Chapter 1: Normal Day, Wrong Place
The fence line ran for three miles along the eastern edge of Benson property, where the land got rough and the mesquite grew thick enough to hide a bull until you were practically on top of it. Jake had been riding it since dawn, checking posts, replacing wire where the deer had pushed through. It was tedious work, the kind that let your mind wander while your hands stayed busy.
He liked it out here. Away from Ray's spreadsheets and Josh's management meetings. Just him, his truck, his tools, and about ten thousand acres of Texas Hill Country that had belonged to Bensons since before anyone could remember.
The sun was high now, pushing toward noon. Jake pulled his truck to a stop near a section where the wire sagged between two posts. He killed the engine and stepped out, the heat hitting him like a physical thing. His white undershirt was already soaked through under his work shirt. The sat radio on his belt clicked against his buckle as he reached into the truck bed for his wire cutters and gloves.
Pops always said this part of the ranch was too isolated for solo work. "Get yourself hurt out here, boy, and we won't find you till the buzzards do." But Jake was twenty-two years old, built like the bulls he wrestled, and he'd been working this land since he could walk. He didn't need a babysitter.
He was three posts deep into the repair, stretching new wire tight, when he heard the truck.
One truck, coming up the ranch road fast, dust plume rising behind it. Jake straightened, shading his eyes. Nobody should be out here. The consortium families all had their own sections to work today, and the ranch roads weren't exactly public access.
The truck slowed as it approached. Beat to hell—an old Ford that looked like it'd been rode hard and put away wet about a thousand times. Four men inside, packed in tight.
Jake didn't recognize any of them.
He kept his hand near his hip, where his sidearm usually sat. Today, because he'd been in a hurry and focused on fence work, it was locked in the glove box of his truck. Stupid.
"Help you boys with something?" Jake called out as the Ford pulled alongside him.
All four doors opened at once. The men stepped out, fanning wide. Mid-thirties, lean and hard-looking, with the kind of faces that had seen too many bar fights and not enough steady work. The driver smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Yeah, actually. We're a little turned around. Looking for the highway back to Abilene."
Jake's jaw tightened. The highway was forty miles north, and you didn't accidentally end up on Benson property unless you'd ignored about six "No Trespassing" signs and climbed through two locked gates.
"You're about as lost as a man can get," Jake said slowly. "Highway's back the way you came. Follow the ranch road north till you hit the main gate. Can't miss it."
The man's smile widened. "That right?"
They were spreading out now, positioning themselves. One moved between Jake and his truck.
"Problem is," the driver said, still smiling that dead smile, "we're not actually lost."
Jake's mind raced. Four of them. No weapon on him. Closest help was Billy and Celeb, probably eight miles west. His truck was ten feet away, but they'd cut him off. The sat radio on his belt felt suddenly very heavy.
"Look," Jake said, voice level, hands visible. "I don't know what you boys are planning, but you've picked the wrong ranch and the wrong—"
The punch came from his blind side. Jake's head snapped sideways, stars exploding across his vision. He swung back on instinct, his fist connecting with jawbone, and one of them went down hard. But then there were hands on him—too many hands—and something hard cracked across the back of his skull.
The ground came up fast. Jake tasted dirt and blood. His vision swam.
"Easy, cowboy," someone said above him. "We just need you to cooperate here."
Jake bucked, trying to throw them off, but someone's boot drove into his ribs and his arms were wrenched behind his back. Zip ties bit into his wrists.
"Get him up," the driver barked. "He's driving."
They hauled Jake to his feet. His head pounded, blood running warm down the back of his neck. They shoved him toward his truck, guns appearing now—two pistols pressed against his sides.
"You're gonna drive," the driver said, climbing into the passenger seat while the other two piled into the back. "And you're gonna do exactly what I tell you, or we put a bullet in your spine right here. Understand?"
Jake said nothing. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached.
"I asked you a question."
"I understand," Jake ground out.
"Good. Now start the truck and head east. Nice and slow."
Jake's hands shook—not from fear, but from rage so pure it felt like it might burn through his skin. He started the engine. His own truck. Forced to drive himself to God knows where, with three guns on him and his own blood soaking into his collar.
The sat radio pressed against the small of his back, hidden under his shirt tail, clipped to his belt. They hadn't found it yet.
Jake put the truck in gear and drove.
Behind him, the Ford followed, the fourth man at the wheel. They headed deeper into the eastern section, away from the main buildings, away from help, toward the old forgotten corners of the property where the fences failed and the land turned wild.
And as the adrenaline began to fade, one thought crystallized with perfect clarity:
They have no idea what family they just fucked with.
Chapter 2: Drive to Nowhere
The first ten minutes, Jake said nothing. Just drove where they told him to drive, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel, jaw working like he was chewing glass.
"Left up here," the driver said, gesturing with his pistol toward a barely visible dirt track that cut through the mesquite. "And slow the hell down. Don't need you getting any ideas about rolling this thing."
Jake took the turn. The truck bounced over ruts and rocks, suspension groaning. Behind them, the Ford followed at a distance, staying far enough back to avoid the dust cloud.
The man in the passenger seat—the driver, the one calling the shots—was maybe thirty-five, with a patchy beard and sunburned neck. Prison tattoos crawled up his forearms. The two in the back were younger, twitchy, guns trained on Jake's head and ribs. One pressed the barrel hard enough into his kidney that Jake could feel every bump in the road.
"You boys are making a hell of a mistake," Jake said finally, his voice low and dangerous.
The driver laughed. "That right?"
"You know whose land you're on?"
"I know it's big enough that nobody's gonna find you for a good long while." The driver leaned back, gun resting casual on his thigh. "And I know your family's got money. Lots of it. Ranch this size? You Bensons are sitting pretty."
Jake's hands tightened on the wheel. "My grandfather fought in Vietnam. My brother Josh was a Marine. You think a bunch of drifter trash like you are gonna—"
The pistol came up fast, barrel pressed against Jake's temple.
"You keep talking like that," the driver said quietly, "and I'll put one in your knee just to make a point. Now drive."
Jake's teeth ground together, but he shut up. For now.
They drove east for what felt like forever—probably forty minutes, maybe an hour. The sun beat down through the windshield. Sweat ran down Jake's back, soaking the white undershirt that clung to his skin. The sat radio dug into his spine where it was clipped to his belt, hidden by his shirttail.
They still haven't found it.
Jake's mind raced through scenarios. He could jerk the wheel, try to roll the truck. But three guns on him at point-blank range—even if he survived the crash, they'd execute him on the spot. He could try to run when they stopped. Make them chase him into the brush. But he'd seen the fourth man in the Ford behind them. They'd run him down or shoot him in the back before he made twenty yards.
So he drove. And he watched.
