They brought Billy Benson into the old barn, tied up, beaten up, his face bloody, his white t-shirt filthy with dirt and sweat, his face fit to kill. "When my brothers and family get me, you boys are dead!" They took a photo, hogtied and gagged him, took another, and sent it by a burner phone to the command center where Billy Jr. was with his buddies, Colt and the wiz kids, adjusting drone flying patterns.
Scene 1
The sun hadn't even considered rising when Pops banged on the frat house door with his walking stick. "Up and at 'em, you lazy sons of bitches! Daylight's burning!"
"Pops, it's four-thirty," Billy groaned from the bottom bunk.
"Damn right it is. Means you're already thirty minutes behind."
Jake threw a pillow at the door. "First one to the bathroom gets it!"
Chaos erupted. Billy vaulted over Jake, Celab rolled out of his top bunk and hit the floor running, and Colt—Celab's cousin from Louisiana—got trampled on his mattress in the stampede. Billy Jr. had already claimed the bathroom, having learned months ago that setting his alarm five minutes before Pops's morning rounds was the key to survival.
"Cheater!" Jake pounded on the door.
"Strategic planning," Billy Jr. called back.
Downstairs, Sarah and Rebecca were already moving through the kitchen like a well-oiled machine—eggs, bacon, biscuits, gravy, and enough coffee to fuel a small army. The smell drifted up the stairs, finally convincing Colt that consciousness was worth the effort.
By five-fifteen, the entire household had assembled around the long dining table. Pops sat at the head with his brandy-laced coffee—"Breakfast of champions, goddammit"—while the boys shoveled food and Rebecca refilled plates faster than they could empty them.
Josh spread a map across the corner of the table, already in manager mode. "Jake and Celab, you're on the irrigation system in the west quarter—"
"Again?" Jake interrupted.
"Yes, again. Because you half-assed it last time."
"Bullshit, we—"
"Language," Sarah warned, though no one at the table believed she really cared anymore.
Josh continued. "Billy, I need you to check out that old storage barn in the N section. Haven't been out there in months. Make sure the roof's still standing and we don't have squatters."
"The creepy one past Miller's Creek?" Billy asked.
"That's the one. Take the Gator, bring your radio. Should be a quick trip—back by lunch."
Billy nodded, already mentally planning his route.
"Colt, you're helping me with the equipment inventory," Josh added. "Meet me at the main barn at seven."
"Yes, sir," Colt said, still working on his third biscuit.
Ray was already on his second cup of coffee, reviewing spreadsheets on his tablet. "Tom, we've got the consortium finance meeting at eleven-thirty, right? Everyone's coming here for lunch?"
Tom nodded. "Robert and Caroline are bringing their quarterly reports. Wade's coming with Wilson and Ryan. The Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguez families should be here by noon."
"Good," Ray said. "We need to finalize the equipment purchase orders. That seventy-five grand in tech is already paying for itself, but we're going to need to talk about the drone maintenance budget."
After breakfast, Billy Jr. pulled out his phone and fired off a group text to the wiz kids: Command center. 8am. New drone firmware to install. Bring coffee.
Three responses came back almost instantly:
Billy Renzo: On it
Ryan Mattern: Be there in 20
Daniel Rodriguez: Your coffee or real coffee?
By eight o'clock, all four of them were in the command center—the converted bedroom next to the frat house that now looked like a Silicon Valley startup had exploded inside it.
"Alright, let's see if this firmware update actually works," Billy Jr. said, booting up the main console. The four screens flickered to life, showing telemetry data from all ten drones.
"Your dad's gonna lose his mind when he sees what these things can do now," Ryan Mattern said, pulling up the thermal imaging calibration.
"If we don't brick them first," Daniel Rodriguez muttered, typing rapidly.
Billy Renzo laughed. "Have a little faith, Rodriguez. When have we ever—"
"Don't finish that sentence," Billy Jr. cut him off. "You'll jinx it."
They worked in comfortable rhythm, the kind that comes from hundreds of hours together—adjusting flight patterns, testing the new tracking algorithms, running diagnostics. The morning sun crept through the windows.
By eleven-thirty, the ranch house dining room had transformed into a conference room. Tom sat at the head of the table with Ray beside him, spreadsheets and reports spread out between them. Robert and Caroline Beaumont sat across from them. Sheriff Wade Nelson had arrived with his sons Wilson and Ryan, both in civilian clothes on their day off. The Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez families were filing in, greeting each other, settling into chairs.
Sarah and Rebecca were setting out platters of sandwiches, potato salad, and sweet tea for the lunch meeting.
"Before we start," Tom said, "I want to thank everyone for making this consortium work. Fourteen months in, and we're already seeing returns that—"
At 9:47 AM—while Tom was mid-sentence—Billy Jr.'s encrypted satellite phone buzzed in the command center.
Then buzzed again.
He glanced at the screen and froze.
Two photos. Unknown number.
The first showed a man standing, beaten, tied up, face bloody, white t-shirt filthy with dirt and sweat.
The second showed the same man hogtied and gagged on a dirt floor.
Both showed Billy.
"Oh Jesus," Billy Jr. whispered.
"What?" Billy Renzo looked up.
