Camp Brotherhood
Southern Pines, North Carolina
Martin Dale had beaten the piss out of me because I wouldn’t tell him why I was at his shitty camp in the first place.
He’d said he’d do whatever he had to do to get the truth out of me, but I didn’t break.
The harder he pressed, the more I dug in, prepared to die for my cause.
It was a test of my journalistic integrity, and I wouldn’t fail.
“I’m trying to understand why you’d come here if you’re not interested in joining us.” Dale stared at me—or as much as I could see through the slits my swollen eyes provided.
“Why would I come here if I wasn’t planning to join you—and why the fuck would you beat the hell out of me because those two inbred fools said I wasn’t willing to join?”
I hadn’t been prepared for the bullshit of being undercover for a story. I was a newbie. I was green as grass, and trying to be a badass wasn’t exactly my best persona. Now, how to keep the fucker from continuing to pound on me was something I needed to think about.
Martin Dale laughed. “Those two inbred fools, as you called them, are members of my family, and I don’t appreciate your condescending tone when you’re referring to them. To be honest, I don’t like to talk to them if I can help it, but it pisses off my sister, and I owe her a lot. Now, who are you?”
I sucked in a breath. “I’m a stringer with the Washington Conservative.
I overheard my bosses talking about trying to get an interview with you, and I needed a great story to get their attention.
Somehow, they’ve become aware of your group’s mission, and they’re supportive.
They were talking about doing a feature on you, so I did some digging and found you. ”
Dale grinned. “Ah, ambitious. I like that in a young man, which is part of why we’re doing what we’re doing by holding these recruiting picnics for the guys at the local military installations and the young men in nearby high schools.
It’s also why you’re not dead and buried in a shallow grave at the back of the property.
“Young men have become victimized by the far-left wingnuts. They’re soft and many of them don’t know how to go after what they want. I want to empower them to take back their masculinity, and sometimes, it requires a little tough love.”
Ah, so beating the fuck out of me was tough love? He could go fuck a knothole, the bigoted jackoff.
“That rainbow tattoo? That real?” He studied my wrist with a curious expression.
I laughed, not sure what he’d do if I didn’t. “It was a fraternity dare. I told you I was getting it covered next week. How about you tell me why you thought it was okay to beat the fuck out of me?”
“It sets a tone for how much bullshit I’m willing to entertain from you, don’t you think?” He put both his hands on his hips and donned a cocky expression. I expected nothing less, certain the man wouldn’t know bullshit from chocolate mousse.
I believed men like Martin Dale deemed themselves true leaders for the rest of us poor slobs and would beat us into submission if we disagreed. “Or it sets the tone for the upcoming lawsuit I plan to file,” I snapped at him.
Dale laughed and pulled out a pocketknife, cutting the tape used to secure my hands and ankles.
He offered his hand to help me up, but I channeled my cousin, the tough soldier, and I slapped it away, standing on my own and nearly passing out in the process from the pain in my torso brought on by the gut punches and kidney kicks.
“I like you, kid. You’re a go-getter, and I admire that in a man. So, what do you want to ask me in this interview? We can do it now if you want.”
I needed to buy time so I could figure out how to get in touch with Heath—or the police, sheriff, or anyone who could get me the fuck out of here. “I need my phone to make notes. I don’t have a laptop with me to write the article, but I could—”
“Let’s go to my place. I’ll let you use my laptop, but I’ll get your phone delivered to my cabin from the intake building. Let’s go. You didn’t get to eat, so I’m sure you’re starving.”
Eating was buying time, but I had to be sure he didn’t poison me. “Only if you join me. We can talk and set up any boundaries you have regarding questioning. Get a feel for the types of questions I’m going to ask.”
He slid his phone from his pocket and pressed some buttons. “I’m heading to my place. Bring our spy’s cell phone and bring us some food. We haven’t eaten. Thanks, Art.”
Martin turned to me. “On the way. Let’s go.”
We trekked through the woods until we came to a dirt path leading around a small body of water. The path veered to the right, but Martin kept going toward a large copse of cedar trees that blocked the view ahead.
“Where’s that path lead?” I hitched my thumb over my shoulder in the opposite direction we were going.
“That leads back to the campground. My place is up here. Where do you live exactly?” Martin slowed down, noticing I wasn’t speeding along as I prayed to die.
“Me? Oh, I live in Fairfax County up in Northern Virginia. Grew up there,” I answered. Might as well stick as closely to the truth as I could. Fewer lies to remember that way.
When we cleared the cedars, I saw a much nicer cabin than any of the others on the property. “Who owns this place?”
“Well, it’s sort of complicated. It’s owned by Word of God Church in Pinehurst, which my mother and I got kicked out of when I was younger, but I’ve been welcomed back since the former predatory minister disappeared a few years ago with the church’s money.
I got some friends together, and we took the church back.
I’m one of the elders, as is Art Judge, and—well, maybe don’t use this in the article—Marvin Thompson, Art’s half-brother, is another.
He oversees the financial aspects of the church and the campground for us.
He works in DC for a senator, I think, but he comes down when we’re having a recruiting drive like now. ”
Ah, that had to be the man who hadn’t appeared as though he belonged on the stage with the rest of them. “Who was the guy in the overalls?”
Dale frowned. “That’s Owen Seifert. He’s sort of the loose cannon of the group. He handles problems when they come up, kinda like a head of security for the church and the campground. Anyway, there are more members of the church who—”
God, the information was coming at me so quickly, and I would never be able to remember it all. The sooner I got my phone, the better.
Knock! Knock!
Martin grinned. “That must be Art. He was fast.”
He walked over to the door and opened it. “Owen!”
The man standing there wasn’t Art Judge. It was the loose cannon, and he was dragging a bloody man behind him. When he flipped the guy over on the front porch, my breath hitched.