The driver was confident, cocky even. Ex-con, probably. Done time for something violent. The two in the back were nervous—one kept shifting his weight, the other wouldn't stop fidgeting with his pistol. Amateurs. Desperate amateurs.
That made them dangerous.
Jake memorized every detail. The scar on the driver's hand. The homemade tattoo on the wrist of the kid in the back seat. The way they kept glancing at each other like they weren't sure this plan was going to work.
Good, Jake thought. Be scared. You should be.
"Right up here," the driver said, pointing toward a cluster of live oaks. "See that old house?"
Jake saw it. Barely. A decrepit structure that must've been abandoned for thirty years, roof half-caved in, windows long gone. It sat in a low hollow, surrounded by scrub and stone, invisible from any road.
"Pull up next to it. Kill the engine."
Jake did as he was told. The Ford pulled in behind them, the fourth man climbing out. He was older than the others, grizzled, with a limp and a scar that ran from his ear to his chin.
"Out," the driver barked, gun still trained on Jake. "Slow. Hands where I can see them."
Jake opened the door and stepped out, hands raised. His boots hit the dirt. Three guns tracked his every move. The fourth man from the Ford moved behind him, cutting off any escape route.
The old house loomed in front of him, dark and hollow. Buzzards circled overhead.
"Inside," the driver said, jerking his head toward the doorway.
Jake walked forward, every muscle coiled tight, looking for an opening that didn't exist.
Not yet.
But it would come. And when it did, these bastards were going to learn what it meant to mess with a Benson.
Chapter 3: Tied and Abandoned
The inside of the old house was worse than the outside. Rotted floorboards, collapsed furniture, and the smell of decades of animal waste and decay. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the roof, casting jagged shadows across the floor.
"Right there," the driver said, pointing to the center of the main room. "On your knees."
Jake didn't move fast enough. One of the younger ones shoved him hard between the shoulder blades, sending him stumbling forward. Jake caught himself, then slowly lowered to his knees on the filthy floor.
The driver pulled out a roll of duct tape and tossed it at Jake's feet.
"Pick it up."
Jake stared at the tape, then up at the driver. "What do you want me to do with it?"
"Tape your mouth shut. Three strips across. Do it now."
Jake's jaw clenched. "You gotta be—"
The gun came up, aimed at his face. "I'm not asking twice."
Jake picked up the tape with shaking hands. He tore off a strip and pressed it across his mouth. Then another. Then a third, sealing his lips completely. His breathing came hard through his nose now.
"Good. Now your eyes. Make it tight."
Jake hesitated. This was it—once he couldn't see, couldn't yell, he'd be completely helpless. The driver stepped closer, gun barrel inches from Jake's forehead.
Jake wrapped tape across his eyes. One strip. Two. Three. The world went black.
"Now tie your ankles together. Rope's right in front of you."
Jake's hands fumbled in the darkness, finding the coil of rope. His fingers shook as he wrapped it around his boots, trying to leave slack, trying to buy himself any advantage.
"Tighter. I can see what you're doing. Make it tight or we'll do it for you, and you won't like how we do it."
Jake pulled the rope tighter, cinching the knot. His ankles were locked together now.
"Now your thighs. Wrap it just above the knees."
Jake took the rope, wrapped it around his thighs, tied it off. He could feel his legs becoming useless, immobilized.
"Down on your stomach. Now."
Hands shoved him forward. Jake hit the floor hard, unable to catch himself, temple cracking against rotted wood. Dust filled his nose. He couldn't see. Couldn't yell. Could barely breathe.
They grabbed his arms, wrenching them behind his back.
"Hold still," the grizzled one said, his voice close to Jake's ear. "We're gonna do this real careful-like."
The rope touched Jake's wrists first. Cold and rough. They wrapped it around and around, cinching it tight until the coarse fibers bit into skin. Jake felt his hands going numb almost immediately.
Stay calm. Find a way out of this.
But then they kept going.
The rope moved up his forearms, wrapping in slow, deliberate coils. They pulled as they went, forcing his forearms together inch by inch. Jake tried to keep his arms apart, tried to maintain some space, but hands pressed down on his shoulders, holding him flat while they worked.
"That's it. Nice and tight."
The rope reached his elbows. They cinched it there, pulling hard, and Jake felt his elbows touch. His shoulder blades were forced together, his chest pressed hard against the filthy floor. Pain shot through his shoulders.
Jesus. They know what they're doing.
But they weren't done.
The rope continued up to his biceps. They wrapped it around his upper arms, just below his shoulders, and pulled. Not tight enough to make his biceps touch—that would be impossible—but close. Maybe two inches apart. Jake could feel his arms swelling against the rope, muscles bulging, circulation cutting off.
His shoulders screamed. His chest couldn't expand properly. Every breath was work.
The radio. Focus on the radio. It's still there. Still on your belt.
More rope around his torso now. They wrapped it around his chest, around his arms, pinning everything in place. Around and around, methodical and slow. Jake could feel every loop, every cinch, every adjustment they made to ensure he couldn't move.
"Roll him on his side."
They flipped him. More rope around his torso, crisscrossing his chest, binding his arms so tight to his body that he couldn't even twitch his fingers anymore.
Can't feel my hands. Can't move my arms. Can't—
"Now the legs."
They bent his bound legs up behind him. Jake knew what was coming and tried to resist, tried to keep his legs down, but it was useless. They connected the rope from his ankles to the web of rope around his torso and arms, pulling until his back arched, until every muscle in his body went rigid.
Hogtied. Completely and utterly immobilized.
"Get the picture."
Flash. Flash. Flash.
"That'll do. His family sees this, they'll pay up quick."
"We just leaving him like this?"
"He ain't going nowhere. Look at him. Trussed up like a goddamn steer."
Laughter. Boots moving toward the door. The creak of hinges. Engines starting.
Then nothing.
Silence.
Jake lay in the darkness, bound so tight he could barely breathe. Tape over his mouth. Tape over his eyes. Arms roped from wrists to shoulders, swollen and numb. Legs bent back. Back arched. Every muscle screaming.
The sat radio pressed against his lower back where it was clipped to his belt, hidden under his shirt.
Inches away.
Miles away.
Jake pulled against the ropes. Nothing. Not even a fraction of give.
He tried again.
Pain exploded through his shoulders and spine.
I have to get to that radio.
I have to.
Chapter 4: Hour One
The first thing Jake felt was rage.
Pure, white-hot fury that burned through every nerve in his body. Not fear. Not panic. Just anger so consuming it felt like it might crack his ribs from the inside.
These bastards put their hands on me. Tied me up like an animal. Left me here in the dirt.
He pulled against the ropes with everything he had. His shoulders screamed in protest. The rope around his wrists bit deeper. His back arched further, muscles straining, sweat pouring down his face and soaking into the tape over his eyes.