Billy Jr. didn't answer. His hand was already slamming the red emergency button on the console.
"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. BILLY JUNIOR."
In the dining room, the automated voice erupted from every phone, every radio, every device simultaneously. Conversations stopped mid-word. Forks froze mid-air.
Tom shot to his feet. "Command center, what's your emergency?"
Ray's tablet clattered to the table. Sheriff Wade's hand went instinctively to his hip where his service weapon should be.
"Command center, respond!" Tom's voice boomed through the house.
Upstairs, Billy Jr. grabbed his iPad, the photos still glowing on the screen. "Guys, come on!"
All four boys thundered down the stairs, Billy Jr. in the lead, the others right behind clutching their own iPads.
They burst into the dining room.
"Dad—" Billy Jr.'s voice cracked. He held up the iPad, his hands shaking.
Josh snatched it from him, Rebecca right behind him looking over his shoulder.
Rebecca's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God. Oh my God, that's Billy—"
"Let me see that." Tom grabbed the iPad.
The room erupted.
"Jesus Christ!" Pops was on his feet, his chair scraping backward. "Those son of a bitch cocksuckers—"
"Pops!" Sarah snapped, but her face had gone white.
Mary Nelson grabbed Caroline Beaumont's arm for support.
Sheriff Wade was already pulling out his personal phone. "Wilson, Ryan, we need—"
"Where is he?" Tom's voice cut through the chaos. "Where the hell is my son?"
"N section," Josh said, his face ashen. "The old storage barn. I sent him there this morning."
Jake exploded from his chair. "I'm getting my rifle—"
"Jake, wait—" Ray started.
"Wait? WAIT?" Jake's face was crimson. "Those bastards have Billy! I'm gonna kill every single one of them!"
"Jake!" Tom grabbed his son's arm. "You're not going anywhere until we figure out what we're dealing with!"
"The hell I'm not!"
"Stand down, son." Pops's voice was steel. "You go off half-cocked, you'll get your brother killed."
Jake's jaw clenched, every muscle in his body coiled tight, but he stayed put.
Celab was already at Billy Jr.'s side, looking at the photos. "How long ago did these come in?"
"Two minutes. Maybe three."
"They could still be moving him," Daniel Rodriguez said.
Sheriff Wade's voice cut through. "Everyone quiet down. Right now." The room fell silent. "Tom, I need you to stay calm. Josh, when did Billy leave?"
"Around six," Josh said, his voice hollow. "He should've been back by now. Should've called in."
"His radio?" Wade asked.
Ray was already trying. "Billy, come in. Billy, respond." Static. "Nothing."
Rebecca had tears streaming down her face. "We have to find him. We have to—"
"We will," Wade said firmly. "But we do this smart. Wilson, Ryan, get on the phone with the department. Tell them we have a possible kidnapping, Kings County resident, last seen N section near Miller's Creek. I want every available unit out there now."
"On it." Wilson was already dialing.
Wade turned to Billy Jr. "Son, I need you and your friends back in that command center. Get those drones in the air. Thermal imaging, the works. If they're moving him, I want to know where."
"Yes sir." Billy Jr. was already moving, the other three right behind him.
"Robert," Wade continued, "call everyone in the consortium. I want every man who can hold a rifle on standby."
"Done." Robert pulled out his phone.
Tom stood frozen, staring at the photo of his youngest son beaten and tied. His hands were shaking.
Sarah moved to his side, put her hand on his arm. "Tom..."
"They hurt him." Tom's voice was barely above a whisper. "They hurt my boy."
"And we're gonna get him back," Pops said, limping over. "Then we're gonna make them pay for every goddamn bruise on his face."
Jake was pacing like a caged animal. "I should've been with him. I should've—"
"This isn't your fault," Josh said, though his own voice was breaking.
Caroline Beaumont had her arm around Mary Nelson, both women pale. The Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez parents were on their phones, already mobilizing.
Upstairs, the command center came alive. Four screens lit up. Drone motors whirred to life.
Billy Jr.'s voice came through the speakers: "Drones one through four launching. Heading to N section, Miller's Creek area. Thermal imaging active."
Sheriff Wade looked around the room at the assembled families—ranchers, parents, warriors all. "Alright, people. Let's bring Billy home."
The hunt had begun.
Scene 2
The command center had become war room central. Billy Jr.'s fingers flew across the keyboard while the other three wiz kids worked their stations. Colt stood behind them, learning fast, his Louisiana drawl occasionally cutting through with sharp observations.
"Drone two has the Gator," Ryan Mattern called out. "N section, near Miller's Creek. Empty."
"Zoom in," Billy Jr. ordered.
The thermal camera adjusted. The Gator sat abandoned, driver's door open.
"There." Daniel Rodriguez pointed at his screen. "Tire tracks heading east. Fresh."
Billy Jr. was already pulling up the ranch's surveillance network—motion-activated cameras they'd installed on fence posts and old utility poles across the property. "Come on, come on..."
"Wait." Billy Renzo leaned forward. "Go back. Camera 47, timestamp 7:31 AM."
The screen flickered. Grainy footage appeared.
Billy's truck in the ditch, passenger side smashed against a fence post.
