Solitary Confirment.
48 hours.
Sunday, January 25, 2026
The Fires of Hell
Chapter 1: The Abduction
The kitchen still smelled like the night before—sweat, mud, and exhaustion. Billy Benson shuffled to the coffee maker, his boots dragging against the tile floor. Every muscle in his body ached. Twenty-one years old and he felt like he'd been run over by the damn cattle they'd spent all night chasing down.
"Coffee," he muttered, more to himself than to Jake.
His brother leaned against the counter, eyes half-closed, looking just as wrecked. At twenty-two, Jake was only a year older, but they'd been mistaken for twins their whole lives. Right now, they both looked like death.
"Double pot," Jake said, his voice hoarse. "I don't care if it kills me. I need it."
Billy reached for the coffee grounds, his hands still trembling slightly from adrenaline and fatigue. Five-thirty in the morning they'd finally gotten back. Fence down on the north pasture, forty head of cattle scattered across three properties. It had taken him, Jake, and half the consortium's hands to round them up in the dark.
"Think anyone noticed we're not out there yet?" Billy asked, scooping coffee into the filter.
Jake snorted. "Everyone knows we pulled an all-nighter. Ray said to sleep in. We earned it."
The coffee maker gurgled to life. Billy grabbed two mugs from the cabinet, the ceramic clinking together. Outside, he could hear the distant sounds of the ranch—trucks, voices, the normal rhythm of a working day. Everyone else was already out there. The frat house had been empty when they'd stumbled in at dawn. Billy Jr. and his buddies were probably out helping with the Rodriguez family's fence repair. Celab and Colt were with the morning crew on the south pasture.
Just the two of them in the big house.
"You think Pops is gonna chew us out for that fence?" Jake asked, rubbing his face.
"Probably. You know him. Even if it wasn't our fault—"
The back door opened.
Billy glanced up, expecting maybe Celab coming back for something he forgot. Instead, four men stepped inside. Big men. Strangers. One wore a cowboy hat, the brim pulled low. The others were dressed in work clothes—jeans, boots, long sleeves despite the Texas heat.
Billy's stomach dropped.
"Kitchen's closed, boys," Jake said, straightening up. His voice had an edge now. Alert. "You need something, you go through the front office."
The man in the cowboy hat smiled. It wasn't friendly. "We need you two to stay real quiet and this'll go easy."
Billy's hand moved toward his radio on his belt. Gone. He'd left it charging in the bedroom.
"Who the hell are you?" Billy demanded, taking a step back. His mind raced. The guns. The gun cabinet was in the den, locked. His phone was in his front pocket, but—
"Don't," the cowboy said quietly.
Two of the men moved fast—faster than Billy expected. One grabbed Jake, slamming him back against the counter. The other came at Billy. He tried to swing, his fist connecting with something—shoulder, maybe jaw—but exhaustion made him slow. A fist drove into his ribs and he doubled over, gasping.
"Billy!" Jake roared, thrashing against the man holding him.
Billy tried to straighten up, tried to breathe, but rough hands grabbed his arms and wrenched them back. Pain shot through his shoulders. He kicked backward, connected with a shin, heard a grunt.
"Little bastard—"
A hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Billy's vision swam. Then he felt it—cold metal pressed against his teeth, forcing his mouth open. The barrel of a gun.
Everything stopped.
Billy froze, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might explode. The metal tasted like oil and rust. His eyes darted to Jake. His brother was in the same position—gun shoved in his mouth, eyes wide with rage and terror.
"That's better," the cowboy said, his voice calm. Almost conversational. "Now, you boys are gonna behave, or I'm gonna paint this kitchen with your brains. Nod if you understand."
Billy's whole body shook. He nodded. Barely.
Beside him, Jake did the same.
"Good. Real good."
The cowboy gestured to the other men. "Tie 'em up."
The guns stayed in their mouths while hands moved fast and efficient. Billy felt his arms yanked roughly behind his back, wrists crossed. Rope—thick and coarse—wrapped around them. Once, twice, three times, the loops tightening with each pass. Then the rope cinched between his wrists, crushing them together. The binding cut deep into his skin, so tight his hands went numb almost immediately.
He tried to move his fingers. Nothing. The rope didn't budge. Professional work. No slack. No escape.
Beside him, they were doing the same to Jake. His brother grunted as they wrenched his arms back, the rope wrapping and tightening around his wrists.
"Gag them," the cowboy ordered. "Can't have them yelling when we move them."
The gun pulled out of Billy's mouth and before he could suck in a breath to scream, cloth was shoved between his teeth. He gagged on it, the taste of dust and sweat making his stomach lurch. Hands tied the gag tight behind his head, the knot digging into his skull.
He tried to speak. Only muffled sounds came out.
Jake was fighting again—twisting, trying to slam his shoulder into the man behind him. It earned him a vicious punch to the kidney that left him gasping and doubled over.
"Easy, boys," the cowboy said, crouching down in front of them. Up close, Billy could see his face—weathered, maybe fifty, with cold blue eyes that showed nothing. No anger. No excitement. Just business. "This ain't personal. You two just got unlucky. Wrong name, wrong time."
Billy's mind spun. Wrong name? The consortium. They wanted the consortium.
The cowboy stood, pulling a small bottle from his jacket pocket. Even from where Billy stood, hands bound and useless behind his back, he could read the label: Chloroform. A white rag came out next.
"Ok boys," the cowboy said to his men. "Now that they're tied up, hold them so I can knock them out. Then put them in the truck."
Terror spiked through Billy like lightning. He lunged sideways, trying to run—anywhere, just away. His legs were free but hands grabbed him before he made it two steps. They slammed him face-first against the kitchen counter, pinning him there. Someone grabbed his hair, yanking his head back.
"Mmmph! MMMPH!" Billy screamed into the gag, thrashing with everything he had left.
Jake was fighting too—kicking, twisting, his muffled yells filling the kitchen. But with four men and their hands bound, it was useless.
"Hold him still," the cowboy said calmly.
Rough hands clamped down on Billy's head, forcing it sideways against the counter. The rag—soaked and dripping with chloroform—pressed down over his nose and mouth, the gag doing nothing to stop it.
The smell was instant and overwhelming. Sweet, sickly, chemical. It burned his sinuses and filled his lungs. He tried to hold his breath but his body betrayed him, gasping reflexively. The chemical taste coated his tongue, his throat.
His vision blurred. The kitchen lights smeared into long streaks. His legs buckled.
Somewhere nearby, he heard Jake's muffled screams cut off abruptly.
Billy's body went slack, his muscles turning to water. The hands holding him were the only thing keeping him upright. The world spun, tilted, and then collapsed into darkness.
The last thing he heard was the cowboy's voice, distant and echoing:
"Load 'em up. We're on a schedule."
Then nothing.
The cowboy—his name was Garrett, though these boys would never know it—watched as his men hoisted the unconscious brothers like sacks of feed. The younger one, Billy, had fought hard. Even exhausted and bound, the kid had nearly broken free. Heart. The kid had heart.
Didn't matter now.
"Clean it up," Garrett said, gesturing to the mess. "Leave the rope scraps. Smash their radios. Make it clear what happened here."
One of his men swept the cut pieces of rope—the excess from binding their wrists—onto the floor. Another stomped on the radios sitting on the counter, plastic and circuits crunching under his boot. A chair got kicked over for good measure. The coffee pot was still brewing, filling the kitchen with that rich, bitter smell.
"Let's move," Garrett said.
They carried the brothers out through the back door. The white pickup truck was backed up close to the house, tailgate down. They dumped both of them into the bed like cargo—Billy first, then Jake. Both were limp, faces pale, wrists still bound tight behind their backs. Their legs sprawled awkwardly, boots scraping against the truck bed.
Garrett climbed into the passenger seat. The driver, a man named Dutch, started the engine.
"Barn's forty minutes out," Dutch said. "We good on time?"
"We're good," Garrett said. He glanced back through the rear window at the two unconscious brothers. "Nobody's even gonna know they're gone for hours. By the time they figure it out, we'll have them strung up and the photos sent."
"You really think the consortium's gonna pay?" Dutch asked, pulling onto the dirt road that led away from the ranch.
Garrett smiled. "They'll pay. These aren't just any ranch hands. These are Bensons. Tom Benson's youngest boys." He lit a cigarette, cracking the window. "They'll pay every cent, or they'll get their boys back in pieces."
The truck rumbled down the empty road, dust kicking up behind them. In the bed, Billy and Jake lay unconscious, bound and gagged, their faces slack. The sun climbed higher in the sky, the Texas heat already brutal even in the morning.
Back at the ranch house, the kitchen sat silent. Coffee dripped into the pot. A chair lay on its side. Cut pieces of rope littered the floor like shed snakeskin. Shattered radios lay in pieces on the counter.
And nobody knew.
Not yet.
