model from the abduction footage.

"That's them," Tom said. "That's the van."

Billy Jr. switched to thermal imaging. The barn lit up with heat signatures. Two large ones—stationary, in the center of the structure. And three smaller signatures moving around them.

"Two hostages, three hostiles," Wade said. "Maybe more outside the thermal range."

"Can you get closer?" Pops asked.

"I can try." Billy Jr. guided the drone lower, 150 feet, then 100. The thermal became clearer. The two stationary signatures were upright—standing or tied to something vertical.

Billy and Jake. Lashed to posts. Just like in the photos.

"They're alive," Billy Jr. said, his voice tight with emotion. "They're still alive."

Tom's hand gripped his son's shoulder. "Good work, Billy. Good work."

"Now what?" Josh asked, looking at Wade.

Wade pulled out a tactical map and spread it on the table. "Now we plan. The Carver property is here." He marked it with a red X. "One road in, federal land on three sides. That's good for isolation, bad for escape routes. They'll see us coming."

"Not if we come in from the federal land," Pops said. "On foot. At night."

"That's fifteen miles of rough terrain—"

"So what? I've humped farther in worse conditions." Pops studied the map. "We split into three teams. Team one approaches from the north through the federal land. Team two from the east. Team three stays on the road as a blocker—in case they try to run. We hit the barn from two sides simultaneously. Fast and loud. They won't know what's happening until it's over."

Wade looked at the old man with new respect. "That could work."

"It will work," Pops said. "Question is, when do we go?"

"Tonight," Tom said. "We go tonight."

"Agreed," Wade said. "Gives us time to scout, prepare, and move into position after dark. Thermal imaging gives us an advantage—we can see them, they can't see us."

"What about Billy and Jake?" Josh asked. "If shooting starts and they're tied up—"

"That's why we go fast," Pops said. "Overwhelming force, no hesitation. The kidnappers won't have time to hurt them. They'll be too busy trying to stay alive."

Billy Jr. was already typing. "I can keep the drone overhead. Real-time intel feed to your radios. If anyone moves, you'll know."

"Can you jam their communications?" Ryan Nelson asked.

"Already done. Their cell phones will be useless once you're within a mile."

Wade nodded slowly. "Alright. Here's the plan. We meet at staging point alpha—that's the old Hutchins place, five miles from the Carver property—at 1900 hours. Full dark by 2000. We move into position, coordinate the assault for 2100. Billy Jr., you maintain drone coverage and comms. Wilson and Ryan, you're with team north. Tom, Pops, Josh—team east. I'll coordinate the road blockers."

"What about weapons?" Robert Beaumont asked.

"Bring what you've got. Rifles, sidearms, shotguns. This isn't official, so we're not restricted by department regs. But remember—shoot to neutralize, not to murder. If they surrender, we take them alive."

Pops snorted. "They ain't surrendering."

"Maybe not," Wade said. "But we follow the law as much as we can. After we get Billy and Jake out, we call in the FBI, let them sort out the mess."

The room fell silent. Everyone was thinking the same thing: In twelve hours, this would be over. One way or another.

Billy Jr. looked at the thermal image on his screen. Two figures, motionless, bound and helpless. His uncles. His friends. The guys who'd shared the frat house with him, who'd taught him to shoot, who'd treated him like a brother instead of a nephew.

"Hold on," he whispered to the screen. "We're coming."

In the barn, Billy didn't know help was coming. He didn't know Billy Jr. had found them. He didn't know fifteen armed men were preparing to storm the building.

All he knew was pain. And fear. And his brother's labored breathing beside him.

But somewhere deep inside, he still had hope.

Because Pops had taught him one thing: Bensons don't quit. Ever.

And tonight, the Bensons were coming home.

Chapter 6: Breaking Point

The third day started with silence.

Billy had stopped trying to keep track of time. His body was one continuous scream of agony—the ropes cutting into his bare skin, his shoulders burning from being wrenched back behind the post, his legs numb from standing in the same position for what felt like forever. The duct tape had been on his mouth for so long his jaw ached. Every breath through his nose was a conscious effort.