Nothing moved. Not an inch.
Jake tried to roll. His body rocked slightly but the hogtie kept him locked in place. He couldn't get leverage. Couldn't get his legs under him. His bound ankles and thighs were useless dead weight pulling his spine into an unnatural curve.
Come on. COME ON.
He yanked his wrists apart, trying to snap the rope or slip free. Fire shot up his forearms. The rope only dug deeper, cutting into already raw skin.
His breathing came hard and fast through his nose, the only airway he had left. The tape across his mouth sealed tight. He tried to work his jaw, tried to loosen it, but three layers of duct tape weren't going anywhere.
Calm down. Think. You're wasting energy.
But calm was impossible. The rage demanded action, movement, something. Jake thrashed again, his body bucking against the floor, ropes creaking but not giving. Dust filled his nose. He coughed behind the tape, nearly choking, forced himself to slow his breathing.
Okay. Okay. Stop.
He lay still, panting, every muscle trembling. The pain was starting to register now—not just the sharp bite of rope, but the deep, grinding ache in his shoulders from being wrenched back for so long. His hands were completely numb. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore.
How long had it been? Twenty minutes? An hour? Time was meaningless in the darkness.
Jake shifted his weight, trying to relieve the pressure on his chest. As he moved, something pressed harder into his lower back.
The sat radio.
It's still there.
Hope flared, immediate and desperate. The radio was clipped to his belt, hidden under his shirttail. They hadn't found it. If he could just reach it—if he could hit the emergency button—
But his hands were behind him, roped tight to his torso, fingers numb and useless. The radio was maybe six inches below where his fingertips could reach. Might as well be six miles.
You can get to it. You have to.
Jake flexed what little movement he had in his fingers. Pins and needles shot through his hands as blood tried to flow. He couldn't feel the rope anymore, couldn't feel much of anything, but he could move his fingers. Barely.
He arched his back more, ignoring the scream of his spine, trying to reach lower. His fingertips brushed fabric. His shirt. He was close.
Pain exploded across his shoulders. His back couldn't bend any further. The hogtie wouldn't allow it.
Then I'll have to work the ropes.
Jake twisted his forearms, trying to create any space, any give in the binding. The coarse rope scraped against his skin. He kept twisting, pulling, forcing his arms to move against the grain of the rope.
Something warm and wet on his forearms. Blood, probably. The rope was taking skin with it.
Don't care. Keep going.
He rotated his wrists, felt the rope catch and drag, felt hair ripping out by the roots, felt skin peeling away. The pain was distant, secondary to the mission. His forearms were on fire but he kept working them, scraping them raw against the rope, trying to create even a millimeter of slack.
The rope fibers bit deeper. More skin gone. More blood.
Rebecca's gonna have a field day patching this up later.
The thought almost made him laugh. Almost.
He pulled his legs down again, fighting against the rope connecting his ankles to his torso. Every muscle in his thighs and calves engaged, straining, burning. The rope cut deeper into his ankles. His back arched impossibly further.
And the rope gave. Just a fraction. Maybe an inch of slack.
His raw, bleeding forearms scraped lower. His fingers—still barely able to feel—reached down.
He felt the edge of his belt. The smooth metal of the clip.
The sat radio.
I'm coming for you, you son of a bitch.
Jake Benson made his decision in that moment, lying hogtied and blind in the darkness of an abandoned house, his forearms scraped raw and bleeding.
He was going to reach that radio.
No matter what it cost him.
Chapter 5: The Alarm Sounds
Billy checked his watch for the third time in ten minutes. 4:47 PM.
"Jake should've been back by now," he said to Celeb, who was loading fence posts into the back of his truck.
Celeb shrugged. "You know Jake. Probably found something that needed fixing and lost track of time."
"Yeah, maybe." But Billy's gut said different. Jake was a hothead, sure, but he was never late for dinner. Not when Mom was making pot roast.
By 5:15, Billy was pacing. He pulled out his sat phone and dialed Jake's number.
No answer.
He tried again. Straight to voicemail.
"Something's wrong," Billy said.
Celeb stopped what he was doing. "You want to drive out there?"
"Yeah. Now."
They found Jake's section twenty minutes later. The fence posts he'd been working on. His tools on the ground. Fresh tire tracks—two sets, one Jake's truck, one he didn't recognize.
No Jake.
Billy's blood went cold.
He pulled out his sat phone and hit the emergency button.
"911 Billy Benson. 911 Billy Benson. 911 Billy Benson."
The mechanical voice repeated three times across every sat phone, every radio, every device in the consortium network. In the command center, alarms blared. In the ranch house, phones buzzed. In the Beaumont house, the Nelson house, every house across half of Kings County—the call went out.
Emergency. Now.
The ranch house erupted like a kicked hornet's nest.
Pops was in the den when the alarm sounded, the mechanical voice cutting through the afternoon quiet like a knife.
"911 Billy Benson. 911 Billy Benson. 911 Billy Benson."
The old man was on his feet before the third repetition ended, brandy glass forgotten on the side table.
"TOM!" Pops bellowed, his voice carrying through the entire house. "GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE!"
Tom and Sarah came running. Ray appeared from his office, phone already in hand. Josh was pulling on his boots before anyone had to ask.
Billy's voice crackled over the open channel. "Jake's missing. Eastern section, fence line twelve. Signs of a struggle. Unknown vehicle tracks. We need everyone. Now."
"What happened?" Tom demanded.
"Jake's gone," Pops said, his jaw set like granite. "And it wasn't voluntary."
Sarah's hand went to her mouth. "Oh my God—"
"No time for that," Pops snapped, already moving toward the gun safe. "We're getting him back. Tom, call Wade. Tell him to get every man he's got. Ray, get the Beaumonts and the other families on the line. Josh—"
"I'm already calling Rebecca," Josh said, phone to his ear. "She needs to prep the clinic just in case."
Pops threw open the armory door. Rifles, shotguns, sidearms, ammunition. He started pulling weapons down, checking loads, his movements sharp and efficient despite his seventy-six years.
"Those sons of bitches picked the wrong goddamn family to fuck with," he growled.
In the command center—the room next to the "frat house" that used to be storage—Billy Jr and his three buddies were already at work.
Screens lit up. Tablets synced. The portable satellite system came online with a hum.
"I've got Jake's truck GPS," Billy Jr said, fingers flying across the keyboard. His face was pale but focused. "It's moving. Heading east into the back sections."
"Can you track it?" Ryan Mattern asked, pulling up drone feeds on his tablet.
"Already am. Sending coordinates to everyone now."
Billy Renzo was on his tablet, pulling up thermal imaging protocols. "If they've got him in a building, we'll find him."