Three men. Two holding Billy by the arms. The third—bigger, meaner—driving his fist into Billy's gut. Once. Twice.
The audio crackled to life. Billy's voice, raw with rage: "You son of a bitch! When my brothers find you—"
The big one hit him across the jaw. Billy's head snapped back, but he kept yelling.
"—you're dead! You hear me? DEAD!"
"Shut him up," one of the kidnappers said.
Another punch. This one to Billy's face. Blood sprayed.
"That's Billy," Josh whispered, his voice breaking.
They watched in helpless rage as Billy fought—managed to get one arm free, landed a solid hit that sent the weaselly one stumbling backward.
"You bastards!" Billy's voice echoed through the speakers. "My family's gonna hunt you down like dogs!"
The big one grabbed Billy's hair, yanked his head back, and drove his fist into Billy's face again. Once. Twice. Making it bleed. Making it look worse.
"For the photo," Wade said quietly, his voice deadly calm.
One of them pulled out a phone. "Smile for the camera, cowboy."
"Fuck you!" Billy spat blood at him.
The big one hit him again. Billy's knees buckled, but he stayed conscious, still cursing. "When Jake gets hold of you—"
Hemp rope came out—thick, professional-grade rope. They forced Billy's hands behind his back, bound his wrists tight, then wrapped more rope around his arms, cinching them to his body. Billy struggled the whole time, never stopping the threats.
"My Pops is a Vietnam vet, you pieces of shit! He's gonna—"
Another hit silenced him momentarily. They stood him up, still not gagged, and snapped a photo. Billy standing there, beaten, tied, blood running down his face, his white t-shirt filthy with dirt and sweat.
But his eyes—even through the grainy footage—burned with fury.
"You boys are dead," Billy said, quieter now but no less threatening. "You just don't know it yet."
They dragged him to the black pickup truck and threw him in the bed.
"Get him to the barn," the big one said. "We'll finish this there."
The truck drove off, heading east. Billy's voice faded but they could still hear him cursing until the truck was out of camera range.
The command center was silent.
Then Pops spoke, and there was pride in his voice despite everything. "That's my grandson. Didn't give them shit."
"Freeze that frame," Billy Jr. said, his own voice shaking with anger and something else—fierce pride in his uncle. "The license plate."
"Too muddy," Daniel said. "Can't make it out."
"What about the truck? Make? Model?"
Ryan was already running image analysis. "Ford F-250. Black. Late model, maybe 2020 or newer. Extended cab. Aftermarket lift kit."
"That narrows it down to about ten thousand trucks in Texas," Colt muttered.
"Not with that dent in the rear quarter panel." Billy Renzo zoomed in. "See? Right side, just above the wheel well."
Billy Jr. hit the intercom. "Dad, Grandpa Tom, Grandpa Wade—we've got surveillance footage. Three kidnappers. Black Ford F-250 with a dent in the right rear quarter panel. Heading east from the N section at 7:34 AM. And... Uncle Billy's alive. Fighting mad."
Downstairs, Tom's voice boomed through every speaker. "East toward what?"
"Old County Road 12," Ray said, appearing in the command center doorway with Tom, Josh, Wade, and half the consortium behind him. "Connects to State Highway 71."
"Once they hit the highway, they could be anywhere," Sheriff Wade said, moving to look at the screens.
"How long ago?" Tom demanded.
"Four hours," Billy Jr. said, his voice tight. "Grandpa, I'm sorry, we should've—"
"Not your fault, son." Tom gripped his shoulder. "Can you track them?"
"We're trying. The drones have a fifty-mile radius. If they stayed in the county—"
"They didn't," Wade interrupted. "If this is professional, they're long gone. Probably have him holed up somewhere across the state line."
"Or they're still here," Wilson said, studying the screen. "Think about it. They sent those photos forty minutes ago. You don't send ransom photos while you're running. You send them when you're secure."
"Ransom?" Tom's face hardened. "They haven't made any demands."
"They will," Wade said. "Question is, what do they want?"
Jake pushed through the crowd, Celab right behind him. His face was crimson, every muscle coiled tight. "I don't give a damn what they want. Where's that barn? The one in the photos?"
"Unknown," Daniel said. "Could be anywhere in three counties."
"Then we search every barn in three counties!" Jake's voice rose to a roar. He grabbed a coffee mug off the desk and hurled it against the wall. It shattered. "My brother is out there getting beaten by those animals—"
"Jake, calm down—" Ray started.
"CALM DOWN?" Jake swept his arm across a side table, sending papers and equipment crashing to the floor. "They're torturing Billy! BILLY!" His fist slammed into the wall, putting a hole in the dryboard. "I should've been with him! I should've—"
"Jake!" Tom grabbed his son's arm, but Jake wrenched free.
"Four hours, Dad! FOUR HOURS they've had him!" Jake kicked over a chair. "And we're standing here talking while they—"
"Jake, stop!" Josh moved between his brother and the equipment.
"Get out of my way!" Jake's eyes were wild. "I'm getting my rifle, I'm getting on my horse, and I'm finding my brother if I have to search every square inch of this county—"
"JAKE!" Pops's voice cracked like a whip. He was leaning heavily on his cane in the doorway, every eye on him. "Shut your goddamn mouth and use your head, boy!"