Chapter 2: The Discovery
Billy Jr. wiped the sweat from his forehead as he climbed out of the ATV. The Texas sun was merciless—already pushing ninety-five degrees and it wasn't even noon yet. Beside him, Colt killed the engine and stretched, his Louisiana drawl cutting through the heat.
"Man, I need about a gallon of water," Colt said, pulling off his work gloves. "And maybe a cold shower."
"Water first," Billy Jr. said, heading toward the back door. "We gotta get back out there in twenty minutes. Rodriguez fence ain't gonna fix itself."
They'd been out since seven that morning, helping Daniel's family repair a section of fence that had collapsed during last night's chaos. The same chaos that had kept Billy and Jake out all night. Billy Jr. smiled thinking about his uncles—probably still crashed upstairs in their bunks, dead to the world.
He pushed open the back door and stopped.
The kitchen looked wrong.
A chair was on its side. Coffee was still brewing—the pot nearly full, like someone had started it and never came back. And on the floor...
"What the hell?" Colt said, stepping past him.
Rope. Cut pieces of rope scattered across the tile like someone had trimmed excess bindings and just dropped them. And on the counter—shattered plastic. Billy Jr. recognized the pieces immediately. Those were Billy and Jake's radios, the ones they always kept clipped to their belts.
Smashed. Destroyed.
"Billy..." Colt's voice had lost its usual easy drawl. "Something's wrong."
Billy Jr.'s heart started hammering. He moved fast, his boots crunching on broken plastic as he crossed to the counter. The coffee maker gurgled, filling the pot. Two mugs sat beside it, empty. Waiting.
"Billy! Jake!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "You guys here?"
Silence.
He ran. Through the kitchen, up the stairs two at a time, Colt pounding up behind him. The second floor hallway stretched before them—Pops' bedroom at one end, the bathroom, then the command center and the frat house room at the other end.
Billy Jr. burst through the frat house door. The bunk beds were empty—sheets rumpled like someone had been sleeping but got up hours ago. Celab's bunk was made. His own bed untouched. And Colt's mattress on the floor between the two bunks, empty.
"They ain't here," Colt said from behind him, breathless. "Billy, what—"
"Command center. Now."
Billy Jr. crossed the hall and slammed through the door. The tech hub—monitors lined the walls, iPads charging on the desk, the encrypted satellite phones in their rack. His fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the security camera feeds.
"Come on, come on..." he muttered, scrolling through the footage.
"What're we looking for?" Colt asked, leaning over his shoulder.
"Anything. They were making coffee. They wouldn't just leave—"
Billy Jr. pulled up the exterior cameras. Kitchen had no interior coverage—they'd never thought they'd need it. But the back door camera, the one covering the service entrance...
The footage jumped to 9:31 AM.
Billy Jr.'s blood turned to ice.
The back door opened. Four men emerged, carrying—
"Oh my God," Colt whispered.
Billy and Jake. Unconscious. Limp. Their heads lolling, arms hanging loose behind their backs like they were bound. The men carried them like sacks of grain, rough and careless.
"No, no, no..." Billy Jr.'s hands shook on the mouse.
A white pickup truck was backed up to the house. The men dumped Billy into the bed first, then Jake. Both of them motionless, faces pale in the harsh morning sunlight. Their wrists were clearly tied behind their backs—Billy Jr. could see the rope even from the camera angle.
Then the truck pulled away, kicking up dust as it headed down the service road toward the highway.
Billy Jr. tried to zoom in on the license plate. Too much dust. Too far. The resolution pixelated into useless blocks.
"Can you see the plate?" Colt asked urgently.
"No. Damn it, no!"
He rewound the footage, watching it again. The men's faces were partially visible—one wore a cowboy hat, brim pulled low. Work clothes. Boots. They moved with purpose, professional. This wasn't random.
Billy Jr. grabbed the encrypted satellite phone from the rack. His fingers found the emergency button—the big red one they'd installed but never used. Never thought they'd need.
He pressed it.
The system activated instantly. Every phone, every radio, every iPad in the consortium network lit up with the alert:
"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. BILLY JUNIOR."
"What do we do?" Colt asked, his accent thick with panic.
"We find them," Billy Jr. said, his voice steadier than he felt. He pulled up the drone interface on the main monitor. "Get the drones ready. All ten of them. We're looking for a white pickup truck, headed east from the ranch, last seen—" he checked the timestamp, "—nine thirty-one AM. Two hours ago."
"Two hours," Colt breathed. "They could be anywhere."
Billy Jr. didn't answer. He was already pulling up maps, calculating routes, his mind racing. Two hours. Billy and Jake had been gone for two hours. And from the looks of it, they'd been drugged or knocked out. The way they'd been hanging limp...
Please let them be alive.
The sound of trucks skidding to a stop outside made them both jump. Doors slamming. Voices shouting.
"Billy Junior! Where are you?!"
His dad. Josh's voice, raw with panic.
Billy Jr. ran out of the command center, down the stairs, Colt right behind him. His father burst through the kitchen door first, followed by Ray, then Tom and Sarah. And behind them—Pops. Seventy-six years old and moving faster than Billy Jr. had seen in years, his face red, eyes wild.
"What the hell is going on?!" Josh demanded, grabbing Billy Jr. by the shoulders. "The alert—"
"They took them," Billy Jr. said, the words tumbling out. "Billy and Jake. Four men. Around nine-thirty this morning. They were unconscious—tied up. Thrown in a truck—"
"What?!" Sarah's hand flew to her mouth.
Tom's face went white. "Show me. Now."
Billy Jr. led them upstairs to the command center. The room filled quickly—too many bodies in the small space, but no one cared. He pulled up the exterior footage. They watched in silence as the four men carried the unconscious brothers out and dumped them in the truck bed like cargo. When the truck drove away, Sarah let out a choked sob.
"The kitchen," Ray said quietly. "The ropes. The smashed radios. They tied them up down there."
"Probably gagged them too," Josh added, his voice tight. "That's why nobody heard anything."
"Those sons of bitches," Pops growled. His hands were shaking—not from age, but from rage. "Those goddamn sons of bitches drugged my boys and took them right out of my house."
"We're getting them back," Tom said firmly. He turned to Billy Jr. "Can you track that truck?"
"Working on it. I've got the drones prepping now. If they're still on the road, we'll find them."
More vehicles arrived outside. Billy Jr. could hear them through the second-floor window—the wiz kids and their families, probably. Then sirens. Sheriff Wade.
Josh squeezed Billy Jr.'s shoulder. "You did good hitting that button. Now let's bring them home."
Billy Jr. nodded, turning back to the monitors. His hands were still shaking, but his mind was clear. Somewhere out there, Billy and Jake were in trouble.
And he was going to find them.
Sheriff Wade Nelson's heavy boots pounded up the stairs, Wilson and Ryan right behind him, both in their deputy uniforms. Mary, Rebecca, and Edna followed, crowding into the already-packed command center.
"Talk to me," Wade said, his sheriff's voice cutting through the chaos.
Tom gestured to the monitors. "Kidnapping. Two hours ago. Four men, white pickup, headed east. They drugged Billy and Jake, tied them up, and took them."
Billy Jr. pulled up the footage again. Wade watched, his jaw tightening with every second.
"Professionals," Wade said grimly. "Look at how they move. Organized. Quick. This was planned."
"Inside job?" Wilson asked.
"Maybe," Wade said. He pulled out his radio. "This is Sheriff Nelson. I need an APB on a white pickup truck, last seen on County Road 12 heading east at approximately nine-thirty AM. Suspects are armed and dangerous. They have two hostages—Billy and Jake Benson, ages twenty-one and twenty-two. Suspects should be considered extremely dangerous."
"Copy that, Sheriff," dispatch responded.
Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez thundered up the stairs, breathing hard. They squeezed into the command center doorway.
"We got the alert," Billy Renzo said. "What do you need?"
"Drones," Billy Jr. said immediately. "All of you, grab an iPad. We're doing a grid search. Start with every road heading east from here. Thermal imaging on. We're looking for that white truck or any structure they might've taken them to."
The three sixteen-year-olds moved without hesitation, each grabbing an iPad from the charging station and pulling up the drone interface.
"I'm launching drones one through four," Daniel said, his fingers flying across the screen.
"Five through seven are mine," Ryan Mattern added.
"I've got eight, nine, and ten," Billy Renzo confirmed.
Within minutes, all ten drones were airborne, spreading out in a coordinated search pattern across Kings County. The command center's main monitor split into ten feeds—aerial views of roads, fields, abandoned buildings.
Pops pushed his way to his bedroom across the hall and came back with a glass of brandy already in his hand despite the early hour. "Seventy-six goddamn years old," he muttered, "and I gotta watch my great-grandsons hunt for my grandsons because some bastards think they can waltz onto Benson land and take what's ours."
"We'll find them, Pops," Josh said quietly.
"Damn right we will," Pops growled. "And when we do, those sons of bitches are gonna wish they'd never been born."