Daniel Rodriguez had three drones prepped and ready to launch. "Say the word and these birds are in the air."
"We're going with them," Billy Jr said, already unplugging the portable command center—a ruggedized setup of iPads, satellite uplinks, and drone controllers they'd built for exactly this scenario.
"Damn right we are," Ryan said, grabbing cases of equipment.
Daniel was already loading drones into hardshell cases. Billy Renzo grabbed the portable satellite antenna.
Four sixteen-year-olds, armed with fifty thousand dollars worth of cutting-edge tech, moving with the precision of a SWAT team.
Downstairs, the women mobilized with the same efficiency as the men.
Sarah, Mary Nelson, and Caroline Beaumont had the kitchen turned into a command post. Coffee brewing by the gallon. Sandwiches being made. Thermoses being filled.
Anna Nelson arrived with Edna, both of them pale but focused.
"What can we do?" Anna asked.
"Help Rebecca set up the clinic," Sarah said, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "Dining room. Move the table, set up the medical supplies. We need to be ready when they bring him home."
Rebecca was already converting the dining room into a field hospital, her nursing training kicking in automatically. IV bags, bandages, antiseptic, pain medication—everything laid out with surgical precision.
"He's going to be okay," Sarah said quietly.
"Damn right he is," Rebecca replied, her jaw set. "Because we're bringing him home."
Wade Nelson arrived with his deputies—Wilson and Ryan—all three armed and grim-faced. The Beaumonts pulled up with Robert carrying a hunting rifle. The Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes came armed and ready. No questions asked. One of their own was missing.
Pops handed out weapons like he was dealing cards. Sidearms to everyone. Rifles to those who could shoot. Even Louisiana—Celeb's seventeen-year-old cousin—got a pistol and three magazines.
"You know how to use that?" Pops asked Louisiana.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Don't shoot unless you have to. But if you have to, don't miss."
Billy Jr and his crew came down the stairs, arms loaded with equipment cases and iPads.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Tom asked.
"With you," Billy Jr said, his voice steady. "We've got the GPS tracker, the drones, the thermal imaging. You need us."
Tom looked at Pops. The old man was already nodding.
"Get in my truck," Pops said. "Back seat. Set up your gear. You're riding with me."
The four boys started distributing iPads to the convoy members—one to Wade, one to Josh, one to Billy, one to Robert Beaumont. Each synced to the central network, showing Jake's GPS location in real time.
Pops watched them work, then reached back into the armory.
"Hold up," he said, pulling out four compact 9mm pistols and holsters. "You boys know how to use these?"
Billy Jr looked at the sidearm, then at Pops. "Yes, sir."
"All of you?"
Ryan, Daniel, and Billy Renzo nodded. Ranch kids. Every one of them had been shooting since they could hold a rifle.
"Then you're carrying," Pops said, handing each of them a pistol, holster, and two spare magazines. "Clip 'em on. Keep 'em holstered unless you need 'em. But if you need 'em, use 'em. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," all four said in unison.
Tom opened his mouth to object, then closed it. Sarah looked like she wanted to say something but bit her tongue. This was Pops' call. And when one of their own was missing, age didn't matter.
The boys clipped the holsters to their belts, checked the safeties, and climbed into Pops' extended cab truck. The portable command center took up the entire back seat. iPads mounted, satellite antenna being attached to the roof, drone controllers at the ready.
Wade stood in the center of the driveway, the whole consortium assembled.
"Here's what we know," he said, voice calm and authoritative. "Jake was ambushed on the eastern fence line. His truck is moving east. We've got GPS tracking and eyes in the sky. We find the truck, we find Jake."
"What about the bastards who took him?" Pops demanded, a cigar clenched between his teeth, Jack Daniels bottle in one hand.
"We get Jake first," Wade said. "Everything else is secondary. Understood?"
Nods all around.
"Billy Jr, you got those coordinates locked in?"
"Yes, sir," Billy Jr called from Pops' truck, iPad glowing in his lap. "Truck stopped moving. Old Hutchins place, eighteen miles east."
"That's consortium land," Robert Beaumont said.
"Damn right it is," Pops snarled, climbing into his truck. "And they just fucked up royally."
Wade looked at the convoy. Eight vehicles. Twenty armed men. Four sixteen-year-olds with technology that would make the military jealous and sidearms on their hips.
"Mount up," Wade said. "We're bringing Jake home."
The convoy rolled out into the fading Texas sunlight, Pops' truck in the middle with the wiz kids tracking every movement, distributing real-time intel to every vehicle, drones ready to launch, armed to the teeth and ready for war.
Chapter 6: Hours Two and Three
Time became a cruel, warped thing in the darkness.
Jake had no way to measure it. No watch, no sun—the tape over his eyes made sure of that. Only the pain told him time was passing, growing from sharp and immediate to a deep, grinding ache that spread through every joint, every muscle, every fiber of his being.
His forearms were on fire where he'd scraped them raw against the rope. He could feel blood—dried now, sticky—crusting on his skin. The hair on his arms was mostly gone, ripped out strand by strand as he'd twisted and worked against the binding.
Keep going. Don't stop.
Jake's fingers—barely able to feel anymore—scraped against the sat radio clip on his belt. He'd reached it twice now, touched the edge of the device, but couldn't get enough purchase to press the button. His numb fingers just slid off, useless.
Come on, you son of a bitch. Work.
He pulled his legs down again, fighting the hogtie, trying to create more slack. The rope connecting his ankles to his torso cut deeper. His back screamed. His spine felt like it might snap.
The rope gave another fraction of an inch.
Jake's breathing came in short, desperate gasps through his nose. The tape over his mouth was soaked with sweat and saliva. He wanted to scream, to yell, to curse these bastards to hell and back—but all that came out were muffled grunts that died in his throat.
Billy's probably realized I'm missing by now.
The thought gave him strength. Billy would raise hell. Pops would open the armory. The consortium would mobilize like an army.
Just have to stay alive long enough for them to find me.
But doubt crept in. The house was isolated, hidden in a hollow. Even if they found his truck, even if they tracked the GPS—how long would that take? Hours? A day?
How long can I last like this?
Jake's shoulders felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. The rope around his biceps had cut off circulation so completely that his arms were swollen, bulging against the binding. He couldn't feel his hands at all anymore. Just a distant, terrible numbness.
Don't think about that. Focus on the radio.
He twisted his torso, trying a different angle. The movement sent fresh waves of pain through his spine. His raw forearms scraped against the rope again—more skin gone, more blood.
But his fingers touched the radio. Found the button.
Press it. Press it now.
Jake tried. His numb fingers wouldn't respond. Wouldn't press down with enough force. The button remained un-pushed, the signal unsent.
NO.
