They're careful about their public image, but their private forums tell a different story. Linda didn't just hire random security. She connected with a network of people who share her views. Malik leaned closer, scanning the screen. Posts about protecting property values and maintaining community standards thinly veiled their real message.
Look at this. Reginald pulled up financial records. The company Linda hired for security services. It's a shell corporation. Traces back to the militia's leadership.
How did you find all this? A small smile crossed Reginald's face. 20 years in counter intelligence teaches you a few things. These groups think they're clever with their encrypted messages and hidden connections, but they always leave traces if you know where to look. He leaned back in his chair, studying the screen.
In the blue glow, his expression hardened. Rick Thompson and Dale Matthews. Multiple aliases. Connection to at least three other neighborhood enforcement incidents in the past year. All following the same pattern.
Reginald's fingers moved across the keyboard, documenting everything. They think they're hunters, he said quietly. But they forgot. Some of us know how to hunt, too. His father's voice dropped to barely a whisper as he stared at the evidence filling his screen.
Now I know who you are. Malik watched his father work, feeling a mix of pride and worry. The pool incident had been humiliating, but maybe it was pushing them towards something bigger. His dad wasn't just fighting Linda anymore. He was unraveling an entire network of hate, hiding behind HOA rules and fake badges.
The next evening, Malik dragged the heavy trash bin toward the curb. The street lights cast long shadows across the lawn, and cicas buzzed in the humid night air. His muscles still achd from basketball practice, but Wednesday was garbage night, and he'd promised his mom he'd take care of it. The wheels of the bin rattled against the concrete as he pushed it along the side of the house. A twig snapped behind him.
Before he could turn, rough hands grabbed his shoulders and slammed him against the wooden fence. Hey there, troublemaker." Rick's voice growled in his ear. The man's tactical vest pressed against Malik's back, wreaking of cigarette smoke and sweat. Dale stepped into view, blocking any escape route.
Linda says, "You're not getting the message." His voice was quieter than Rick's, but just as menacing. Malik's heart hammered in his chest. He tried to push back, but Rick's grip was like iron. Get off me.
Or what? Rick twisted Malik's arm behind his back. Going to cry for daddy. You don't belong here, Dale said, moving closer. Linda wants you gone.
We can do this the easy way or he cracked his knuckles. Malik remembered his father's lessons about staying calm under pressure. But fear and anger clouded his thoughts. He kicked backward, catching Rick in the shin. Rick cursed and yanked Malik's arm higher.
Pain shot through his shoulder. Bad move, kid. Dale's fist drove into Malik's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over, gasping. Not so tough now, huh?