Sarah sat down in one of the chairs, Rebecca and Edna flanking her. Mary put a hand on her shoulder. The command center was packed wall-to-wall now—too hot, too crowded, but no one was leaving.
"They're strong boys," Mary said softly. "They'll hold on."
Tom stood behind Billy Jr., watching the drone feeds. "Anything?"
"Not yet," Billy Jr. said, his eyes scanning each screen. "But we will. We've got seventy-five thousand dollars worth of equipment and the best damn crew in Texas. We're bringing them home."
On the screens, the drones flew on, searching.
Somewhere out there, Billy and Jake were waiting.
Hold on, Billy Jr. thought. Just hold on.
Chapter 3: The Barn
Billy's head was splitting.
That was the first thing he felt when consciousness dragged him back—pain. Sharp, throbbing pain behind his eyes, like someone had driven a spike through his skull. His mouth tasted like chemicals and copper. His stomach lurched.
He tried to move and couldn't.
Panic hit him like ice water. His eyes snapped open.
The world was upside down.
No—he was upside down. Hanging. His boots were above him, secured to something—a rafter, a beam. Blood pounded in his head with every heartbeat, a relentless pressure that made his vision swim. His arms hung uselessly below him—no, behind him. Still tied. The rope cut into his wrists, tighter than before, like it had settled and locked while he was unconscious.
He tried to speak. Cloth filled his mouth. The gag. Still there.
"Mmmph!" The sound came out strangled, desperate.
"Billy?"
Jake's voice. Muffled, hoarse, but close. Billy twisted his head—agony shot through his neck—and saw his brother. Right beside him. Maybe three feet away. Hanging just like him. Upside down, hands bound, gagged. Jake's face was red, veins standing out on his forehead from the blood pooling there.
Their eyes met.
The terror in Jake's eyes probably matched his own.
Billy tried to assess their situation through the pounding in his head. They were in a barn—old, abandoned by the looks of it. Dust motes floated in beams of sunlight streaming through gaps in the walls. The smell was overwhelming—rot, mildew, animal droppings. The floor was maybe eight feet below them. Dirt and scattered hay.
Their boots were tied to a crossbeam with what looked like the same thick rope that bound their wrists. Professional knots. No way to reach them even if his hands were free.
Which they weren't.
Billy tested the binding on his wrists. The rope was so tight his hands were completely numb. He couldn't feel his fingers. Couldn't move them. The circulation had been cut off—how long had they been unconscious? An hour? Two?
He looked at Jake again. His brother was doing the same thing—twisting, testing, trying to find any give in the rope. There wasn't any.
"Mmmph! Mmm!" Jake's muffled sounds were urgent, angry.
Billy nodded. He understood. They had to get out of here. But how?
Time passed. Billy didn't know how much. The sun moved across the barn, the light shifting. The pressure in his head built until he thought his skull might crack open. His vision kept blurring at the edges. Nausea rolled through him in waves—aftereffects of the chloroform, probably.
He tried everything. Swinging his body to reach the beam above them. Useless—the rope was too short, the angle wrong. Trying to pull his wrists apart. The binding didn't budge. Attempting to work his boots free. Impossible with his hands bound.
Beside him, Jake was doing the same. Struggling. Fighting. Getting nowhere.
The heat was brutal. Even in the shade of the barn, the Texas summer was merciless. Sweat poured off both of them—or rather, up. Running from their legs toward their heads, making everything slick. Billy's shirt was soaked. His arms, hanging behind and below him, ached from the unnatural position. Rope burns formed where the binding cut into his wrists every time he moved.
Hours passed. Had to be hours. The sun was definitely lower now, the light more golden. Billy's body screamed at him. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets. His head throbbed with a pain so intense he wanted to vomit—but couldn't, not with the gag.
"Mmm... mmmph..." Jake's sounds were weaker now. Exhausted.
Billy met his brother's eyes again. They were both in bad shape. How long could a person hang upside down before... before what? Brain damage? Stroke? Death?
He didn't want to think about it.
Then Billy remembered. His phone. It was in his front pocket—he'd felt it there when they grabbed him in the kitchen. Did they take it? He couldn't reach down to check, not with his hands bound behind him. But maybe...
If he could get the gag off. Voice activation. Siri. Call for help.
Hope flickered in his chest.
Billy started working his jaw. The gag was tight, knotted behind his head, but maybe if he could just... He rubbed his face against his shoulder—awkward, painful with his arms bound below him. The cloth caught on his shirt collar. He worked it. Again. Again.
"Mmm?" Jake was watching him, confused.
Billy kept going. Rubbing, twisting his jaw, trying to work the fabric down. His neck cramped. His shoulders screamed. But the gag moved. Just a fraction.
He kept at it.
More time passed. The light was definitely fading now—late afternoon, maybe early evening. Billy's whole world had narrowed to this one task. Work the gag down. Get it off his mouth. Call for help.
The cloth slipped. Just a little. Caught on his chin.
Billy twisted harder, ignoring the pain in his neck. The gag scraped across his jaw, his cheek. The knot was still tight behind his head but the fabric over his mouth was loosening.
Almost there.
One more hard twist and the gag slipped down around his neck.
Billy gasped, sucking in air. His mouth was dry as sand, his lips cracked. But he could breathe. He could speak.
"Jake," he croaked. His voice was barely recognizable.
"Mmm! Mmmph!" Jake's eyes were wide, urgent.
"I'm gonna... phone..." Billy's head spun. The words wouldn't come right. Too much blood in his brain. Too much pain.
He took a shaky breath. "Hey Siri."
Nothing.
His phone. Was it even on? Was Siri activated? He couldn't remember. Panic clawed at him.
"Hey Siri!" Louder this time.
A faint chime. From his pocket.
"Call Billy Junior."
The pause felt like an eternity. Then—ringing. Distant, tinny, coming from his front pocket.
"Come on, come on..." Billy whispered.
The ringing stopped. A click.
"Billy? Uncle Billy, is that you?!" Billy Jr.'s voice, frantic, coming through the phone speaker in his pocket.
"Barn," Billy gasped. "Abandoned... don't know where... hung up... hurry..."
"We're tracking you right now! Hold on, we're coming!"
The line stayed open. Billy could hear voices in the background—his dad, Tom, others shouting, coordinating. The sound of the command center. They'd found him. They were coming.
"Jake," Billy said, his voice cracking. "They're coming. They found us."
"Mmmph!" Jake's muffled response sounded like relief and desperation mixed together.
Billy's vision was darkening at the edges. The pressure in his head was unbearable. His whole body felt like it was shutting down. But they were coming.
Just hold on, he told himself. Just a little longer.
The barn was nearly dark now. Shadows stretched across the floor below them. Billy could hear Jake's breathing—ragged, labored. His own wasn't much better.
Time crawled. Minutes felt like hours. Billy faded in and out, his consciousness flickering. The pain was everywhere now—head, shoulders, wrists, back. Everything hurt.
Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard engines. Trucks. Or maybe he was hallucinating.
"Stay awake," he mumbled, not sure if he was talking to Jake or himself.
The darkness crept in further. Billy's eyes drifted closed.
Stay awake.
They're coming.
Just hold on.
Chapter 4: The Hunt
The command center had become a war room, but it was too small to hold everyone.
Billy Jr. sat hunched over the main monitor, eyes burning from staring at ten drone feeds for the past three hours. His three friends surrounded him—Billy Renzo working drones one through three, Ryan Mattern on four through six, Daniel Rodriguez managing seven through nine. Billy Jr. handled drone ten himself while coordinating the search grid.
Tom, Wade, Josh, Ray, and Pops crowded around the monitors, watching over their shoulders. Everyone else had spread throughout the house—the command center simply couldn't fit them all.
Downstairs, Sarah sat at the kitchen table with Rebecca, Edna, and Mary, each with an iPad showing the drone feeds. Caroline Beaumont and the other consortium mothers occupied the dining room, also monitoring screens. Robert Beaumont and Celab stood on the front porch with Colt, watching the driveway. The Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez fathers were in the living room, checking their hunting rifles and discussing tactical approaches in low voices.
Wilson and Ryan Nelson patrolled between rooms, their deputy uniforms and sidearms making them the unofficial security.
"Anything?" Tom asked for the hundredth time.
"Nothing, Grandpa," Billy Jr. said, his voice hoarse. "We've covered every major road heading east. Checked abandoned structures within a fifty-mile radius. If they're out there, they're well hidden."
Pops stood in the corner, on his third glass of brandy. "Those bastards knew what they were doing. Professionals. Goddamn professionals."
Wade's radio crackled. "Sheriff, dispatch here. Nothing on that APB. No sightings of the white pickup."
Wade's jaw tightened. "Copy that. Keep looking."
Tom's phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Everyone in the command center froze.
"It's them," Tom said quietly.
A text message. No words. Just two photos loading.