Beside him, Jake was equally still. Billy could hear his brother's breathing, ragged and shallow. They'd both learned that moving only made the pain worse.

The barn door opened.

Boss entered with Marcus and Derek. But this time, they were carrying something different. Billy's eyes adjusted to the dim light and his stomach dropped.

Knives.

"Morning, boys," Boss said cheerfully. "Hope you got some rest. You're going to need it." He walked up to Billy, studying him like a piece of meat. "Your family's being difficult. They want proof you're still alive. More importantly, they want proof we're serious."

He nodded to Marcus, who pulled out his phone and started recording.

"So we're going to send them a message they won't forget."

Boss grabbed the remnants of Billy's already-cut undershirt and ripped away the last pieces, leaving his torso completely bare. The ropes dug into his exposed skin—around his neck, across his chest above and below his pecs, tight around his gut.

"Hold still now," Boss said, bringing the knife close to Billy's chest. "This is going to hurt."

Billy tried to jerk away but the ropes held him immobile. The blade touched his skin just below his collarbone and dragged slowly downward. Not deep—just enough to break the skin, to draw blood, to leave a thin red line across his chest. Billy's muffled scream echoed through the barn, his body convulsing against the restraints.

"There we go," Boss said, admiring his work. He made another cut, this one across Billy's stomach just above the rope. Then another along his ribs. Another down his side.

Billy's vision blurred with tears. The pain was incredible—sharp and burning. Blood ran down his torso in thin streams, mixing with the sweat that already soaked his skin.

"Jake's turn," Boss said, moving to the other post.

"Mmmmph!" Billy tried to scream, tried to beg them to stop. Jake's body went rigid, every muscle tensing as Marcus cut away the last of his shirt.

Then Boss brought the knife to Jake's chest.

The cuts were methodical, deliberate. Not deep enough to be fatal, but deep enough to bleed, to hurt, to scar. Down his chest. Across his stomach. Along his ribs. Jake's muffled screams mixed with Billy's, both brothers helpless to do anything but take it.

"This is what happens when you make us wait," Boss said to the camera, dragging the knife across Jake's abdomen one more time. Jake's body jerked, fresh blood welling up along the cut. "Every hour you delay, they suffer more. Every game you play, we carve them up a little more."

He stepped back, admiring his work. Both brothers were now covered in shallow cuts, blood running down their bare torsos in rivulets, their bodies shaking from shock and pain.

"You've got twelve hours," Boss said to the camera. "Full amount. No tricks. No delays. Or next time, we go deeper. A lot deeper."

Marcus stopped recording.

"Clean them up a bit," Boss said to Derek. "Don't want them dying from infection before we get our money. That'd be a waste."

Derek brought out a bottle of something—rubbing alcohol maybe—and splashed it directly onto Billy's cuts.

The pain was blinding. Billy screamed behind the gag, his body thrashing against the ropes. Every cut felt like it was on fire. Beside him, Jake got the same treatment, his muffled screams echoing Billy's.

"There," Derek said. "All disinfected."

The three men left, slamming the barn door behind them.

Silence.

Billy hung there in the darkness, every part of his body screaming. The cuts on his chest and stomach burned like they were still being made. He couldn't stop shaking. Blood and sweat dripped down his torso, pooling at the ropes around his waist.

"Mmph..." he tried. Jake?

A weak grunt in response. Jake was alive. Barely, but alive.

Time crawled by. Billy didn't know if minutes or hours passed. The blood from the cuts slowly dried, crusting on his skin. Every breath hurt. The ropes seemed tighter than before, if that was even possible.

Then he heard Jake moving. Just slightly—testing his bonds again.

"Mmph," Jake grunted. Three times. The signal. Still here. Still fighting.

Billy's heart lifted. Jake was still in there. Still his brother. Still refusing to break.

Billy responded with three grunts of his own. Me too.

But the truth was, Billy didn't know how much more they could take. The Carvers weren't going to let them go. Boss had said it himself—even if the ransom was paid, Billy and Jake were dead. This barn was going to be their grave.

Unless...