Rage flooded through him again. Pure, animal fury. He yanked against the ropes with everything he had left, his body bucking, muscles straining to the breaking point.
The rope didn't give.
His body did.
Something in his left shoulder popped—not dislocated, but close. Pain like lightning shot down his arm. Jake's muffled scream died behind the tape.
He lay still, panting, trembling. Tears leaked from under the duct tape covering his eyes, running down his filthy face.
Can't give up. Can't.
They're coming. They're coming for me.
Just have to hold on.
Thoughts of his family flickered through his mind like a fever dream. Mom's pot roast. Pops cursing over a hand of cards. Billy grinning as they raced their trucks across the back forty. Josh clapping him on the shoulder after a good day's work.
Rebecca. She'd be mad as hell when she saw what he'd done to his arms. Probably make him sit still while she cleaned every inch of raw skin with antiseptic, lecturing him the whole time.
I'll take the lecture. Just let me get home.
Jake positioned his fingers over the radio button one more time. He couldn't feel them. Couldn't feel anything but pain and numbness and exhaustion so deep it felt like drowning.
But he pressed.
Nothing happened.
He pressed again. And again. Numb fingers on a button he couldn't see, couldn't feel, couldn't confirm he was even hitting.
Please. Please work.
The darkness pressed in. The pain pressed in. The exhaustion pressed in.
And Jake Benson, the toughest son of a bitch in Kings County, kept fighting.
Because that's what Bensons did.
Chapter 7: Tracking the Ghost
Tom's phone buzzed just as the convoy was preparing to roll out.
Unknown number. Text message.
He opened it.
The first image loaded and Tom's blood turned to ice.
Jake. On the floor of some decrepit building. Hogtied so tight his back was arched, arms roped from wrists to shoulders, legs bent back and connected. Duct tape over his mouth and eyes. The ropes cutting into his skin.
"Jesus Christ," Tom breathed.
A second image. Same angle, closer. You could see the strain in Jake's body, every muscle rigid.
Then the message:
$500,000. Cash. 24 hours. Instructions to follow. No cops or he dies.
"POPS! WADE!" Tom shouted.
Everyone converged. Tom held up the phone. Sarah gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Pops stared at the image, his face turning purple with rage.
"Those motherless sons of bitches," Pops snarled, his voice shaking. "THOSE GODDAMN—"
"Half a million," Ray said, already calculating. "We can get it. Banks open in the morning, we can—"
"We ain't paying them shit," Pops roared. "We're getting Jake back and then we're making them pay."
Wade studied the photo, his lawman's eyes scanning every detail. "That's professional work. They've done this before."
"I don't give a damn if they're professionals," Billy said, his voice tight. "Where is he?"
"Billy Jr," Wade called toward Pops' truck. "You got Jake's truck location?"
"Yes, sir. Old Hutchins place. Eighteen miles east."
Tom looked at the photo again, at his son trussed up like an animal, and his jaw set like granite.
"Then let's go get him."
The convoy moved fast across the eastern sections, eight vehicles kicking up dust in the fading sunlight. In Pops' truck, Billy Jr's fingers flew across the iPad screen while his three friends monitored drone feeds and thermal imaging.
"GPS says the truck stopped at the old Hutchins place," Billy Jr said, zooming in on the map. "But I'm picking up another signal—phone signal. Burner phones, probably. About two miles west of the truck."
"Two separate locations?" Wade's voice crackled over the radio.
"Yes, sir. They dropped Jake somewhere and drove off to make the ransom call."
Pops took a long pull from his Jack Daniels bottle. "Smart bastards. Or they think they are."
"We hit the phone signal first," Wade said over the radio. "Take them alive. We need to know where Jake is."
"The hell we do," Pops muttered, cigar clenched between his teeth. "We got his truck location."
"Truck don't mean Jake's there," Wade said. "Could be a decoy. We need confirmation."
Billy Jr pulled up the coordinates. "Sending the location to everyone now. Old service station, abandoned. Three miles north."
The convoy adjusted course.
The service station materialized out of the scrub like a ghost—crumbling concrete, rusted pumps, windows long gone. The beat-up Ford sat out front, still warm.
Wade's hand went up. The convoy stopped, engines idling.
"Spread out. Surround the building. Nobody fires unless they fire first. We need them talking."
Twenty armed men fanned out in a loose perimeter. The wiz kids stayed in Pops' truck, eyes glued to their screens, launching the drones.
"I've got four heat signatures inside," Billy Renzo said, watching the thermal feed. "Ground floor, northeast corner."
Wade, Wilson, and Ryan moved to the front door, weapons drawn. Tom and Josh took the back. Robert Beaumont and the other consortium members held the perimeter.
"SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT!" Wade's voice boomed. "COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!"
Silence.
Then scrambling. Voices shouting inside.
"We know you're in there. You've got ten seconds before we come in."
The door burst open. The grizzled one came out first, hands raised, eyes wild. Then the driver. Then the two younger ones. All four armed but smart enough not to draw.
Wade's deputies had them on the ground in seconds, wrists cuffed, weapons confiscated.
Pops walked up, Jack Daniels in one hand, cigar in the other. He looked down at the driver like he was examining a pile of dog shit.
"Where's my grandson?" Pops asked, his voice quiet and deadly.
The driver spat. "Got our message, did you?"
Tom shoved his phone in the man's face, the photo of Jake visible. "You think this is funny?"
"I think it's business," the driver said. "Half a million gets him back. Simple transaction."
Pops' boot caught him in the ribs. Not hard enough to break anything. Hard enough to make a point.
"Pops!" Wade barked.
"WHERE IS HE?" Pops roared, all seventy-six years of Vietnam vet fury in that voice.
Miles away, in the darkness of the old house, Jake heard nothing of the confrontation.
His world had shrunk to three things: pain, exhaustion, and the sat radio button under his numb fingers.
One more time. Just one more time.
His forearms were hamburger. He could feel the blood—fresh blood now, not dried—where the rope had scraped him raw to the muscle. His shoulders had gone past screaming into a dull, grinding agony that radiated down his spine.
But his fingers were on the button.
He couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything anymore. But he knew where it was.
Press. PRESS.
Jake threw everything he had left into his hand. Every ounce of strength. Every bit of will. His fingers—dead, numb, useless fingers—pushed down.
The button clicked.
He felt it. Or thought he did. Or prayed he did.
Again. Make sure.
He pressed again. Held it down. Three seconds. Five seconds.
The mechanical voice would be broadcasting now. If it worked. If his numb fingers had actually pressed hard enough. If the battery hadn't died. If—
Stop. You did it. You had to have done it.
Jake tried to yell through the tape. Tried to make any sound that might carry over the open channel. All that came out were muffled, desperate grunts.
"Mmmppffff! Mmmppffff!"