"Billy, get these on the network," Tom said. "Everyone needs to see this."
Billy Jr.'s fingers flew across his keyboard. "Uploading to all iPads now."
Throughout the house, iPads chimed simultaneously. The same two photos appearing on every screen.
The first image loaded slowly, pixelating from top to bottom.
In the kitchen, Sarah's scream cut through the house. "NO! OH GOD, NO!"
Rebecca's sob followed.
On every iPad, the same horrific image: Billy and Jake hanging upside down by their boots from a barn rafter. Hands bound behind their backs. Gags in their mouths. Their faces were red, swollen from blood pooling in their heads. Sweat soaked their shirts. The rope burns on their wrists were visible even in the photo—raw, bleeding.
The second photo was a wider shot. The same barn. Dark stains spread across the dirt and hay floor below them.
In the command center, Pops' face went purple. His hands shook as he stared at Billy Jr.'s monitor.
Then the text came through on Tom's phone:
$2,000,000. Electronic transfer. You have 24 hours. Instructions will follow. If you try to find them, we burn the barn. It's already soaked in gasoline. Your boys will burn alive. Pay or they die.
Billy Jr. pushed the message to all the iPads.
Silence for one heartbeat.
Then Pops exploded.
"THOSE SONS OF BITCHES!" He hurled his glass across the room. It shattered against the wall. "THEY STRUNG UP MY BOYS LIKE ANIMALS!"
His roar echoed through the house.
From downstairs, Sarah's voice: "They've been hanging there for hours! Look at their faces! Oh God, look at their wrists—"
Rebecca's voice, breaking: "Mama, we have to do something—"
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Robert Beaumont appeared in the doorway, face grim. "What do we do? Do we pay?"
"Bullshit we pay!" Pops snarled. His face was purple, veins standing out on his neck. "You think they're gonna let them go? Those boys saw their faces!"
More people crowded into the hallway outside the command center. The room was too small but everyone pressed close, trying to see.
"We can get two million," Ray said quietly, his voice tight. "The consortium has the funds. We can transfer it—"
"And then what?" Wade said grimly. "These are professionals. They know Billy and Jake can identify them. Even if we pay, there's no guarantee—"
"So what?" Sarah appeared in the doorway, her face streaked with tears, Rebecca and Mary behind her. "We just leave them there?"
"No," Tom said, his voice steel. "We find them. We go get them."
"The barn's soaked in gasoline!" Caroline said from the hallway. "They'll burn it!"
"Then we better get there before they light the match," Tom said.
Billy Jr. stared at his monitor, the photos burned into his vision. His uncles. His best friends. Hanging there like slaughtered cattle. His hands clenched into fists.
The command center was too hot, too crowded. Billy Jr. could barely breathe. He turned back to his monitor, pulling up the search grid again. "We'll find them," he muttered. "We have to find them. We'll—"
His phone rang.
The sound cut through the chaos. Everyone stopped talking.
Billy Jr. looked down at his phone on the desk.
The caller ID read: Uncle Billy
Time stopped.
"Oh my God," Billy Jr. whispered.
Then he grabbed the phone and screamed. "UNCLE BILLY!"
He slammed his hand down on the emergency button.
"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. BILLY JUNIOR."
The alarm blared through every speaker in the house, every radio, every iPad in the consortium network.
Footsteps thundered from every direction. Celab and Colt pounded up the stairs. The consortium fathers came running. Wilson and Ryan Nelson took the stairs three at a time.
Billy Jr. answered the phone, his hands shaking so hard he almost dropped it. "Uncle Billy? UNCLE BILLY, IS THAT YOU?!"
The voice on the other end was weak, hoarse, barely recognizable. But it was Billy.
"Barn... abandoned... don't know where... hung up... hurry..."
The command center erupted.
"Is that Billy?!" Josh lunged forward.
"MY SON!" Sarah screamed from the doorway. "Is that my son?!"
Billy Jr.'s fingers flew across the keyboard with one hand while pressing the phone to his ear with the other. "Uncle Billy, stay with me! I'm tracking you right now!"
Tom grabbed Billy Jr.'s shoulder. "Can you get his location?"
"Working on it, Grandpa!" Tears streamed down Billy Jr.'s face. The GPS signal started populating on his screen. "Uncle Billy, where are you? Can you tell me anything?"
The voice came back, weaker. "Barn... old... can't... hurts..."
"I know it hurts, I know!" Billy Jr.'s voice cracked. "Just hold on! We're coming for you!"
Sarah pushed through the crowd, shoving people aside. "Billy? Baby, can you hear me?"
"The line's open," Billy Jr. said. "Uncle Billy, if you can hear us, we're tracking your phone right now!"
The command center was wall-to-wall bodies now. Everyone who'd been scattered throughout the house had converged. The hallway was packed. People pressed into the doorway, craning to see.
The GPS coordinates locked in.
"GOT IT!" Billy Jr. shouted. "Thirty-two miles east! Old Morrison barn off County Road 47!"
"I know that place!" Ray said. "Been abandoned for fifteen years!"
Wade was already on his radio. "All units, we have a location. Morrison barn, County Road 47, thirty-two miles east of Benson Ranch."
Tom's voice boomed through the house. "Everyone who can shoot, get ready! We mobilize in five minutes!"
The command center exploded into action. People ran in every direction. Down the stairs to grab weapons. To the trucks to prep vehicles. The organized chaos of a family going to war.
Billy Jr. kept the phone pressed to his ear. "Uncle Billy? Uncle Billy, can you still hear me?"
Faint breathing. Then Billy's voice, barely a whisper. "Jake... get Jake too... please..."
"We're getting both of you!" Billy Jr. said, his voice breaking. "I promise!"
Sarah grabbed the phone from Billy Jr.'s hand. "Billy! Baby, it's Mama! You hold on, you hear me? Your daddy and your brothers are coming for you!"
More faint breathing. Then: "Mama..."
Sarah's sob echoed through the command center. "Yes, baby, I'm here! We're all here!"
Pops pushed forward, taking the phone. "Billy! You listen to me, boy! You and Jake hold on! You hear me? You hold the hell on because we're coming and God help those sons of bitches when we get there!"
A weak sound that might have been a laugh. Or a sob. "Pops..."
"Damn right it's Pops!" The old man's voice was shaking with rage and fear. "Now you stay awake! Billy Junior's gonna keep this line open and you're gonna stay awake until we get there!"
Tom turned to the room. "Robert, get every man who can shoot to the front yard NOW. Wade, you and your boys get the tactical gear. Josh, Ray—every rifle we have. We're going in armed and we're going in fast."
People scattered. Down the stairs, out to the vehicles, grabbing weapons from gun safes.
Billy Jr. took the phone back from Pops. "Uncle Billy, we're coming now. Thirty minutes. You and Jake just hold on for thirty more minutes."
He pulled up the drone interface with his free hand. "Billy, Ryan, Daniel—redirect all drones to Morrison barn. I want thermal imaging. I need to know how many kidnappers and exactly where they are."
"On it," Daniel said, his fingers flying across his iPad.
Wade turned to his sons. "Wilson, Ryan—get the rifles from my truck. Body armor for everyone who fits. Suppressed weapons if we have them."
"What about us?" Billy Renzo asked.
"Drones," Billy Jr. said. "We keep eyes overhead. Real-time intel on movement inside that barn."
Celab stood up. "I'm going."
"Me too," Colt added, his Louisiana drawl thick. "They're my brothers."
Tom nodded. "Get your rifles. You're with us."
Rebecca grabbed her son's arm. "No! Billy Junior, you're not—"
"Mom, I have to! I'm the only one who can run the drone network!"
"Then you stay behind the line," Rebecca said, her voice shaking. "You don't engage. You're tech support only."
"Yes ma'am."
"Same goes for the rest of you," Wade said to Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. "You're intel. Eyes on those iPads."
More people thundered up the stairs. The Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez fathers, armed with hunting rifles.
"What do you need, Sheriff?" Mr. Renzo asked.
"Four armed kidnappers holding Billy and Jake in a barn thirty-two miles east," Wade said. "Place might be soaked in gasoline. We go in fast, we go in quiet, and we bring those boys home."
"We're with you," Mr. Mattern said.
Tom turned to Billy Jr. "What's the thermal imaging showing?"
The first drones had reached the barn. Billy Jr. pulled up the feed. "Four heat signatures inside. Two hanging—that's Billy and Jake. Two moving around on the ground. Wait—" He zoomed in. "Three kidnappers on the ground floor. One outside near a vehicle."
"The white pickup?" Josh asked.
"Has to be." Billy Jr. switched views. "Yeah, white pickup out front. No plates."
"What about the gasoline?" Ray asked.
Billy Jr. enhanced the image. "Can't tell from thermal. But if it's there—"
"We know," Tom said grimly. "Which is why we don't miss."
Pops grabbed Billy Jr.'s phone again. "You still with us, boy?"