Jake stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched, a wild animal ready to bolt.
Pops moved into the room slowly. "You think Billy needs you running around like an idiot? Breaking shit? Getting yourself killed?"
"Pops, they're—"
"I know what they're doing!" Pops's voice was steel. "And you know what your brother's doing right now? He's working on getting free. Planning his next move. Waiting for us to find him." He pointed at the screen showing Billy's face, bloodied but defiant. "Look at him! Does that look like a boy who needs you to lose your shit?"
Jake stared at the screen, his jaw working.
"They want us running around like chickens with our heads cut off," Pops continued. "That's how they win." He limped over to Jake, looked him dead in the eye. "But that boy—my grandson—he didn't give them shit. He told them exactly what was coming. Now are you gonna prove him right, or are you gonna prove him a liar?"
Jake's hands slowly unclenched. His breathing slowed.
"We find him smart," Pops said. "We find him fast. And then we make those sons of bitches pay for every drop of blood they spilled." He glanced at Celab and Colt. "All my grandsons together. The way it should be."
Celab stepped up beside Jake. "We're with you, brother."
"Always," Colt added in his Louisiana drawl.
Jake nodded slowly, the rage still there but channeled now. Controlled. "Alright. What's the plan?"
In the old barn, Billy Benson lay hogtied on the dirt floor. His face throbbed. His ribs screamed. Blood had dried on his split lip. The gag in his mouth tasted like oil and dirt.
Hemp rope bound his wrists behind his back, then more rope connected his wrists to his ankles, pulling them up and back in a brutal arch. They'd trussed him up like an animal after they got him here. Taken the second photo with him like this, then left him on the floor, still hogtied, still gagged.
The position was agonizing. Every muscle in his body burned. But Billy had grown up on a ranch—he'd roped cattle, wrestled steers, worked with hemp rope his entire life.
And he knew hogtie knots.
Just need to create slack, he thought, working his body in small, careful movements. Flex the ankles, test the wrists, feel for the weak point in the rope system.
He'd been here—wherever here was—for hours now. Three men. The big one they called "Trent." The weaselly one was "Ray" or "Roy," something like that. The third stayed quiet, nervous, kept checking his phone.
They were outside now, smoking, arguing about something. He could hear their voices but not the words.
Billy tested the rope binding his ankles to his wrists. There—just a fraction of give when he flexed his legs a certain way. Hemp stretched when wet. And he was bleeding, sweating. The rope would absorb it, expand slightly, create millimeters of slack.
Millimeters add up, he thought grimly.
Jake's probably already lost his mind, he thought. Breaking everything in sight. But Pops will set him straight. Dad and Josh will have a plan. And Billy Jr... He almost smiled behind the gag despite the pain. Kid's probably got those drones combing every inch of Kings County. Probably heard every word I said to these bastards.
He flexed his legs again. The rope gave another fraction.
Just need time, boys, Billy thought, his jaw set behind the gag. Keep arguing out there. Give me time.
Then we'll see who's laughing.
Scene 3
The ranch house had transformed into a staging ground. Men checked rifles, loaded magazines, strapped on holsters. The four wiz kids—Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—stood in a cluster, each with a Glock 19 holstered at their hips. At sixteen, all four now had their driver's licenses and carry permits, courtesy of Sheriff Wade's expedited processing.
"Never thought I'd be giving carry permits to teenagers," Wade had said when he handed them out three months ago. "But you boys know what you're doing."
Now those permits were about to be tested.
Billy Jr.'s truck sat in the driveway, back doors open, the portable command center already set up. Three laptops, the main tablet console, satellite uplink, and enough battery power to run it all for twelve hours. The wiz kids had built it themselves over six months.
"iPad distribution," Billy Jr. called out. He handed tablets to Tom, Josh, Ray, Robert, Wade, Wilson, Ryan Nelson, and the heads of the Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez families. "You're all locked into the drone network. Ten drones, ten different feeds. Swipe to switch views."
Tom studied his iPad, watching the thermal imaging from Drone 3 sweep across empty fields. "This is incredible."
"Wait till you see what they can do when we find something," Billy Jr. said.
In the living room, Pops paced with his cane, his face set in grim determination. Jake paced beside him, unable to stay still, his rifle already slung across his back.
"You're gonna wear a hole in the floor, boy," Pops said.
"Can't help it." Jake's hands kept flexing, clenching, unclenching. "He's out there. We should be moving."
"We move when we know where we're moving to," Pops said. "Otherwise we're just burning gas."
Celab sat on the couch, methodically checking his rifle's magazine. Colt stood by the window, his Louisiana accent soft. "Y'all ever done anything like this before?"
"Once," Pops said quietly. "Long time ago. Different country. Different war." He looked at Jake. "Same feeling in the gut."
Sarah and Rebecca moved through the house with coffee and sandwiches nobody was eating. Mary Nelson sat with Caroline Beaumont, both women pale but composed.
"Drone 6 has something," Daniel's voice suddenly crackled through every device. "Thermal signature. Old barn structure, County Road 47, about thirty-five miles northeast."
Every head snapped up.
"Confirm," Billy Jr. said, his fingers flying across the keyboard in the truck.