Please hear me. Please.
His body went limp, every muscle giving out at once. He'd done all he could do.
Now it was up to them.
In Pops' truck, the drones swept the terrain around the old Hutchins place, thermal cameras searching.
"There," Ryan said, pointing at the thermal feed. "Heat signature. Single person. Inside the structure."
The drone zoomed in. The image resolved—a body on the floor, curled in an unnatural position.
"That might be him," Billy Jr said, his voice tight. "But I can't confirm—"
Every sat phone in the convoy erupted at once.
"911 Jake Benson. 911 Jake Benson. 911 Jake Benson."
The mechanical voice cut through everything. Then the channel opened.
Muffled sounds. Desperate, strained. "Mmmppffff! Mmmppffff!"
Jake. Trying to yell through the tape. Fighting to be heard.
Billy's face went white. "THAT'S HIM! THAT'S JAKE!"
"Billy Jr, location!" Wade barked.
"Signal's coming from the old Hutchins place! That heat signature—that's him!"
Pops didn't wait. He was already in his truck, engine roaring.
"GO! GO! GO!" Wade shouted.
Tom left the driver on the ground, sprinting for his vehicle. Billy and Celeb were already moving. The entire convoy abandoned the rednecks—still cuffed, still on the ground—and roared toward Jake's signal.
The muffled sounds continued over the open channel. Desperate. Exhausted. But alive.
"Hold on, Jake," Billy said into his radio, his voice cracking. "We're coming. Just hold on."
The convoy tore across the scrubland, engines screaming, dust clouds rising like pillars behind them.
Toward the old Hutchins place.
Toward Jake.
Chapter 8: The Rescue
The old Hutchins place rose out of the hollow like a rotted tooth—crooked walls, caved roof, windows empty as eye sockets. The convoy skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust, engines still running, headlights cutting through the growing darkness.
Wade was out first, weapon drawn. "Spread out! Secure the perimeter!"
But Billy didn't wait. He was running toward the house before Wade finished talking, Celeb right behind him. Billy Jr burst out of Pops' truck and sprinted after them.
"BILLY! JUNIOR!" Tom shouted, but he was running too. They all were.
Billy hit the doorway first, his flashlight sweeping the interior. The smell hit him like a fist—rot and decay and something else. Fear. Pain.
"JAKE!"
His light found him in the corner. A shape on the floor. Bent backward. Roped. Taped.
"Oh God. Oh Jesus, Jake—"
Billy dropped to his knees beside his brother. Billy Jr was right there, his face pale in the flashlight glow. Jake's body jerked at the sound, a muffled sound coming from behind the tape over his mouth.
"We're here. We're here, Uncle Jake. We got you," Billy Jr said, his voice cracking.
Tom was there, knife out, already cutting. "Easy. Hold still, son. We're getting you out."
The rope around Jake's ankles fell away first. His legs dropped to the floor, joints cracking. Jake's muffled groan was agony.
"His arms," Josh said, his voice tight. "Jesus Christ, look at his arms."
The ropes were embedded in Jake's skin, his forearms raw and bleeding, hair ripped away. His biceps were swollen against the binding, his hands purple and lifeless.
"Careful," Rebecca said, appearing beside them with her kit. "Don't move him too fast. His circulation's been cut off for hours."
Tom cut the rope binding Jake's ankles to his torso. Jake's back straightened slightly, another groan behind the tape.
"The tape," Billy said, reaching for Jake's face.
"Wait," Rebecca said. "Let me—"
But Billy was already peeling it away from Jake's eyes. One strip. Two. Three.
Jake's eyes opened, squinting against the flashlight beams. Bloodshot. Disoriented. But focused. Alive.
Rebecca carefully removed the tape from his mouth, working slowly to minimize the pain.
Jake sucked in a huge breath, coughing, gagging on the dust and his own dried saliva.
"Easy," Rebecca said. "Breathe slow. You're okay."
Tom was cutting the ropes around Jake's torso now, around his arms. Each loop that fell away revealed more damage—rope burns, raw skin, swelling.
"Can you feel your hands?" Rebecca asked.
Jake tried to move his fingers. Nothing. "No. Can't—can't feel anything."
"That's normal. Circulation's coming back. It's going to hurt like hell in a minute."
The last of the ropes fell away. Jake's arms dropped to his sides, dead weight. He gasped, tears streaming down his filthy face as blood rushed back into his limbs.
"I know," Rebecca said quietly. "I know it hurts. Just breathe."
Billy grabbed Jake's shoulder. Billy Jr gripped his uncle's boot, the only part he could reach in the crowd.
"You're okay. You're out. We got you," Billy said.
Jake's eyes focused on Billy, then swept the room. Tom. Josh. Celeb. Billy Jr kneeling beside him. Pops standing in the doorway, cigar in his mouth, tears running down his weathered face.
"Where..." Jake's voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "Where are they?"
"The bastards who took you?" Billy said. "We got 'em. Wade's got 'em cuffed."
Jake tried to sit up. His body wouldn't cooperate. Every muscle was locked, cramping, screaming.
"Don't," Rebecca said, hands on his chest. "You need to stay down. Let your body adjust."
"Where. Are. They." Not a question. A demand.
Tom looked at Wade, who'd appeared in the doorway.
"They're secure," Wade said. "Back at the service station. Under guard."
Jake's jaw set. Despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, despite everything—rage flickered in his eyes.
"I want to see them."
"Jake—" Tom started.
"I. Want. To. See. Them."
Pops stepped forward, Jack Daniels bottle in hand. He held it out to Jake.
"Drink first. Then we'll talk about what comes next."
Jake took the bottle with shaking, purple hands that barely functioned. He drank. The whiskey burned going down, but it was real. It was proof he was alive.
He handed the bottle back and looked at his father.
"Get me up."
"Son, you need medical attention—"
"GET. ME. UP."
Billy and Celeb moved in, lifting Jake to his feet. He swayed, his legs barely holding him. His arms hung useless at his sides. But he was standing.
"Take me to them," Jake said, his voice gaining strength. "Right now."
Wade looked at Tom. Tom looked at Pops. Pops took a long drag on his cigar and nodded.
"Get him in my truck," Pops said. "Boy's earned the right."
They half-carried Jake out of that house, into the clean night air, away from the darkness that had held him for hours. Billy Jr walked beside them, one hand on his uncle's arm.
But the darkness in Jake's eyes—that was coming with them.
And the rednecks were about to learn what it meant to kidnap a Benson.
Chapter 9: Reckoning
They half-carried Jake to Pops' truck. Rebecca was already climbing in beside him, her medical kit in hand.
"I'm coming with you," she said, not asking. Josh didn't argue.