Billy started working his wrists again. The blood made them slippery. Maybe, just maybe, if he could get enough leverage...

Hours passed. Or maybe just one hour. Time had no meaning.

The door opened again. Billy tensed, expecting Boss.

But it was just Marcus, alone. He set down two bottles of water and walked over to Billy first. He peeled back just the corner of the duct tape.

"Drink," Marcus said, tipping the bottle to Billy's lips.

Billy wanted to spit it back at him, but his throat was so dry he couldn't help gulping it down. Marcus did the same for Jake, then re-taped their mouths.

"For what it's worth," Marcus said quietly, "I'm sorry. Boss has lost his mind. This was supposed to be just about money. But after what your families did to us..." He shook his head. "He's not going to stop. Even if they pay, he's going to kill you both. Slowly."

He left.

The admission should have terrified Billy. Should have broken him completely.

Instead, it made him angry.

These men had taken them, beaten them, tortured them, carved them up like animals. And they were going to kill them no matter what.

Fuck that.

"Mmph," Billy grunted. Jake. You hear me?

"Mmph," Jake responded.

Billy made a series of grunts—a code they'd developed as kids playing in the barn. We fight. When they come back. We fight.

There was a pause. Then Jake responded. How?

Billy didn't have an answer yet. They were lashed so tight they could barely move. But there had to be something. Some moment when the kidnappers got careless. Some opportunity.

They just had to stay alive long enough to find it.

"Mmph," Billy grunted. Together.

"Mmph," Jake agreed. Always.

In the darkness of the barn, broken and bleeding and barely alive, the Benson brothers made their pact.

They weren't going to die here.

Not without a fight.

---

At the Benson Ranch, the newest video arrived at 3:47 PM.

Billy Jr. opened it with shaking hands. The four teenagers were alone in the command center—he'd sent the adults away because he needed to see it first, to prepare them.

The video started playing.

"Oh my God," Daniel whispered.

"Jesus Christ," Ryan Mattern said, turning away.

Billy Renzo just stared, his face pale.

Billy Jr. watched it all. The knife cuts. The blood. His uncles being tortured, carved up like animals. His stomach heaved but he forced himself to keep watching. He had to see everything. Had to look for clues, for any detail that might help.

When it ended, he sat there in silence.

"We can't show this to your parents," Daniel said. "Billy, this will destroy them."

"They have to see it," Billy Jr. said quietly. "They have to know what's happening. What these bastards are doing."

He saved the file and stood up. His legs felt shaky but he forced himself to walk to the door.

"Dad!" he called down the stairs. "You need to come up here. Everyone. Now."

Within minutes, the command center was packed. Tom, Josh, Ray, Wade, Pops, Sarah, Rebecca. The consortium fathers. Everyone.

"There's another video," Billy Jr. said. His voice cracked. "It's bad. Really bad. Mom, maybe you should—"

"Show me my sons," Sarah said. Her voice was steel.

Billy Jr. clicked play.

The screams started within seconds. Sarah collapsed. Rebecca caught her. Tom's face went white as death. Josh punched the wall. Ray stood frozen, unable to process what he was seeing.

Pops watched it all in silence. When it ended, he turned and walked out of the room without a word.

They found him on the front porch, his .45 in his lap, fresh cigar in his mouth.

"Pops," Tom said carefully. "We're going tonight. We're getting them out."

"I know," Pops said. His voice was flat, emotionless. The voice of a killer. "And when we do, I'm putting a bullet in every one of those sons of bitches. In their knees first. So they know what's coming. Then their guts. Let them bleed out slow. Then, when they're begging for it, I'll put one in their fucking heads."

"Pops—"

"Don't," Pops said, looking at his son. There were tears running down the old man's face, but his eyes were cold and dead. "Don't tell me about the law or justice or any of that bullshit. Those are my grandsons in there. They carved them up like animals, Tom. And you want me to be civilized?"

Tom said nothing.

"We leave at 1900," Pops said. "And God help anyone who gets between me and those boys."

Chapter 7: The Assault

The sun was setting over Kings County as fifteen armed men gathered at the old Hutchins place.