A weak response. "Still... here..."
"Good! Your daddy and your brothers are loading up right now. We're coming for you. You and Jake both. You understand?"
"Jake's... bad... been hanging... long time..."
Sarah's hand flew to her mouth. "How long?"
Billy Jr. checked the timestamp from the ransom photos. "At least four hours. Maybe more."
"Jesus Christ," Ray whispered.
"Then we better hurry," Wade said. He keyed his radio. "All units, weapons check. We roll out in two minutes."
The house was chaos. Men checking rifles, loading magazines. The women—Sarah, Rebecca, Edna, Mary, Caroline—gathered around the kitchen table with iPads.
"We'll monitor from here," Mary said. "Keep the radio channel open."
Billy Jr. handed his mother an iPad. "Keep this feed up. That's the thermal imaging. If anything changes—if more heat signatures show up—you radio us immediately."
Rebecca hugged her son tightly. "You come home. All of you."
"We will, Mom."
Tom grabbed his rifle. "Okay, listen up! Thirty minutes to Morrison barn. Wade's taking tactical command. When we get there, we split into three teams. Team Alpha flanks north. Team Bravo south. Team Charlie—me, Josh, and Wade—straight in the front."
"What about the gasoline?" Robert asked.
"We're betting they haven't lit it yet," Wade said. "And we're going in so fast they won't have time. Suppressed weapons. Coordinated shots."
"And if they do light it?" someone asked.
"Then we grab Billy and Jake and we run like hell," Tom said flatly.
Pops drained his brandy and grabbed a shotgun. "I'm riding with Wade."
"Pops, you're drunk," Josh said.
"I'm drunk enough to shoot straight and pissed enough not to miss," Pops growled. "Now let's go get my boys."
Tom turned to Billy Jr. "You keep that line open with Billy. I don't care if he can't talk. You keep him awake."
"Yes sir, Grandpa."
Billy Jr. spoke into the phone. "Uncle Billy? We're coming now. Thirty minutes. You and Jake just hold on for thirty more minutes."
A long pause. Then, so faint Billy Jr. almost couldn't hear it: "Hurry..."
The convoy formed up in the ranch yard.
Wade's sheriff truck took point—Pops in the passenger seat with a shotgun across his lap, Wilson and Ryan Nelson in the back with tactical rifles. Behind him, Tom and Josh in Tom's heavy-duty pickup, both armed with hunting rifles.
Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, Celab, and Colt climbed into the bed of Tom's truck. Each of the four wiz kids had an iPad. Celab and Colt both carried rifles.
Ray and Robert Beaumont took another truck, loaded with ammunition and medical supplies. The Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez fathers formed the rear guard—six more armed men.
"Drones in position?" Tom called back.
"All ten overhead," Billy Jr. confirmed, phone still pressed to his ear. "We've got full coverage."
In the kitchen, Sarah, Rebecca, Edna, Mary, and Caroline stood at the window, watching the convoy. Each held an iPad, monitoring feeds.
"God protect them," Mary whispered.
Sarah's hands shook as she stared at her screen. Somewhere in that barn, her youngest sons were dying.
"Hold on, babies," she whispered. "Just hold on."
Wade's voice crackled through the radio. "All units, final radio check. Sound off."
"Tom's truck, copy."
"Ray here, copy."
"Renzo family ready."
"Mattern family, we're with you."
"Rodriguez family, copy."
"Good," Wade said. "Billy Jr., you've got command of intel. Keep those drones overhead. I want constant updates."
"Copy that, Grandpa Wade," Billy Jr. said, phone in one hand, iPad in the other. "Uncle Billy, we're rolling out now. Stay with me."
Faint breathing on the other end. Still alive.
Wade looked at Pops. "You ready, old man?"
"I was ready three hours ago," Pops growled. "Now drive, Sheriff."
Wade keyed his radio one more time. "All units. Let's bring our boys home."
The engines roared to life. Headlights cut through the darkness. The convoy pulled out, dust kicking up behind them as they headed east on County Road 47.
Inside the lead truck, Pops stared out the window, his jaw set. "Those sons of bitches better pray we get there before I do."
Wade didn't disagree.
In the back of Tom's truck, Billy Jr. kept his phone pressed to his ear. "Uncle Billy? You still there?"
Nothing but breathing. Shallow. Labored.
"Just hold on," Billy Jr. whispered. "We're coming."
The convoy sped through the Texas night—armed men racing to save two young men hanging upside down in a barn thirty-two miles away.
Behind them, five women watched drone feeds and prayed.
Ahead of them, four kidnappers prepared for a fight.
And somewhere between consciousness and death, Billy and Jake hung on.
Just barely.
Chapter 5: The Rescue
The convoy was fifteen minutes out, headlights cutting through the darkness on County Road 47.
In the bed of Tom's truck, Billy Jr. sat hunched over his iPad, watching the drone feeds. His three friends were doing the same, each monitoring different angles of the Morrison barn.
"Still got four heat signatures inside," Daniel said. "Two hanging, two moving around."
"Wait—" Billy Renzo leaned closer to his screen. "One of them just went outside."
Billy Jr. switched to that drone's feed. The thermal imaging showed a figure emerging from the barn, looking up. Then the figure pulled something from his pocket.
"What's he doing?" Ryan Mattern asked.
The figure stood at the barn entrance. Then Billy Jr. saw it—a small heat bloom. A flame.
"Oh my God," Billy Jr. whispered.
The flame touched the ground. Fire spread instantly, racing across the barn floor in the thermal feed, climbing the walls.
"FIRE!" Billy Jr. screamed into the radio. "FIRE! FIRE! FIRE! THEY'RE BURNING THE BARN!"
Wade's voice crackled back. "Say again?"
"THEY LIT IT! THE BARN'S ON FIRE! UNCLE BILLY AND UNCLE JAKE ARE STILL INSIDE!"
In the lead truck, Wade's foot slammed the accelerator to the floor. "ALL UNITS, FULL SPEED! THEY'RE BURNING THE BARN!"
The convoy roared forward, engines screaming. Tom's truck lurched as Josh pushed it to the limit. In the back, Billy Jr. and his friends grabbed the sides to keep from being thrown out.
"How bad is it?" Tom shouted back.
Billy Jr. stared at his screen. The fire was spreading fast, but not everything was engulfed yet. "We've got maybe five minutes before the whole thing goes up!"
"Then we better get there in four," Tom said grimly.
The speedometer climbed. Eighty. Ninety. The trucks flew down the county road, throwing up dust and gravel.
Billy Jr. kept his eyes on the screen. Through the thermal imaging, he could still see Billy and Jake's heat signatures—hanging motionless in the center of the barn. The fire was spreading toward them.
"Come on, come on," he muttered.
"Movement outside!" Daniel said. "Four figures running toward the pickup truck!"
"They're trying to escape," Billy Jr. said into the radio. "Kidnappers are fleeing the barn!"
"Copy that," Wade's voice came back, cold as ice. "We'll be ready for them."
The barn came into view ahead—orange flames already visible through the walls, black smoke pouring into the night sky.
"Three minutes," Billy Renzo said, watching his screen. "Maybe less before those support beams give out."
Wade's truck skidded to a stop a hundred yards from the barn. Through the headlights, four men were visible, running for the white pickup.
"KIDNAPPERS FLEEING!" Wade shouted. "All units, weapons free! Do NOT let them escape!"
Pops was out of the truck before it fully stopped, shotgun raised.
"YOU SONS OF BITCHES!" he roared.
He fired.
The buckshot caught one of the men square in the back. He went down hard, face-first into the dirt. Didn't move.
Wade and his sons were out next, rifles up. Wilson fired—a clean shot that dropped the second kidnapper near the truck's tailgate.
Tom's truck screeched to a halt behind them. He and Josh jumped out, rifles already shouldered.
"Light the barn?!" Tom snarled. "You light the goddamn barn?!"
He fired. The third kidnapper—Dutch—spun and fell, clutching his chest.
Garrett made it to the driver's door. His hand was on the handle when Pops' second shot caught him in the shoulder. He stumbled, tried to raise his pistol.
Wade's rifle cracked. Garrett dropped.
All four kidnappers lay motionless in the dirt.
"CHECK THEM!" Wade ordered. Wilson and Ryan moved forward, weapons trained, checking pulses.
"All dead, Sheriff," Wilson called back.
But the barn was fully engulfed now. Flames roared through the structure, the heat so intense it could be felt from fifty yards away. Black smoke poured into the night sky.
"BILLY! JAKE!" Tom shouted, starting toward the barn.
Then Billy Jr. was past him, sprinting full speed toward the flames.
"UNCLE BILLY!" he screamed. "UNCLE JAKE!"
Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez were right behind him. Celab and Colt followed, all five of them running straight for the burning barn.
"BILLY JUNIOR, STOP!" Josh shouted.
They didn't stop.