Jake was wedged between Billy and Celeb in the back seat, Rebecca leaning over from the front with her kit open.
"Let me see those arms," she said as Pops started the engine.
"Rebecca, I'm fine—"
"The hell you are. Let me see them."
Jake held out his forearms. Even in the dim light of the truck, the damage was visible—raw flesh, blood crusted in the creases, patches where skin was just gone.
"Jesus, Jake," Rebecca breathed. "You scraped yourself down to muscle in places."
"Had to reach the radio."
"I know." She pulled out antiseptic and gauze. "This is going to sting."
"Everything stings right now."
She started cleaning, working quickly as Pops drove. The truck bounced over ruts and Jake hissed through his teeth, but Rebecca's hands stayed steady.
"You're lucky you didn't hit an artery," she said, wrapping gauze around his right forearm.
"Wasn't thinking about arteries."
"Clearly." She moved to the left arm, cleaning and wrapping. "You were thinking about that radio and nothing else."
"Got it pressed, didn't I?"
"You did." She secured the bandages with medical tape. "And I'm proud of you for that. But I'm still going to torture you with antiseptic when we get home."
"Can't wait," Jake said dryly.
Pops took a swig from his Jack Daniels bottle and passed it back. "Boy earned that bottle. Drink up."
Jake drank. The whiskey burned going down, but it was good.
Rebecca finished bandaging both arms, then sat back. "That'll hold until we get you home. But those bandages stay on, you hear me?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Billy Jr, squeezed in with the portable command center equipment, looked at his uncle. "You okay, Uncle Jake?"
Jake looked at the sixteen-year-old—his nephew who'd tracked him with drones and iPads, who'd been part of the rescue.
"I am now, Junior. Thanks to you and your tech."
Billy Jr nodded, trying not to show how much that meant to him.
The convoy pulled up to the service station. Wade's deputies had the four rednecks exactly where they'd left them—cuffed, zip-tied, sitting in the dirt against the crumbling wall.
The grizzled one looked up as Jake climbed out of the truck, and his face went pale.
"Oh shit," one of the younger ones whispered.
Jake walked forward, his bandaged forearms white in the growing darkness. Behind him, Billy carried the coil of rope—the same rope that had bound Jake for six hours.
The four kidnappers stared at him. At the bandaged forearms. The purple hands. The rope burns around his wrists. The hollow, dangerous look in his eyes.
"You tied me up and left me," Jake said quietly. "Now I'm returning the favor."
He took the rope from Billy. Grabbed the driver first, spinning him around so his cuffed wrists were accessible.
Jake wrapped the rope around the cuffs, cinching it tight. Then he ran the rope up—up the man's back, up to his neck. He looped it around the driver's throat and pulled.
The driver's arms were yanked up behind him, wrists forced high between his shoulder blades. The rope around his neck tightened. He gasped, choking, rising up on his toes to relieve the pressure.
"That's what it felt like," Jake said. "Couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Thought I was gonna die."
He held it there. Five seconds. Ten. The driver's face turned red, then purple.
Jake let the rope slacken. The driver collapsed forward, gasping.
"Jake," Wade said quietly. "That's enough."
Jake moved to the next one. The grizzled one. Same process. Rope around the cuffs, up to the neck, pull. The man choked, struggling, eyes bulging.
Jake held it. Let him feel it. Then released.
"Please—" one of the younger ones started.
"Did I say 'please'?" Jake asked. "Did that work for me?"
He did it to the third one. Then the fourth. Each one choking, terrified, understanding—finally understanding—what they'd done.
When Jake was done, he stepped back. The four men were on their knees, gasping, tears running down their faces.
"Wade," Jake said. "I think they tried to escape. Had to secure them better."
Wade walked over, eyeing the ropes still looped around their necks and cuffs.
"Yep," Wade said. "Attempted escape. Had to restrain them." He pulled out his knife and cut the ropes from their necks, leaving just the cuffs. "There. Much more secure now."
He looked at Jake. "You done?"
"Yeah," Jake said. "I'm done."
Pops walked up beside Jake, Jack Daniels bottle in hand. He took a long drink, then offered it to Jake.
Jake drank. The whiskey burned, but it was good.
"Let's go home," Jake said.
And they did.
Chapter 10: Homecoming
The ranch house blazed with lights when the convoy pulled in, every window lit up like Christmas. Sarah stood on the porch, her hand pressed to her mouth, tears already streaming down her face as Jake climbed out of the truck.
"Mom," Jake said, and that's all he got out before she had him in a hug, careful of his bandaged arms.
"My boy. My boy." She pulled back, looking him over. "Are you—"
"I'm okay, Mom. I'm okay."
The women had transformed the dining room into exactly what Rebecca had planned—a field hospital ready for anything. But Jake was walking, talking, and demanding food.
"Sit," Rebecca ordered, pointing at a chair. "I need to redo those bandages properly."
"After dinner," Jake said.
"Now."
They compromised. Rebecca re-cleaned and re-wrapped his arms while Sarah heated up what was left of the pot roast she'd been keeping warm for hours. The antiseptic burned like hellfire and Jake cursed through gritted teeth, but Rebecca didn't let up.
"Told you I'd torture you with this," she said, dabbing at the raw flesh. "Should've listened when I said don't scrape your arms to hamburger."
"Would you rather I stayed tied up?"
"No. But I reserve the right to make you suffer for it now."
By the time Rebecca finished, the dining room and kitchen were packed. The Nelsons, the Beaumonts, the Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes—everyone who'd been part of the rescue. Sarah and Mary Nelson had the food laid out buffet-style: what was left of the pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, a platter of cold cuts and cheese, rolls, two pies. Coffee brewing by the gallon.
Jake got the pot roast. Sarah loaded his plate herself—the last of it, extra gravy, three rolls.
"There wasn't enough for everyone," Sarah said apologetically to the room. "But there's plenty of everything else."
"Jake earned the pot roast," Wade said, making himself a sandwich with the cold cuts. "Nobody's complaining."
"Damn right he did," Pops agreed, building his own sandwich—three kinds of meat stacked high.
Jake sat at the head of the dining table, Billy on one side, Celeb on the other. Tom and Josh took seats nearby with their own plates. The wiz kids clustered together at the kitchen table with Anna and Edna, working through sandwiches and pie, still running on adrenaline.
Pops walked in with his sandwich plate, a cigar already lit, and four bottles of Jack Daniels under his arm.
"Don't you light that thing in my house, old man," Sarah said, but there was no heat in it. Not tonight.
"Woman, my grandson just survived a kidnapping. I'll smoke where I damn well please." But he moved to the doorway between the dining room and kitchen, leaning against the frame, plate in one hand, cigar in the other. He set the four bottles on the counter. "And I'm sharing the good stuff tonight."
