Slaves to Evil - 11 Read Online Free Page B

the Patriot League, Matt set about befriending them, stopping to chat after each meeting. Finally a well-timed gripe about the spinelessness of the so-called leadership of the Patriot League seemed to open the door.
    As they walked out, Brady approached him. “A lot of us are frustrated,” he said. “Too much talk. Too much concern about our precious public image.”
    Matt nodded. “The Patriot League seems more like the Junior League.”
    Brady laughed. “Come on. We’re heading over to the firehouse.”
    Matt joined the self-described “true” Patriots for drinks and some surprisingly good barbecue. Most of the talk was harmless griping about work and modern society. This led to a round of reminiscences about the good old days of family, God, and country.
    All of the Patriots deferred to Brady, especially on this last subject. Brady had served with the army in Iraq. More than that, he’d earned a commendation for meritorious service by shooting a sniper. This Patriot was the real deal. He was also a font of anti-Muslim rhetoric and insights into the mind of the Arab enemy, coming from one who’d been there. The others ate it up.
    Especially Peter Donatti, who was the honorary kid brother of the group. His eyes glowed with hero worship as he listened to Brady. He admired the man’s crucifix tattoo so much that he got identical ink on the side of his neck. Peter had just graduated from high school but had no plans to go to college like his sister. He had a job with a construction crew and was content to stay in the town where he grew up. Which might have worked out for him if he hadn’t fallen in with a group of angry bigots who grew more hateful as the night went on.
    “You know who bought the Bingham place?” Everett, a Patriot who could have been the poster boy for obesity in America, asked the group. “Some Arab, with his five little sand monkeys.”
    Grumbles around the table. Owen, another Patriot, shook his head angrily. “Great. Another terrorist in the neighborhood.”
    “The cops don’t even monitor these people,” Peter complained.
    “The Saudis own the whole government now. They won’t do a goddamn thing,” said Brady. “It’s up to us.”
    He glanced at Matt, as if judging how much to say in front of him. Matt nodded. “Damn right it is.”
    But Brady held back. He drank some beer as Peter continued to vent. “It’s getting worse. A couple of Arabs just took over that used-car lot by the post office.”
    “Yeah,” scoffed Matt, “but now they’ll sell used camels.” He winced inwardly at the joke, but the guys all laughed.
    Over the next couple of weeks, Matt found a niche for himself as the funny one in the group. It wasn’t hard. All he had to do was spew stereotypes, with bonus points for creativity. He was surprised and appalled at how easily the toxic jokes came to him. The tightness that occasionally gripped his stomach as he swallowed his disgust became a permanent, acidic burn.
    One night Matt and a few of the guys closed down the local bar. Suddenly Brady stopped in his tracks. “Look at that.”
    He pointed at a couple at the far edge of the parking lot. A young Arab man was kissing a pretty girl good night. A pretty white girl. Four drunk, angry men descended on the couple, with Matt reluctantly tagging along.
    Owen shoved the girl aside. “Disgusting bitch.”
    She bolted. The young man crumpled under a fusillade of blows. Brady landed a solid kick to his ribs, breaking at least one. Peter smashed his nose. Matt threw a couple of weak punches, desperately thinking how to stop this without giving himself away. For a moment he locked eyes with his victim. The undiluted terror he saw there made Matt look away.
    He recognized the rusty laugh even before he saw the Dark Man watching the beating with delight.
    “Thumb outside the fist, slugger.” He held up his own bony hand to demonstrate.
    “Fuck you,” snapped Matt.
    “What’d you say?” asked Brady, turning on