"Those damn kids!" Pops roared. He dropped his shotgun and ran after them despite his age.
Tom, Wade, and Robert Beaumont exchanged one look and then sprinted after the boys.
Billy Jr. hit the barn door first. The heat was like a physical wall, but he didn't stop. He plunged into the smoke and flames.
The interior was hell. Flames climbed the walls on all sides. The support beams were burning. Smoke choked the air, thick and black. Billy Jr. couldn't see more than a few feet.
"UNCLE BILLY!" he screamed, coughing. "WHERE ARE YOU?!"
"There!" Daniel pointed through the smoke.
Billy and Jake. Hanging upside down from the center rafter, maybe fifteen feet ahead. Surrounded by flames. The rope holding their boots was starting to smolder.
Billy Jr. ran. His friends followed. The heat was unbearable. His lungs screamed for air but there was only smoke.
Then Pops was beside him, coughing but moving. "I got Jake! You get Billy!"
Tom and Wade appeared through the smoke, Robert right behind them.
"Cut them down!" Tom shouted. "NOW!"
Wade pulled a knife from his belt and reached up toward Jake's boots. The rope was thick, the angle awkward. He sawed at it while Pops and Robert positioned themselves to catch Jake when he fell.
Tom and Billy Jr. went for Billy. Tom boosted Billy Jr. up so he could reach the rope around his uncle's boots.
"I got it!" Billy Jr. said, his knife blade biting into the rope. "Almost—"
The rope snapped.
Billy dropped. Tom caught him, staggering under the weight. Billy was completely limp, unconscious, his face dark red from hanging upside down for hours. His wrists were still bound behind his back, the rope cutting deep into his skin.
"Got him!" Tom gasped. "Let's move!"
Wade's rope snapped a second later. Jake fell into Pops' arms, nearly knocking the old man down. Robert grabbed Jake's legs, and together they held him.
"GO! GO! GO!" Wade shouted.
They turned toward the door. The flames had spread. A support beam cracked and fell, missing Celab by inches. The ceiling was collapsing.
Billy Jr. grabbed his uncle's shoulders while Tom held his legs. They ran, stumbling through flames and smoke. Behind them, Pops and Robert carried Jake, Wade and the other boys clearing debris out of their path.
The barn door was ahead—a rectangle of darkness against the orange flames.
They were ten feet from it when Billy Jr. heard the sound.
A low hiss. Then a roar.
"PROPANE!" Wade screamed. "RUN!"
They burst through the door and into the night air. Billy Jr.'s legs gave out and he fell, still clutching his uncle. Tom dragged them both forward, away from the barn.
Behind them, the propane tanks exploded.
The blast was deafening. A ball of fire erupted from the barn, consuming what was left of the structure. The shockwave knocked everyone flat. Burning debris rained down around them.
Billy Jr. lay on the ground, gasping for air, his uncle's unconscious body beside him. His ears were ringing. Everything hurt.
"Billy?" he croaked. "Uncle Billy?"
Hands pulled him up. His dad. Josh was there, coughing, soot-covered.
"You okay?" Josh asked.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. But Uncle Billy—"
Tom was already kneeling beside Billy, knife out. He cut through the rope binding Billy's wrists. The bindings had cut so deep they'd bled through his shirt. When Tom pulled the rope away, Billy's hands were purple, swollen, the circulation completely cut off.
"Jesus," Tom whispered.
A few feet away, Pops was cutting Jake free, his hands shaking. "Come on, boy. Come on."
Jake's wrists looked just as bad. Raw. Bleeding. The rope had dug grooves into his skin.
Sarah appeared, running from the trucks. Rebecca was right behind her, medical bag in hand.
"My babies!" Sarah dropped to her knees beside Jake. "Oh God, look at them—"
"They're alive," Wade said. He had his fingers on Jake's neck, checking his pulse. "Pulse is weak but steady."
Rebecca moved to Billy, checking his airways, his breathing. "He's got smoke inhalation. Possible brain swelling from hanging upside down that long."
Billy's eyes fluttered open. Barely. Unfocused.
"B-Billy Junior?" he whispered.
"I'm here!" Billy Jr. grabbed his uncle's hand. "I'm right here! We got you! You're safe!"
"Jake..."
"Jake's here too. We got you both."
Billy's eyes closed again.
"We need to get them to a hospital," Rebecca said. "Now. Both of them need—"
"No."
It was Billy. His voice was weak but firm. His eyes opened again, clearer this time.
"No hospital," he said.
"Billy, you've been hanging upside down for hours," Rebecca said. "You need—"
"No. Hospital." Billy's hand tightened on Billy Jr.'s. "Home. Just... home."
Jake stirred beside him. "No... hospital..." he echoed, his voice barely audible.
Sarah looked at Rebecca, tears streaming down her face. "Can you treat them at home?"
Rebecca hesitated. Then she looked at her father. Wade nodded slowly.
"I can stabilize them," Rebecca said. "But if they deteriorate—"
"We know," Tom said. He looked at his sons. "You boys want to go home?"
"Home," Billy whispered.
"Damn right," Pops said. He stood up, his face black with soot, his eyes red. "Benson boys don't run crying to hospitals. We take care of our own."
Wade stood. "Alright. Let's get them loaded up. Gently. Keep their heads elevated. They've had enough blood in their brains for one night."
Tom and Josh lifted Billy carefully while Pops and Robert did the same with Jake. They carried them to Tom's truck, laying them in the bed on blankets the women had brought.
Billy Jr. climbed in beside his uncles, still holding Billy's hand. The other wiz kids crowded in around them. Celab and Colt sat at their feet.
"You boys did good," Tom said quietly to Billy Jr. "Real good. That early warning saved their lives."
"We all did it together, Grandpa," Billy Jr. said, his voice shaking.
Sarah climbed into the truck bed too, cradling Jake's head in her lap. Rebecca sat beside Billy, monitoring his breathing.
The convoy reformed. Slower this time. More careful. The burning barn lit up the night behind them as they pulled away.
Inside Wade's truck, Pops stared out the window, his shotgun across his lap.
"Those sons of bitches got what they deserved," he said quietly.
Wade didn't disagree.
Behind them, the Morrison barn collapsed in on itself, flames consuming the last of the structure. By morning, there would be nothing left but ash and four dead kidnappers lying in the dirt.
But Billy and Jake Benson were going home.
Alive.
Chapter 6: Home
Doc Peterson's truck pulled into the ranch yard thirty minutes after the convoy arrived, his medical bag already in hand before he'd fully stopped. He was seventy-four years old, retired from Kings Hospital five years ago, but still kept his license active. And when Pops Benson called, you answered. Especially when Pops called.
They'd served together in Vietnam—1st Cavalry Division, 1968. Pops had saved Doc's life in the Tet Offensive. Doc had returned the favor three months later outside Hue. Fifty-six years later, they still talked twice a week and drank together once a month.
"Where are they?" Doc asked, climbing the porch steps.
"Upstairs," Tom said, meeting him at the door. "Second floor. Rebecca's with them."
Doc took the stairs faster than a man his age should. Behind him, Pops followed with a bottle of Jack Daniels.
"You bring the whole bar, Benson?" Doc asked without turning around.
"Medicinal purposes, Peterson."
"That's what you said in Da Nang right before you got us kicked out of that bar."
"That wasn't the whiskey's fault. That was the Marine's fault for having a big mouth."
"You threw the first punch."
"He insulted the 1st Cav."
"He said we couldn't shoot straight."
"Exactly. An insult."
Doc shook his head, grinning. "Fifty-six years and you're still looking for fights."
"Found one tonight," Pops said, his voice going hard. "Four sons of bitches learned what happens when you mess with Benson boys."
Doc stopped at the top of the stairs and looked at his old friend. "You okay?"
"I'm fine. My grandsons almost weren't. But they are now. Let's keep it that way."
The frat house room was crowded. Billy and Jake lay in their bunk beds—Billy on the bottom left, Jake on the bottom right. Rebecca had already started IVs on both of them, fluids dripping steadily. Their wrists were bandaged, white gauze wrapped around the rope burns. Both were conscious now, but barely—eyes half-open, faces still flushed from hours of hanging upside down.
Sarah sat between the beds, one hand on each of her sons. Josh stood behind her, his face drawn. Tom and Ray filled the doorway.
Doc Peterson set his bag down and went to Billy first. "Let's see what we got here, son."
He checked Billy's pupils with a penlight, his pulse, listened to his lungs with a stethoscope. "Smoke inhalation's not too bad. Lungs sound clear enough. Pulse is coming back strong." He moved to Billy's wrists, gently lifting the bandages. "Rebecca, you do this?"
"Yes sir," Rebecca said.
"Good work. Textbook. You learn that from me or your fancy medical books?"
"Little of both," Rebecca said, smiling slightly.
"She learned it from me," Pops said. "I taught her field medicine when she was twelve."