Wade Nelson stood in the center, a tactical map spread across the hood of his truck. Around him, the consortium fathers checked weapons, adjusted night vision gear, and listened to the real-time intel coming from the tech van parked twenty yards away.

Billy Jr. sat in the back of the van surrounded by screens, with Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez crowded in beside him. The four teenagers had insisted on coming, and after a brief argument, Wade had agreed—as long as they stayed in the vehicle and kept the communications running.

"Drone is in position," Billy Jr. said over the encrypted radio network. "I've got eyes on the barn. Three heat signatures moving inside. Two stationary—that's Billy and Jake. No movement outside the structure."

"Copy that," Wade said. He looked around at the assembled men. Tom, Josh, Ray, Robert Beaumont and his three ranch hands, the Mattern father and two of his sons, the Rodriguez father and his brother. Wilson and Ryan Nelson. And Pops, standing at the edge of the group with his .45 in a shoulder holster and an old M16 from Vietnam cradled in his arms.

"Listen up," Wade said. "We've got three hostiles, two hostages. The hostages are immobile—tied to posts in the center of the barn. Our priority is getting them out alive. Team North—that's Wilson, Ryan, and the Beaumont crew—you approach through the federal land from the north side. Team East—Tom, Pops, Josh, Ray, and the Rodriguez team—you come in from the east. I'll lead the road team as blockers in case anyone tries to run."

"Rules of engagement?" Robert Beaumont asked.

Wade's jaw tightened. "These men are armed and have shown they're willing to kill. If they surrender, we take them alive. If they resist..." He looked at Pops. "Do what you have to do."

Pops smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile. "Understood."

"Billy Jr.," Wade said into his radio. "Confirm their communications are jammed."

"Confirmed," Billy Jr. said from the tech van. "Cell signals are blocked within a two-mile radius. They're deaf and blind."

"Good. All teams, move out. Radio silence until we're in position. Billy Jr., you stay on comms. I want constant updates on those heat signatures."

"Yes sir. We've got you covered."

---

The approach took forty-five minutes. Inside the tech van, the four teenagers monitored every movement on their screens.

"Team East is in position," Daniel whispered, watching the thermal overlay. "Thirty meters from the barn."

"Team North just hit their mark," Ryan Mattern added. "Everyone's ready."

Billy Jr. keyed his microphone. "All teams, you're in position. Three hostiles still inside, clustered near the center. Two hostages haven't moved. You're clear to proceed."

"Copy," Wade's voice came back. "On my mark. Three... two... one... GO!"

Through the van's external microphones, they heard the doors crash open. Then gunfire erupted.

"Shit!" Billy Renzo said, gripping his laptop. "Contact! I've got muzzle flashes—multiple shooters!"

Billy Jr. was tracking everything on thermal. "Team East engaging hostile on the west side—that's Boss Carver. Team North has contact with two hostiles near the tractor!"

The gunfire was intense but brief. Less than thirty seconds. Then silence.

"All hostiles down," Billy Jr. reported, his voice shaking. "I'm reading... four heat signatures standing. Multiple on the ground, not moving. Billy and Jake are still in the center. They're... they're not moving either."

"Stay calm," Daniel said, gripping his friend's shoulder. "Your dad and Pops have them."

Wade's voice crackled over the radio. "Site secure. All hostiles neutralized. We need medical now!"

"Ambulances are rolling," Billy Jr. said immediately. "Rebecca's coordinating with Kings County Hospital. ETA twelve minutes."

But twelve minutes was too long.

"Screw it," Billy Jr. said, ripping off his headset. "We're going in."

"Billy, Wade said to stay—" Ryan Mattern started.

"Those are my uncles!" Billy Jr. was already out of the van, running toward the barn. The other three teenagers followed without hesitation.

They burst through the barn door and stopped dead.

The scene was worse than anything they'd imagined. Bodies of the kidnappers on the ground. Shell casings everywhere. And in the center, illuminated by flashlights—Billy and Jake.

Tom was holding Billy, who was unconscious and covered in blood. Josh and Ray were supporting Jake, carefully cutting the last of the ropes. Both brothers were stripped to the waist, their torsos covered in cuts and rope burns. They looked dead.