"Confirming... three heat signatures outside the structure. One inside. Stationary."
"That's him," Tom breathed.
Wade was already moving. "Everyone in your vehicles. Now. Wilson, Ryan, you're with me. Tom, Josh, Ray—you're behind us. Robert, your family takes the rear. Wiz kids, you're in Billy Jr.'s truck right behind my cruiser. Billy Renzo, I need GPS coordinates fed to every vehicle."
"On it," Billy Renzo said, already working his tablet.
The convoy formed up in less than two minutes. Five trucks, one sheriff's cruiser, one deputy vehicle. Eighteen armed men, four armed teenagers, and enough firepower to start a small war.
Pops climbed into Tom's truck, settling into the passenger seat with his rifle across his lap. "Let's go get my grandson."
Jake was in the back, Celab beside him. "Step on it, Dad."
The convoy rolled out, dust rising behind them.
In Billy Jr.'s truck, all four wiz kids worked their stations. Billy Jr. drove. Billy Renzo rode shotgun with the main tablet, coordinating GPS. Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez were in the back with laptops.
"Drone 6 maintaining visual," Ryan called out. "Three heat signatures still outside. One inside, still stationary."
"How far?" Wade's voice came through the radio.
"Thirty-two miles. County Road 47 intersects with Highway 71 in five miles. Take the exit, then it's a straight shot."
The convoy hit the highway doing eighty.
Thirty-five miles away, Trent stepped out of the barn for another cigarette. Roy was pacing, nervous as hell. The third guy—Marcus—kept checking his phone.
"Still no word from the boss," Marcus said.
"Give it time," Trent said. "They'll pay. They always pay."
Roy pointed up at the sky. "What the hell is that?"
A small dark shape circled overhead, maybe a hundred feet up.
"Bird?" Marcus said.
"That ain't no bird." Trent squinted. "What the fuck... it's a drone!"
"A what?"
"A DRONE!" Trent was already running for the truck. "They found us! Let's get the fuck out of here!"
"What about the kid?"
"Leave him! Move! NOW!"
Inside the barn, Billy heard the shouting. Heard the truck engine roar to life.
He'd just worked his ankles free from the hogtie, his body screaming in relief as he straightened his legs. His wrists and arms were still bound tight behind his back, but he could move now. He could run.
He rolled onto his side, got his knees under him, staggered to his feet.
The truck was already peeling out, tires throwing gravel.
Billy stumbled toward the barn door, his bound hands making it impossible to catch his balance properly. He hit the door frame, bounced off, kept moving.
Outside. Fresh air. The sound of the truck fading in the distance.
He was free. Sort of.
Now he just had to figure out how to get these ropes off.
"Drone 4 has visual!" Colt's voice erupted through the radio. "I got Billy! He's outside the barn, on his feet, hands still tied!"
"Is he hurt?" Tom's voice was desperate.
"He's moving, sir. Looks like he's trying to run."
"Drone 7 has the kidnappers," Daniel said. "Black F-250, heading east on County Road 47, approximately three miles from the barn."
Wade's voice cut through. "We split. Wilson, Ryan, you're with me. We take the kidnappers. Tom, Josh, you take your people and the wiz kids to Billy. Robert, your call which group you want."
"We're going for Billy," Robert said immediately.
"Roger that. Billy Renzo, give Tom's group GPS to the barn. Give me GPS on that truck."
"Yes sir," Billy Renzo said, his fingers dancing across the tablet. "Tom, you're taking the next right in half a mile. The barn is four miles up that road. Wade, the truck is heading toward the state line. You've got maybe eight minutes before they're out of the county."
Wade's cruiser peeled off, lights flashing, siren wailing. Wilson and Ryan's deputy vehicle right behind him. Three other trucks from the consortium followed—the Rodriguez, half the Matterns, and some Renzo family members who wanted in on the chase.
Tom's truck took the right turn, Billy Jr.'s truck right behind, followed by Josh, Ray, Robert, and the rest of the consortium.
Jake was leaning forward between the seats. "How far?"
"Three miles," Billy Renzo said. "Drone 4 still has visual on Billy. He's... he's trying to get the ropes off. Having trouble."
"Just hold on, brother," Jake whispered. "We're coming."
In the barn clearing, Billy had found a fence post and was working his bound wrists against a protruding nail head, trying to saw through the hemp rope.
Come on, come on, he thought, his arms burning.
The rope frayed. Just a little.
In the distance, he heard engines.
Multiple engines.
Please be my family, he thought. Please don't be them coming back.
The engines grew louder.
Billy kept sawing at the rope.
Scene 4
Wade's cruiser screamed down County Road 47, lights blazing, siren wailing. Wilson and Ryan's deputy vehicle stayed right on his bumper. Behind them, three consortium trucks kept pace.
"Drone 7 shows them two miles ahead," Billy Renzo's voice crackled through Wade's radio. "They're doing ninety, heading for the county line."
"Not today they're not," Wade growled. He hit the gas harder. The cruiser surged forward.
"They're approaching the bridge over Miller's Creek," Billy Renzo said. "Half a mile."
Wade's jaw set. "Wilson, Ryan, when we hit that bridge, I want you boys to pull alongside. We're taking them off the road."