"You taught her how to make a tourniquet out of a belt," Doc said. "I taught her actual medicine."
"Same thing."
"Not even close."
Doc looked at Billy. "You feel anything in your fingers yet?"
"Tingles," Billy croaked. "Hurts like hell."
"Good. Pain means the nerves are waking up. Means you're not permanently damaged." Doc moved to Jake, repeating the examination. "Same here. You boys are damn lucky. Another hour hanging like that and we'd be talking stroke, brain damage, maybe worse. Much worse."
"They're going to be okay?" Sarah asked, her voice shaking.
"They'll be sore for a week. Wrists will take longer to heal—two, maybe three weeks before they can use their hands normally. But yeah, they'll be fine." Doc looked at Pops. "Now about that Jack Daniels you promised me..."
Pops grinned and poured two shots into plastic medicine cups. Doc handed one to Billy, one to Jake.
"Doctor's orders," Doc said. "For the pain and the nerves. Drink up."
Billy downed his without hesitation. Jake did the same, wincing.
"That's horrible," Jake muttered.
"It's supposed to be," Doc said. "Builds character. Isn't that what you always said in 'Nam, Benson?"
"Still say it," Pops said. He poured two more shots—one for himself, one for Doc. They clinked plastic cups.
"To stupid kids who run into burning buildings," Doc said.
"And to the boys who survive it," Pops added.
They drank together.
"Remember that hooch fire outside Pleiku?" Doc said. "You ran in to save that case of whiskey."
"Wasn't just whiskey," Pops protested. "There were important documents."
"It was whiskey."
"There might have been documents near the whiskey."
"You almost died for bourbon."
"And I'd do it again," Pops said. "Priorities, Peterson."
Rebecca adjusted Jake's IV, shaking her head at the two old men. "You two are impossible."
"We prefer 'experienced,'" Doc said.
"We prefer 'survivors,'" Pops corrected.
Outside, vehicles were arriving. Lots of them. The entire consortium was converging on the ranch—word had spread fast. The Beaumont family pulled up first, followed by the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. Sheriff Wade and his family were already there.
By the time the sun fully set, the ranch house was packed. People filled the kitchen, the living room, the porch. Everyone wanted to see Billy and Jake, to hear the story, to celebrate that the boys were alive.
And then Jake's Steak House arrived.
Three delivery trucks pulled up, loaded with food. Brisket, ribs, chicken, sides—enough to feed an army. Jake Martinez himself climbed out of the lead truck.
"Heard you boys had a hell of a day," Jake said, shaking Tom's hand. "This one's on the house. Consortium takes care of its own."
The food was set up buffet-style in the dining room and kitchen. People loaded plates, grabbed drinks, and spread throughout the house. The atmosphere shifted from relief to celebration. Voices rose, laughter echoed. Stories were already being told and retold.
Pops held court on the porch, bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, glass in the other. Doc Peterson sat beside him in a rocking chair, his own glass never empty. A crowd gathered around them—the consortium fathers, Sheriff Wade, Robert Beaumont.
"Seventy-six goddamn years old," Pops was saying, "and I'm still faster than those sons of bitches. Dutch went down like a sack of flour. Never saw it coming."
"Your first shot missed," Doc pointed out. "I was watching. You were three feet to the left."
"I was establishing a baseline."
"You were drunk."
"Drunk enough to shoot, sober enough to hit," Pops corrected. "Second shot was perfect."
"Because Wade shot him first."
"I softened him up," Pops insisted.
Wade grinned. "You were both shooting. One of us hit him. Does it matter which?"
"It matters," Pops said.
"It doesn't," Doc said. "What matters is he's dead and your boys are alive. That's a win in any war."
Pops raised his glass. "Amen to that."
They drank.
"You remember that ambush near Khe Sanh?" Doc said. "When you were convinced you'd shot three VC but it turned out I'd shot two of them?"
"That never happened."
"It absolutely happened. I counted the bodies."
"You counted wrong."
"I'm a doctor. I don't count wrong."
"You're a drunk. You count wrong all the time."
"Says the man on his fourth glass of Jack."
"Fifth," Pops corrected. "And I'm pacing myself."
Laughter rippled through the group. Mary Nelson shook her head at both of them.
"You two are going to drink yourselves to death," she said.
"We've been trying for fifty-six years," Doc said. "Haven't managed it yet."
"Clearly doing something wrong," Pops added.
Inside, Billy Jr. and his three friends sat at the kitchen table with Celab and Colt, plates piled high with brisket and ribs. They were still filthy—soot-covered, smelling like smoke, but grinning.
"You should've seen Billy Jr.," Daniel was saying to anyone who'd listen. "Didn't even hesitate. Just ran straight into the fire."
"We all did," Billy Jr. said.
"Yeah, but you were first," Ryan Mattern added. "Like, way first. You were ten feet ahead of us."
"I wasn't counting."
"We were," Billy Renzo said. "You went in like a crazy person."
Tom appeared beside the table with Pops and Doc Peterson, who were both carrying bottles—Pops with his Jack Daniels, Doc with a bottle of bourbon he'd pulled from his truck.
"You boys," Pops said, setting down seven shot glasses. "Line 'em up."
Rebecca looked up sharply from across the room. "Dad—"
"They earned it," Pops said firmly. He poured seven shots of Jack. "Billy Junior. Billy Renzo. Ryan. Daniel. Celab. Colt." He looked at each of them. "You boys ran into a burning building to save my grandsons. That takes guts. That takes heart. That takes balls the size of church bells."
"Pops!" Sarah said from the doorway.
"It's true!" Pops said. "Doc, back me up here."
Doc Peterson nodded solemnly. "Medical opinion: these boys have enormous balls."
"Doctor!" Mary said, scandalized.
"It's science," Doc said, completely straight-faced.
Josh stepped forward. "Pops, they're sixteen—"
"They're heroes," Pops interrupted. "And heroes get whiskey. Isn't that right, Doc?"
"That's what we did in Vietnam," Doc agreed. "Any man—or boy—who saves lives gets a drink. It's tradition."
"It's illegal," Rebecca said.
"So were half the things we did in 'Nam," Pops said. "We turned out fine."
"That's debatable," Wade muttered.
Pops ignored him. "Now drink up, boys. One shot. Then you're done. But you've earned this one."
Billy Jr. grabbed his glass. His friends followed. They downed the shots together, faces twisting at the burn.
"Oh God!" Billy Renzo coughed. "That's awful!"
"Welcome to manhood," Doc said.
"It gets better," Pops added. "Or you get used to it. One of those."
Then Pops reached into his jacket and pulled out a wooden box. Cuban cigars. The real deal. Illegal, expensive, and Pops' most prized possession besides his grandsons.
"Oh no," Tom said. "Pops, those are—"
"Special occasions only," Pops said. He opened the box, revealing six perfectly rolled cigars. "And if six boys running into a burning building to save family isn't a special occasion, I don't know what the hell is."
"I'll take one," Doc said immediately.
"You're a doctor!" Mary protested.
"I'm a retired doctor," Doc corrected. "Big difference." He took a cigar from Pops. "Besides, we smoked these in Saigon. What's one more going to hurt?"
Pops handed cigars to the six boys. "Boys, you light 'em like this..." He demonstrated with his lighter, puffing until the end glowed orange. "Don't inhale. Just puff and let the smoke sit in your mouth. Taste it. That's a fifty-dollar cigar right there."
"Seventy-five," Doc corrected. "I know what you paid."
"Sixty," Pops said.
"You told me seventy-five last month."
"I lied to make you jealous."
Soon all six teenagers were puffing on Cuban cigars, trying not to cough, looking simultaneously proud and nauseous. Pops and Doc sat back, grinning, their own cigars lit.
"Remember teaching those South Vietnamese how to smoke?" Doc said.
"Remember? I got them hooked on Cubans. Probably still smoking them."
"Probably why we lost the war," Doc said. "You corrupted them."
"I civilized them," Pops corrected.
"Same thing."
The party went on for hours. Food disappeared. Pops' bottle of Jack Daniels emptied and was replaced. Doc's bourbon bottle made the rounds. Stories were told—the discovery of the kitchen, the drone footage, the phone call, the shootout, the rescue. Each telling got more dramatic, more heroic.
Pops and Doc told their own stories from Vietnam—carefully edited for the younger audience, but still full of danger and close calls. By the end of the night, it was hard to tell where truth ended and legend began.
Billy and Jake were carried downstairs at one point so people could see them, congratulate them, thank God they were alive. Both were still weak, still in pain, but smiling. Sarah never left their sides.
"Thought we were done for," Jake admitted to the crowd. "Hanging there for hours. Couldn't feel our hands. Couldn't breathe right. Blood pounding in our heads. Then we heard Billy Junior's voice on that phone and we knew..."
"We knew you'd come," Billy finished weakly.
"Damn right we came," Pops said, raising his glass. "Bensons don't leave family behind. Isn't that right, Doc?"