"Are they—" Billy Jr. couldn't finish the question.

"They're alive," Tom said, his voice breaking. "Barely. Help us get them to the trucks."

The four teenagers sprang into action. Billy Renzo grabbed emergency blankets from the medical kit he'd carried in. Daniel and Ryan helped wrap Billy and Jake carefully. Billy Jr. coordinated on his radio, directing the consortium trucks to pull up as close as possible.

"I've got Rebecca on the line," Billy Jr. said. "She wants vitals. Dad, what are we looking at?"

Tom rattled off what he could see while Rebecca's voice came through Billy Jr.'s earpiece, giving instructions. Start IVs. Keep them warm. Monitor breathing. Get them moving.

Pops stood over his unconscious grandsons, his hands shaking as he helped wrap them in blankets. "You boys did good," he said to Billy Jr. and his friends. "You found them. You brought us here. You saved their lives."

"We all did, Pops," Billy Jr. said, but tears were streaming down his face.

---

They carried Billy and Jake out of the barn to where the consortium trucks waited. The ranch vehicles had been modified with medical supplies—Rebecca had thought of everything.

Sarah was there, having driven out with Mary Nelson despite everyone telling her to stay home. When she saw her sons—unconscious, bloodied, barely alive—she let out a sound that wasn't quite human.

"My babies," she sobbed, trying to touch them. "My babies—"

"Sarah, they need space," Rebecca said gently, her nurse training kicking in. She was already checking vitals, starting IV lines. "They're alive. They're going to make it. But we need to get them to the hospital now."

Billy and Jake were loaded into the back of two pickup trucks that had been outfitted with mattresses and medical equipment. Tom rode with Billy. Josh rode with Jake. Rebecca coordinated between both vehicles.

Billy Jr. climbed into the tech van with his three friends. "We're staying on comms the whole way," he said. "Hospital needs to know what's coming."

The four teenagers worked as the convoy moved, Billy Jr. on the radio with the hospital, Daniel monitoring vital signs being transmitted from the trucks, Ryan coordinating the route to avoid traffic, Billy Renzo keeping the encrypted network running.

Edna and Anna rode in one of the other trucks, crying and holding each other. Pops rode with Jake, his hand resting on his grandson's leg, his jaw set.

"Tough bastards," Pops said quietly. "Both of them. Three days of hell and they didn't break. I'm proud of them, Josh. So goddamn proud."

The convoy rolled through the night, headlights cutting through the darkness, carrying Billy and Jake Benson home.

---

Chapter 8: Hospital

The emergency room at Kings County Hospital had been cleared and prepped. Rebecca had called ahead, and the trauma team was waiting when the convoy pulled up.

Billy and Jake were rushed inside on gurneys, still unconscious, Rebecca and the ER doctors calling out vitals and injuries as they moved.

"Twenty-one year old male, severe dehydration, multiple lacerations to the torso, possible ligature trauma to neck and extremities, unresponsive—"

"Twenty-two year old male, similar presentation, rope burns on all extremities, evidence of prolonged restraint—"

The Benson family crowded into the waiting room. Sarah sat with Mary and Caroline Beaumont, all three women holding each other. Tom and Josh paced. Ray sat with his head in his hands. Pops stood at the window, smoking a cigar despite the no-smoking signs, and nobody had the courage to tell him to stop.

Billy Jr. and his three friends set up a small command station in the corner of the waiting room, their laptops out, monitoring everything. They'd hacked into the hospital's systems—not maliciously, just to keep track of Billy and Jake's status in real time.

"They're in Trauma 1 and Trauma 2," Daniel whispered, watching his screen. "Both are getting IV fluids, antibiotics, pain management—"

"That's good, right?" Billy Renzo asked.

"That's good," Daniel confirmed.

Edna and Anna sat nearby, both girls pale and shaking. Anna held Billy Jr.'s hand when he wasn't typing.

The wait was excruciating. An hour passed. Then two. Billy Jr.'s screens showed the medical procedures happening—vital signs stabilizing, fluid levels improving, tests being run.