"Copy that, Dad," Wilson said.
The black F-250 came into view, fish-tailing as it tried to take a curve too fast.
"There!" Ryan Nelson shouted.
Wade closed the distance. Fifty yards. Thirty. Twenty.
The bridge loomed ahead—narrow, with metal guardrails on both sides.
"Now!" Wade barked.
Wilson's deputy vehicle pulled alongside the F-250 on the left. Wade's cruiser came up on the right. They boxed the truck in, forcing it toward the guardrail.
The F-250's driver panicked, hit the brakes. The truck fishtailed, clipped the guardrail, and spun out. It came to rest sideways across the road, both front tires blown.
Wade's cruiser screeched to a halt. All three lawmen were out with weapons drawn before the dust settled.
"HANDS! LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS!" Wade's voice boomed.
Inside the truck, three men sat frozen.
"OUT OF THE VEHICLE! NOW!"
The doors opened slowly. Three men climbed out, hands raised.
Wilson had Trent—the big one—on the ground in seconds, cuffing him. Ryan took Roy, the weaselly one. Wade grabbed Marcus himself, slamming him face-first against the hood.
"You boys are under arrest for kidnapping, assault, and about twelve other charges I'm gonna think up on the way to the station," Wade said, cinching the cuffs tight. "You have the right to remain silent. I suggest you use it."
The consortium trucks pulled up. Mr. Rodriguez got out, rifle in hand, walked up to Trent lying on the ground.
"That's for touching one of ours," he said, and spat on the ground next to Trent's face.
Wade's radio crackled. "Grandpa Wade, we've got Uncle Billy. He's okay. Roughed up, but okay."
Wade keyed his mic. "Roger that. We've got the kidnappers. Three in custody. We're bringing them back to the barn. Billy's gonna want to see these boys."
Tom's truck slid to a stop in front of the barn, throwing gravel. Billy Jr.'s truck pulled in right behind. Jake was out and running before Tom even killed the engine.
"BILLY!"
Billy stood in the clearing, still working his bound wrists against the fence post. His face was a mess—split lip, black eye already forming, blood dried on his chin. But he was on his feet.
"Jake!" Billy's voice cracked with relief.
Jake hit his brother like a freight train, wrapping him in a bear hug despite the ropes. "You stupid son of a bitch! You scared the hell out of us!"
"Can't breathe—Jake—"
"Oh shit, sorry." Jake pulled back, already working at the ropes. "Hold still."
Tom was there seconds later, knife out, carefully cutting the hemp rope binding Billy's wrists and arms. The rope fell away and Billy's arms came forward, his shoulders screaming after hours of being bound.
"Dad," Billy's voice was hoarse.
Tom pulled his youngest son into his arms. "You're okay. You're okay now."
Josh appeared with a first aid kit. Rebecca had water bottles. Celab had a clean shirt from the truck.
"Sit down, let me look at you," Rebecca said, her nurse training kicking in despite the tears streaming down her face.
Billy sat on the tailgate of Tom's truck while Rebecca cleaned the blood off his face. His ribs were bruised, not broken. His lip needed a butterfly bandage. His wrists were raw from the ropes.
"I'm fine," Billy kept saying. "I'm fine."
"Shut up and drink this," Jake thrust a water bottle at him.
Billy drank, then pulled on the clean shirt. It was too big—one of Josh's—but it was clean and didn't smell like that barn.
Billy Jr. and the wiz kids stood nearby, trying not to look too relieved and failing.
"Nice drone work," Billy said to them, managing a grin through his split lip.
"We've been practicing," Billy Jr. said, his voice tight.
Pops limped up, leaning on his cane. He looked at his grandson—beaten, exhausted, but whole. "You did good, boy. Told them exactly what was coming for them."
"Heard every word, huh?" Billy asked.
"Every goddamn word," Pops said with fierce pride.
Wade's voice came through every radio. "We're inbound with the prisoners. Five minutes out."
Billy's face hardened. "I want to see them."
"Billy—" Tom started.
"I want to see them, Dad." Billy's voice was steel.
Tom looked at his son's face and nodded slowly. "Alright."
The convoy reassembled in the clearing—Wade's cruiser, the deputy vehicle, the consortium trucks. Wade and his sons pulled the three cuffed kidnappers out of the back seats.
Trent, Roy, and Marcus stood there, hands cuffed behind their backs, looking at the assembled ranchers and their rifles.
"Well," Trent said with false bravado. "Looks like the cavalry showed up."
Billy walked forward slowly. Jake was right beside him. Celab and Colt flanked them.
"You boys remember me?" Billy said quietly.
Trent smirked. "You're a lot prettier when you're tied up, cowboy."
It happened so fast Wade barely had time to react.
Billy and Jake moved as one, running past Wade and his deputies. Billy's fist connected with Trent's face. Jake hit Roy. Both kidnappers went down hard despite the cuffs.
"BILLY! JAKE!" Wade shouted, but he was already moving to pull them off.
Billy got in two more solid hits before Tom and Josh hauled him back. Jake was snarling, trying to get at Roy again as Wilson grabbed him.
Marcus, the third kidnapper, had wisely stayed down.
"That's enough!" Wade barked. But there was something in his voice—not quite disapproval.