He started pouring—generous measures into coffee cups, juice glasses, whatever was handy. Passed them around to every man in the room. Even the wiz kids got healthy pours that made their eyes widen.
"Pops—" Sarah started, seeing how much he was giving the sixteen-year-olds.
"They helped save Jake. They're drinking tonight." His tone left no room for argument.
She pressed her lips together but nodded.
Wade raised his cup. "Hell of a day."
"Hell of a day," Tom agreed, taking a long sip of straight Jack and cutting into his sandwich. "Could've been worse."
Billy Jr took his first real drink of whiskey and coughed, his eyes watering. "Burns," he wheezed.
"That's how you know it's working," Pops said, grinning and refilling the boy's cup before he could protest.
Ryan and Daniel exchanged glances and drank deep. More coughing. Billy Renzo was already giggling, his face flushed red.
"Could've been a lot worse," Josh said, watching Jake. "If he hadn't gotten to that radio..."
"But he did," Billy said firmly, taking another drink, his words already loosening. "Because he's stubborn as hell."
"Runs in the family," Sarah said from the kitchen, her voice thick with emotion. She accepted her own small pour from Pops—much smaller than what the men got.
Pops made the rounds, topping off cups that were still half full. "Drink up. We're celebrating tonight."
Rebecca sat beside Josh, her own cup of Jack-laced coffee warming her hands. "I've seen a lot of injuries working at the hospital. But what Jake did to his arms..." She shook her head and took a drink. "That took guts."
"And stupidity," Jake said, grinning, raising his cup. "But mostly guts."
The room laughed. Pops refilled Jake's cup.
Mary Nelson was pouring coffee—but Pops was right behind her, adding Jack to every cup. "When that 911 went out and we heard Jake's voice—even muffled like that—I've never seen men move so fast."
"Pops nearly ran me over getting to his truck," Billy Jr said, his second cup already half empty, his cheeks bright red. He was grinning wide, starting to feel the alcohol.
"Damn right I did," Pops said, pouring the boy another generous measure. "Nobody takes a Benson. Nobody."
"Pops, they're sixteen," Sarah said weakly.
"And they're heroes. Heroes drink." He moved to Ryan, Daniel, and Billy Renzo, topping them all off. The boys were giggling now, whispering to each other, everything suddenly hilarious.
Robert Beaumont raised his coffee cup, sloshing slightly. "Here's to the consortium. Worked exactly like we planned."
"Better than we planned," Wade said, his own speech starting to slur just slightly. "Those boys with their drones and GPS—" He gestured toward the wiz kids with his cup. "Made my job easy."
Billy Jr tried to respond but dissolved into giggles. Ryan was explaining something about thermal imaging but couldn't get through it without laughing. Daniel had his head on the table, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Billy Renzo was just grinning at nothing, his eyes glazed.
Anna looked at her brother with concern. "Billy, maybe—"
"I'm fine!" Billy Jr said, far too loud, then giggled again. "Everything's fine. Everything's great."
Pops laughed and clapped the boy on the shoulder. "That's the spirit."
"What did you do to those men?" Caroline Beaumont asked carefully. "After you found Jake?"
The room went quiet—or as quiet as it could with four drunk teenagers trying to stifle giggles.
Jake set down his fork. "Let them feel what I felt. For about thirty seconds each. Then Wade cut them loose."
"Attempted escape," Wade said flatly, taking another sip. "Had to restrain them. That's my story."
"Good story," Pops said, grinning around his cigar, pouring more Jack into Wade's cup without asking.
The conversation flowed looser now, words slurring, laughter coming easier. Pops kept the bottles moving—filling, refilling, topping off. By the time plates were empty and pie was served, everyone was at least buzzed. The wiz kids were beyond buzzed—they were drunk, giggling at everything, leaning on each other for support.
Billy told the story of finding Jake's tools, his words running together. Tom talked about the ransom photos, gesturing wildly with his cup. The wiz kids tried to explain the drone operation but kept dissolving into laughter, unable to finish sentences.
Pops held court in the doorway, working through his sandwich and his Jack, cigar smoke wreathing his head. He poured freely, generously, keeping everyone's spirits—and cups—full.
By the time he pulled out his box of cigars, everyone was ready.
"Alright. Boys. Frat house. Now." He waved the cigar box and grabbed the bottles—still a quarter full each.
"Pops—" Sarah started, but even she was buzzed enough not to put up much fight.
"They earned it," Pops said simply.
Jake, Billy, Celeb, and Louisiana stood, swaying slightly. Billy Jr tried to stand and nearly fell over. Ryan caught him, both of them laughing hysterically. Daniel and Billy Renzo were holding each other up, tears streaming down their faces from laughing.
"Oh lord," Rebecca muttered.
"One night," Sarah said, waving them off. "Just... don't let them die."
"Yes, ma'am," came the chorus—slurred, enthusiastic, completely sincere.
They stumbled out—seven young men, four of them barely able to walk straight, all of them grinning like idiots. Pops led the way, steady as a rock despite having drunk as much as anyone, bottles in one hand, cigars in the other.
The frat house door closed behind them.
And the real celebration began.
Inside the frat house, Pops handed out cigars to everyone. The wiz kids took them with reverence, holding them like sacred objects.
"How do we—" Billy Jr started.
"Watch me," Pops said. He lit his own, puffed, demonstrated. Then he went around lighting theirs one by one.
The wiz kids coughed immediately. Billy Jr turned green. Ryan was laughing and coughing at the same time. Daniel just stared at his cigar like it had betrayed him. Billy Renzo puffed enthusiastically and nearly threw up.
"Just puff, don't inhale," Pops said, grinning. "You'll get the hang of it."
He poured more Jack—heavy pours into every cup and mug he could find. The room filled with smoke and the smell of whiskey.
"Alright," Pops said, settling into the chair. "Jake. Tell us everything."
Jake leaned back, cigar in one hand, cup in the other, his bandaged arms propped on his knees. The room was hazy with smoke. The wiz kids were giggling in the corner, barely able to hold their cigars.
And Jake told his story.
By the end, Billy Jr was crying drunk tears, his cigar forgotten. Ryan and Daniel were leaning on each other, eyes glazed. Billy Renzo had given up on the cigar entirely and was just drinking, hiccuping occasionally.
"You boys," Pops said, looking at the four drunk, smoke-wreathed teenagers with fierce pride. "You're honorary Bensons now."
"Yes, sir," they slurred in unison.
Jake looked around the room—his brothers, his nephew, all of them drunk and happy and loyal. The smell of smoke and whiskey and brotherhood.
"To family," Jake said, raising his cup.
"To family!"
They drank until the bottles were empty and the cigars were ash and the wiz kids were passed out on bunks, grinning in their sleep.
And Jake Benson was home.