Finally, Rebecca emerged in scrubs, exhausted but smiling.

"They're stable," she said, and the room erupted in sobs of relief. "Dehydrated, malnourished, covered in cuts and bruises, but stable. No permanent damage to any organs. The cuts were shallow—painful but not life-threatening. The rope burns will heal. They're going to be okay."

"When can we see them?" Sarah asked, her voice desperate.

"Soon. They're being moved to ICU. Still unconscious—their bodies shut down from the trauma. It might be a few hours, maybe longer, before they wake up. But when they do, you can see them."

"Thank God," Tom breathed, pulling Sarah into his arms. "Thank God."

Pops sat down heavily in a chair, suddenly looking every one of his seventy-six years. Billy Jr. walked over and sat beside him.

"You okay, Pops?"

"I'm okay, son. Just... tired." Pops looked at Billy Jr. "You and your buddies—what you did tonight—that was something special. You boys are heroes. Every damn one of you."

"We just did what you taught us, Pops. Never quit. Never leave family behind."

Pops pulled Billy Jr. into a rough hug. "That's my boy."

The Benson family settled in to wait. No one was leaving until Billy and Jake woke up. The consortium families brought food, coffee, blankets. The waiting room became a camp.

At 2:47 AM, a nurse came out.

"They're awake," she said. "Both of them. Asking for family."

The rush to the ICU was controlled chaos. Tom and Sarah went first, with Josh and Ray behind them. Pops insisted Edna and Billy Jr. come too.

Billy and Jake were in adjacent rooms, separated by a glass partition. Both brothers were hooked up to IVs and monitors, their torsos wrapped in bandages. But their eyes were open.

Sarah burst into tears when she saw them. Tom couldn't speak.

"Hey, Mom," Billy rasped, his voice barely working. "We're okay."

"Hey, Pop," Jake added from the next room. "Told you we'd make it."

Pops walked between the two rooms, looking at both his grandsons. "You boys scared the hell out of us."

"Sorry, Pops," Billy said.

"Don't be sorry. Be proud. You survived. Both of you." Pops's voice cracked. "You tough sons of bitches. You held on."

Billy Jr. appeared in Billy's doorway, tears running down his face. "Uncle Billy—"

"Hey, Billy Jr.," Billy said, managing a weak smile. "I knew you'd find us. I told Jake—I said Billy Jr. and his friends are gonna find us. And you did."

"We all did," Billy Jr. said. "All of us together."

In the next room, Edna was holding Jake's hand, crying. Jake squeezed her fingers weakly. "Missed you."

"Missed you too," she sobbed.

The doctors gave them fifteen minutes, then insisted everyone leave so Billy and Jake could rest. As the family filed out, Billy and Jake turned their heads to look at each other through the glass partition.

Jake raised his hand. Three weak taps on the bed rail.

Billy responded. Three taps of his own.

Still here. Still fighting. Always.

The Benson brothers were home.

Epilogue: Home

Two days later, the Benson Ranch was alive with noise and laughter.

Long tables groaned with food under the oak trees—brisket, ribs, pulled pork, all the fixings. Coolers full of beer. Pops's special brandy making the rounds. The entire consortium had turned out to celebrate.

Billy and Jake sat in lawn chairs of honor, moving gingerly, bandages under their loose shirts. Doc Peterson had released them that morning with strict orders to rest.

"You boys should be in bed," Sarah fussed.

"Ma, we've been in bed for two days," Jake said. "If I have to stare at another hospital ceiling, I'm gonna lose my mind."

"Don't blame me when Doc chews your ass out," Sarah said.

"Too late for that," Doc Peterson grumbled, appearing with a beer. The seventy-four-year-old doctor looked grumpy as hell despite the party. He'd been Pops's medic in Vietnam, his drinking and poker buddy ever since, and ran Kings County Hospital with an iron fist. "I told these idiots twenty-four hours of bed rest minimum."

"They're Bensons," Pops said, carrying his battered banjo. "They don't listen worth a damn."

"Neither do you, you old bastard. Remember when I told you to quit smoking those cigars?"