Billy and Jake stood there, chests heaving. Billy's knuckles were bloody.
Wade looked at his deputies. "Wilson, Ryan, did you boys see anything?"
"Nope," Wilson said, deadpan. "Prisoners were resisting arrest."
"That's what I thought," Wade said. He looked down at Trent, who was bleeding from his nose. "You boys try to escape?"
"We didn't—" Trent started.
"I'll take that as a yes," Wade interrupted. "Wilson, make a note. Prisoners attempted to flee custody and had to be restrained with necessary force."
"Yes sir," Wilson said, trying not to grin.
Pops limped forward, looked down at the three kidnappers. "You picked the wrong family, you miserable cocksuckers. You picked the wrong goddamn county. And you picked the wrong grandson." He leaned on his cane. "I hope they throw you in a hole so deep sunlight becomes a memory."
Billy Renzo had his phone out, had been filming the whole thing since Wade arrived. He gave Billy Jr. a thumbs up. Every second recorded.
Wade hauled the kidnappers to their feet. "Alright, that's enough entertainment for one day. These boys have got a date with a jail cell." He looked at Tom. "I'll need statements from Billy, probably tomorrow. Let him get cleaned up and rest first."
"Understood," Tom said.
Wade and his deputies loaded the kidnappers into the vehicles. As Wade's cruiser pulled away, Trent looked out the window at Billy standing there with his family around him.
Billy stared back, his face hard.
The cruiser disappeared down the road.
The convoy headed home slower this time, no sirens, no urgency. Just tired men and one beaten but unbroken young rancher.
In Tom's truck, Billy sat between Jake and Celab in the back. Jake's arm was still around his shoulder.
"You okay?" Jake asked for the tenth time.
"Yeah," Billy said. And this time, he meant it. "I'm okay."
Pops turned around from the front seat. "When we get home, your grandmother's gonna fuss over you like a hen."
"I know," Billy said.
"And Rebecca's probably gonna make you go to the hospital."
"I know."
"And you're taking tomorrow off. That's an order."
Billy almost smiled. "Yes sir."
Jake squeezed his shoulder. "Welcome home, brother."
"Good to be home," Billy said quietly.
In Billy Jr.'s truck, the wiz kids were already downloading the drone footage and Billy Renzo's recording. Evidence. Documentation. And maybe, someday, one hell of a story.
The convoy turned onto the main ranch road as the sun began to set.
The hunt was over.
Billy was home.
The Sunday BBQ
The following Sunday, the Benson Ranch was alive with smoke, laughter, and the smell of barbecue. All six consortium families had gathered—the Bensons, Nelsons, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguez families. Kids ran wild, men stood around the smokers arguing about brisket, and the women had taken over three picnic tables with enough side dishes to feed an army.
Billy's face was healing—the swelling mostly gone, just some colorful bruising around his left eye. He sat with Jake, Celab, and Colt at one of the tables, nursing a beer and fielding questions about his "adventure" for the hundredth time.
"I'm telling you, the hogtie was the worst part," Billy was saying. "My back's still sore."
"Should've seen Jake when those photos came in," Celab said with a grin. "Thought he was gonna tear the command center apart."
"I did tear the command center apart," Jake said proudly. "Put a hole in the wall."
"Which you're fixing next week," Tom called from the smoker.
Pops had set up his portable bar near the back porch—a card table with a cooler underneath and enough liquor bottles on top to stock a small tavern. He was holding court, cigar in one hand, brandy in the other, telling war stories to anyone who'd listen.
"Reminds me of '68," Pops was saying. "Had a buddy get captured by Charlie. We went in and got him out. Same damn thing. Family takes care of family."
Sheriff Wade raised his beer. "Amen to that."
Then Pops did something unusual. He set down his cigar, finished his brandy in one gulp, and stood up. "Be right back," he said. "Don't let anyone touch my bar."
He limped toward the main barn, moving faster than anyone had seen him move in years.
"Where's he going?" Sarah asked.
Tom shrugged. "With Pops, who knows?"
Five minutes later, they heard an engine. A big engine.
Everyone turned.
Pops drove around the barn in a brand-new Ford F-250—gleaming black with chrome accents, lifted suspension, and enough lights on the roof rack to illuminate a football field. But what caught everyone's attention was the massive banner stretched across the windshield:
"YOU DON'T FUCK WITH THE BENSONS"
The entire gathering erupted. Cheers, whistles, laughter.
Pops pulled the truck right up to where Billy was sitting and killed the engine. He climbed out, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Happy belated birthday, grandson," Pops said. "You earned it."
Billy stood slowly, staring at the truck. "Pops... what did you do?"
"What I damn well pleased with my money," Pops said. "Now get over here and look at your truck."
Billy approached like it might disappear if he moved too fast. The wiz kids materialized out of nowhere—Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez, all talking at once as they swarmed the vehicle.
"Holy shit, is that the XLT premium package?" Ryan Mattern was already at the passenger door.
"Check the bed!" Daniel Rodriguez called. "There's a toolbox back here the size of a small house!"
Billy Renzo had his phone out, filming. "This is insane. Pops, can we look inside?"