"That's right," Doc said. "Nobody left behind. That was the rule in 'Nam. Still is."
By midnight, people started drifting home. The Beaumonts first, then the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. Hugs all around. Promises to check in tomorrow. The house slowly emptied until it was just the Bensons—Tom and Sarah, Josh and Rebecca, Ray, Pops, Doc Peterson, and the boys.
"You staying?" Pops asked Doc.
"You got a spare room?"
"I got a couch."
"Good enough," Doc said. "I'm too drunk to drive anyway."
"Lightweight," Pops said.
"I'm three years older than you."
"Excuses."
Billy and Jake were carried back upstairs to the frat house. This time, all the boys followed—Billy Jr., Celab, Colt. They squeezed into the small room, Billy Jr. climbing into his bunk above Billy, Celab into his above Jake. Colt sprawled on his mattress on the floor between the two bunk beds.
The room was dark and quiet. The adrenaline was finally wearing off. Exhaustion settling in like a weight.
"How you feeling?" Billy Jr. asked, leaning over the side of his bunk to look down at his uncle.
"Like I got hit by a truck," Billy said, his voice hoarse. "But alive. Thanks to you."
"We all did it," Billy Jr. said.
"You hit that emergency button," Jake said from his bunk. "You tracked the phone. You saw the fire on the drones. You ran in first. You saved us, Billy Junior."
"We all ran in," Billy Jr. said again.
"Yeah, but you went first," Celab added. "That takes guts."
"Or stupidity," Colt drawled. "Jury's still out, cher."
They lay there in the darkness, too tired to talk much but too wired to sleep just yet.
"Hey," Jake said suddenly. "Anybody else dying of thirst?"
"I could drink a gallon," Billy agreed.
Billy Jr. sat up. "I'll grab some water bottles—"
"Forget water," Colt said. He rolled off his mattress and went to the corner of the room, near the window. He knelt down and pulled up a loose floorboard.
Billy Jr. blinked. "What are you—"
Colt reached into the space under the floor and pulled out a six-pack of beer. Cold. Condensation dripping off the bottles.
"What the hell?" Billy Jr. said.
"You didn't know?" Colt grinned. "Pops keeps it stocked."
"Wait, what?" Celab sat up in his bunk.
Colt pulled out another six-pack. Then another. "There's like four cases under here. Pops fills it up every morning. Been doing it since we moved in."
"Are you serious?" Billy Jr. said.
The door opened. Pops stood there, Doc Peterson beside him, both holding their bottles.
"Found my stash, did you?" Pops said, grinning like the devil.
"Pops!" Billy Jr. said. "You've been—how long have you—"
"Since the day you boys moved in," Pops said. "Figured you'd need it eventually. And tonight seems like a damn good night to crack one open."
"I helped," Doc added. "Bought half those cases."
"You did?"
"Sure did. Boys need to be boys. Especially good boys. They earn some fun."
"Does Dad know?" Billy Jr. asked.
"Does Tom know what?" Tom's voice came from the hallway.
Pops and Doc turned. Tom stood there, Josh and Ray behind him, all three staring at the beer bottles Colt was holding.
"Is that—" Tom started.
"Beer," Josh finished flatly. "Under the floorboards."
"Pops, have you been hiding beer in the frat house?" Ray demanded.
"Hiding's a strong word," Pops said. "I prefer 'strategically placing for future morale purposes.'"
"That's not better," Tom said.
"How long?" Josh asked.
"Fourteen months," Pops said without hesitation.
Tom's jaw dropped. "Fourteen months? You've been stocking beer for sixteen-year-olds for over a year?"
"Seventeen now," Pops corrected. "Well, most of them. Billy Junior will be seventeen in two months. Close enough."
"Close enough?" Ray said. "Pops!"
"And I helped," Doc added cheerfully. "Don't forget that part."
"You're supposed to be a doctor!" Tom said.
"Retired doctor," Doc corrected. "Big difference. And medically speaking, these boys need to relax after today. Beer's good for that."
"That's not medical advice," Josh said.
"Sure it is," Pops said. "Doc prescribed it. Didn't you, Doc?"
"Absolutely," Doc said, nodding seriously. "One to two beers for stress relief and emotional processing. It's in all the medical journals."
"It absolutely is not," Rebecca called from downstairs.
"She doesn't know," Doc called back. "She's too young to have read the old journals!"
Tom looked at his father, then at Doc, then at the boys, then at the beer. His face was torn between anger and exhausted resignation. Finally, he sighed deeply.
"One beer each," Tom said. "That's it."
"Two," Pops countered.
"One."
"They ran into a burning building, Tom."
"While we're being honest," Doc added, "they also charged in before any of us could stop them. That's initiative. Leadership. Courage. All beer-worthy qualities."
Tom hesitated. Then: "Two. But that's it. And this stash is gone tomorrow morning."
"Sure it is," Pops said, winking at the boys.
"I mean it, Pops."
"I believe you mean it," Pops said. "Doesn't mean it's happening."
Tom, Josh, and Ray shook their heads and left, muttering about Pops and Doc and their terrible influence.
Pops and Doc handed out beers—one to each of the boys who could sit up. Billy and Jake got theirs in bed, struggling to open them with bandaged hands. Pops opened the bottles for them.
"You know," Doc said, settling into the desk chair, "in Vietnam, we'd do this after every bad mission. Sit around, drink a beer, decompress. Talk about what happened. Process it."
"Did it help?" Billy Jr. asked.
"Sometimes," Doc said. "Sometimes it just gave us something to do besides think about dying."
"That's cheerful," Celab muttered.
"War's not cheerful," Pops said. "But survival is. And you boys survived something today. Something big. Something most people never face. So you drink a beer, you toast to being alive, and you remember that you did something good. Something heroic."
He raised his bottle of Jack Daniels. "To family. To Bensons and those crazy enough to call themselves Bensons. To boys who become men when it matters most."
"And to boys who run into burning buildings," Doc added, raising his bourbon. "Because they're either very brave or very stupid."
"Both," Pops said. "Always both."
They clinked bottles and glasses together.
Billy took a long drink and sighed. "Best beer I've ever had."
"That's because you're alive to drink it," Doc said. "Everything tastes better when you shouldn't be here to taste it."
"Deep, Doc," Jake said.
"I'm drunk," Doc admitted. "It happens."
"You're always drunk," Pops said.
"Pot. Kettle. Black."
They sat in the darkness, drinking their beers, the two old men telling quiet stories about close calls and stupid decisions and the friends they'd lost. The boys listened, realizing that Pops and Doc had been through their own version of today fifty-six years ago. And they'd survived. And they'd kept surviving.
One by one, the beers emptied. Billy and Jake were asleep first, their bodies finally surrendering to exhaustion and medication. Colt followed, sprawled on his mattress. Then Celab, then Billy Jr., still clutching his empty bottle.
Pops and Doc stood quietly and left the room, closing the door behind them.
In the hallway, Doc looked at his old friend. "Hell of a day."
"Hell of a day," Pops agreed.
"Your boys are okay."
"Thanks to other boys who had the guts to save them."
Doc nodded. "Billy Junior's got your crazy, you know. That running-into-danger thing. That's all you."
"I know," Pops said. "Scares the hell out of me."
"But you're proud."
"Damn right I'm proud." Pops took a drink from his bottle. "He's got heart. They all do. That's what matters."
They walked downstairs together. Tom was waiting in the living room.
"They asleep?" Tom asked.
"Like the dead," Doc said. "Which, thank God, they're not."
"Amen to that," Tom said. He looked at his father. "Fourteen months, Pops? Really?"
"Really," Pops said unapologetically.
"And you're not going to stop."
"Nope."
Tom sighed. "At least tell me next time."
"Where's the fun in that?"
Doc laughed and headed for the couch. "I'm crashing here. Wake me if anyone dies."
"Reassuring," Tom said.
"I'm a doctor. It's my job."
Pops headed to his bedroom, still carrying his bottle. At the door, he turned back to Tom.
"Those boys did good today," Pops said. "All of them. Billy, Jake, Billy Junior, the whole crew. You raised them right, Tom. Your dad would be proud."
Tom's throat tightened. "Thanks, Pops."
"Now go to bed. Tomorrow we deal with the sheriff's report and the cleanup. Tonight, we sleep knowing everyone's home."
Pops closed his bedroom door.
Tom stood alone in the hallway for a moment, listening to the quiet house. Upstairs, his sons—all of them—were safe. Alive. Sleeping in their bunks.
He climbed the stairs one more time, opened the frat house door quietly, and looked inside. Five boys crammed into a room meant for four. Billy and Jake in their bunks, bandaged and breathing steadily. Billy Jr., Celab, and Colt sprawled in their spots. Empty beer bottles on the floor.
Tom smiled despite himself.
Benson boys.
All of them.
He closed the door and went to bed.
THE END
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