"And I've been ignoring you successfully ever since."

Doc shook his head. "I delivered those two boys twenty-some years ago. Came into this world screaming their heads off. And now look at them—survived three days with kidnappers and they're drinking beer like nothing happened."

"Tough stock," Pops said proudly.

"Stupid stock," Doc corrected. "But tough."

Billy Jr. and his friends sat nearby with Anna and Edna. Celab grinned. "So let me get this straight—you two got kidnapped and tortured, and the first thing you do is throw a party?"

"Damn right," Billy said. "What else were we supposed to do?"

"Besides," Jake added, "Pops threatened to disown us if we didn't."

"Oh no," Josh groaned from across the yard. "Not the banjo."

"Not the fucking banjo," Ray echoed.

"LANGUAGE!" Sarah shouted, but she was grinning.

Pops settled into a chair and started tuning. "You boys don't appreciate good music."

"When you were in 'Nam, the banjo hadn't been invented yet," Jake said.

The yard exploded with laughter.

Doc Peterson took a long drink. "I had to listen to this shit every night in the jungle for two years. You people are voluntarily subjecting yourselves to it."

"Well, I had to love him to keep his ass alive," Doc grumbled. "Took three bullets for being too stubborn to duck."

"Ducking's for cowards," Pops said.

"Ducking's for people who want to live."

They'd been having this argument for fifty years.

Pops started playing—janky and off-key, objectively terrible. But nobody cared.

Tom stood up. "To Pops and his goddamn banjo—may it never improve!"

"Here, here!" The yard raised their beers.

Doc muttered about "war crimes" but he was smiling.

The party rolled on. Wilson Nelson joined in with his guitar. The sun set, painting the sky orange and purple. Someone started a bonfire.

As darkness fell, Pops and Doc walked over to Billy and Jake. Both old men looked at the brothers with pride.

"How you boys feeling? Really?" Pops asked.

"Sore," Billy admitted. "But good."

"We're gonna have nightmares for a while," Jake said quietly.

Doc nodded. "You will. That's normal. But you talk about it. You don't bottle it up. You hear me?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Because I didn't spend two days putting you back together just to have you fall apart from PTSD." Doc's voice softened. "You boys did good. You survived."

Pops pulled out his flask of brandy. "Take a sip. Doctor's orders."

"Hey, I'm the doctor here," Doc protested.

"Then give the order."

Doc sighed. "Fine. Drink the damn brandy. It's medicinal."

Around midnight, people headed home. Doc Peterson was one of the last to leave.

"Same time next week for poker?" he asked Pops.

"Wouldn't miss it. Bring money this time."

"Bring skill this time." Doc turned to Billy and Jake. "You boys take care of yourselves. And if anything feels wrong—anything—you call me. Day or night. Because I delivered you into this world, and I'll be damned if I let it take you out before I'm ready."

He left, grumbling about the drive home.

Finally, just the Bensons remained. They sat around the dying bonfire—Tom, Sarah, Josh, Rebecca, Ray, Pops, Billy, Jake, and Billy Jr.

"Hell of a week," Tom said.

"Hell of a family," Pops corrected. "We got our boys back."

"We got each other back," Sarah said. "That's all that matters."

The adults slowly dispersed. Pops shuffled upstairs with his banjo. Billy and Jake climbed the stairs to the frat house, moving slowly, their bodies still healing.

Billy Jr. was already in his bunk. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Billy whispered, climbing into his bottom bunk. Above him, Jake settled onto the top bunk with a grunt.

"Good night, Uncle Billy. Uncle Jake."

"Night, Billy Jr."

"Night, kid."

Billy lay there, staring at the underside of Jake's bunk, listening to his brother's breathing. Three days ago, he'd been lashed to a post in a barn, certain he was going to die. Now he was home. Safe.

"Jake?" he whispered.

"Yeah?"

"We made it."

"Yeah. We did."

Three taps on the bunk frame from above.

Three taps back from below.

Still here. Still fighting. Always.

Outside, the Texas night was quiet. Inside, the Benson family slept.

And for the first time in days, Billy and Jake slept too.

They were home.