"Knock yourselves out, boys," Pops said. "Just don't let Billy in yet. You'll explain everything to him."
The four wiz kids and Colt piled into and around the truck, opening doors, popping the hood, checking every feature. Billy stood outside, trying to see past them, but they had the doors blocked.
"Hey! That's MY truck!" Billy protested.
"We're doing a technical inspection!" Billy Jr. called back. "Give us a minute!"
"This thing has a full communications suite," Ryan Mattern said, examining something under the dash. "Encrypted radio, satellite link—"
"And GPS navigation with offline maps for the whole state," Daniel added.
"The sound system alone probably cost five grand," Billy Renzo said, examining the speakers.
Jake stood next to his brother, both of them watching the chaos. "You're never getting rid of them now."
"I can't even get IN," Billy said, but he was grinning.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Billy Jr. and Billy Renzo emerged from the truck. Billy Jr. was carrying a laptop. Billy Renzo had his tablet.
"Alright, everyone!" Billy Jr. called out. "We have a special presentation!"
The wiz kids had set up a large projection screen against the side of the barn—no one had even noticed them doing it. Billy Renzo connected his tablet while Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez fired up the projector.
The screen flickered to life.
Drone footage appeared—the barn, the clearing. Then the camera switched to ground level. Billy Renzo's phone recording.
Wade's cruiser pulling up. The kidnappers being hauled out, cuffed and bloodied.
Billy and Jake running past Wade and the deputies—
WHAM Billy's fist connecting with Trent's face.
CRACK Jake hitting Roy.
The crowd roared.
"That's my boy!" Tom shouted.
"Both my boys!" Josh added.
The video continued. Wade's deadpan: "Prisoners were resisting arrest."
More laughter and cheers.
Then Pops appeared on screen, limping forward with his cane, looking down at the kidnappers.
"You picked the wrong family, you miserable cocksuckers—"
The gathering exploded. Hoots, hollers, applause. Pops took a theatrical bow.
"—You picked the wrong goddamn county. And you picked the wrong grandson!"
Mary Nelson was laughing so hard she had tears streaming down her face. Sarah was shaking her head but smiling. Rebecca was clapping.
The video ended with the cruiser driving away, Billy standing with his family, battered but unbroken.
The crowd gave it a standing ovation.
Billy Renzo shut down the projector. "And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you don't fuck with the Bensons."
Another cheer went up.
Finally—FINALLY—the wiz kids stepped back and gestured to the truck. "She's all yours, Billy."
Billy climbed into the driver's seat. The interior was immaculate—leather seats, touchscreen display, every high-tech feature imaginable. The keys were already in the ignition.
Jake climbed into the passenger seat. "Well? Fire her up!"
Billy turned the key. The engine roared to life with a deep, powerful rumble.
"Oh, that's beautiful," Jake breathed.
The four wiz kids and Colt scrambled into the truck bed, grabbing the banner from the windshield as they climbed in.
"Hey Billy!" Billy Jr. called from the bed, pounding on the back window. "Check the stereo!"
Billy looked at the touchscreen. Someone had already queued up a playlist. The first song was ready to go.
He hit play.
The opening guitar riff of Deep Purple's "Highway Star" exploded through the premium sound system.
"Nobody gonna take my car, I'm gonna race it to the ground..."
Billy revved the engine. Grinned at Jake. "Hold on, boys."
He threw the truck into gear and punched it.
The F-250 tore across the ranch yard, throwing dust, the music blasting so loud it rattled windows. In the back, all four wiz kids and Colt were standing, holding onto the roll bar, waving Pops's banner like a battle flag.
"YOU DON'T FUCK WITH THE BENSONS!" they screamed in unison, their voices cracking with teenage enthusiasm.
Billy Renzo was filming with one hand, holding the banner with the other. Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez were whooping and hollering, punching the air. Billy Jr. and Colt were banging on the roof of the cab in rhythm with the drums.
The truck bed was chaos—five teenagers laughing, yelling, the banner whipping in the wind as they raced down the main ranch road toward the sunset.
Billy and Jake were grinning like maniacs in the front, the speedometer climbing, Highway Star thundering through the speakers.
They headed down the main ranch road toward the sunset, Highway Star thundering through the speakers, seven young men celebrating victory, family, and one hell of a truck.
Back at the BBQ, Pops had returned to his portable bar. He poured himself another brandy, lit another cigar, and watched the truck disappear into the golden evening light.
"Damn right you don't fuck with the Bensons," he said to no one in particular.
Tom appeared beside him, beer in hand. "Dad, that truck cost a fortune."
"Worth every penny," Pops said. "Boy earned it."
They stood there together, father and son, watching the dust settle.
Sarah came up on Pops's other side. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"Yes ma'am," Pops said with a grin. "But you love me anyway."
She kissed his weathered cheek. "Unfortunately."
The party continued into the evening—food, laughter, stories, and family. The consortium that had come together to save one of their own, now celebrating together.
Somewhere down the ranch road, a black F-250 with two young men in the cab and five teenagers in the bed raced toward the horizon, Deep Purple blasting, the banner waving in the wind:
"YOU DON'T FUCK WITH THE BENSONS"
Pops raised his glass to the sunset.
And poured another drink.
THE END
