over her mouth.
Someone switched on the radio in the SUV, settling for a Spanish-language station. She wiped her cheeks, listening. There might not be anything else available this close to the border, but she doubted these men enjoyed Norteño music.
They didn’t want her to hear them.
She scrambled toward the front of the tent and lay flat on her belly. Unzipping a tiny opening at the corner, she peered through it. Owen was on the opposite side of the campfire. His wrists were still cuffed behind his back. The leader stood before him, smoking. His body language conveyed a challenge.
Owen shook his head, denying whatever he asked for.
The man flicked away his cigarette and stepped forward. Cuffing his hand around Owen’s neck, he drew back his fist and punched him in the stomach. Owen doubled over, coughing.
Penny bit the edge of her fist to smother her scream.
* * *
PAIN SPREAD THROUGH Owen’s midsection, settling like a ball of lead in his gut.
Although the blow wasn’t unexpected, it hurt. It always hurt when his brother hit him. From a very young age, Shane had used brute force and intimidation to get what he wanted. He’d been violent and impulsive, quick to snap.
Owen had dismissed most of their childhood rumbles as sibling rivalry, fueled by testosterone and an extra dose of dysfunction. Boys were supposed to be physical. The toxic environment they’d been raised in had exacerbated the problem. Their father had instigated fights between them, encouraging Shane to attack weakness.
Back then, Owen hadn’t stood up to either of them. He was younger than Shane, and nowhere near as aggressive. He’d never understood the appeal of hurting someone he loved. He preferred to run, hide and avoid conflict.
Now they were both adults and closer in size. He was handcuffed and at Shane’s mercy, but he refused to cower. Owen might have a chance against Shane, one-on-one. He wasn’t a scared, skinny kid anymore.
“Is that all you’ve got?” he wheezed.
Shane’s eyes widened with disbelief. Instead of sucker punching him again, Shane squeezed the nape of his neck and let go, chuckling. “You’ve grown up, little brother.”
He couldn’t prevent the rush of warmth those words generated. Owen hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Shane—or how much he’d craved human contact. His father’s death had left a hole inside him. Shane’s lengthy incarceration had made another, and his own stint in prison had gnawed him down to nothing.
Owen didn’t trust Shane, but he would always love him.
Although they’d served time in different institutions, Shane and Owen had joined the same gang. The Aryan Brotherhood was the most popular white gang in the California penal system. Its members underwent a savage initiation process and swore allegiance for life. They were expected to continue to serve the AB on the outside.
After the San Diego earthquake, Owen had been transferred to a quiet, medium-security correctional facility. Penny’s father had used his political connections to make the arrangements after Owen had helped rescue Penny. Owen would be forever in Sandoval’s debt for the favor. At the smaller prison, he’d been able to distance himself from the AB. He’d taken advantage of college courses, therapy sessions and a work program. When he was released, he’d had a job waiting for him in a remote park where no one would find him.
Now, three years later, he was a security guard for a presidential candidate. He hadn’t been worried about the gang coming after him. His mistake.
“You turned your back on the AB,” Shane said.
Owen couldn’t deny it.
“There’s a punishment for deserters.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Your compliance.”
He wasn’t sure how to respond. Did it even matter? These assholes would never believe he was on their side.
Owen had become a member the Aryan Brotherhood of his own free will. He’d engaged in gang fights and color wars. He’d used racial slurs without batting an eye and littered his body with offensive epithets. Although he regretted the necessity of these actions, he’d seen no other solution. He’d been eighteen when he’d gotten arrested. Male inmates preyed on young, attractive boys. Owen couldn’t escape their attentions without help. And, unfortunately, only one group would accept him. There were no rainbow coalitions in prison. It was a segregated environment, and protection came at a price.
Owen wasn’t a white supremacist, but ideological differences hadn’t made it difficult for him to fit in with the gang. No, he’d adopted their ways easily. He’d been poor white trash his entire life. The men in the Brotherhood were just like him. They were the boys he’d played with after school, the desert rats with the faded clothes, the trailer park kids who came from nothing and ended up the same way.
Salton City was a backward place, full of poverty and prejudice. His father had been a racist fool, spewing ignorance on a regular basis. His mother didn’t agree, but she’d known better than to contradict him.
Despite his upbringing, or perhaps because of it, Owen had rejected those views. He didn’t want to take after his father. Long before he reached adulthood, he’d decided to be whatever Christian Jackson wasn’t. Owen couldn’t change the fact that he was white, male and heterosexual. In all other areas, he would diverge.
That was the plan, anyway. But he’d gotten caught up in his brother’s world and drifted in the wrong direction. He’d started drinking heavily in high school, and he’d been a regular meth user by the time he was seventeen.
Since he’d left prison, however, he’d stayed on the straight and narrow. He had a stronger sense of who he was as a person. The idea of pretending to go along with Shane’s scheme made him nauseous. Not only that, he doubted an agreement would give him any advantage. They wouldn’t remove his handcuffs or let him go.
This was all just bullshit posturing. Shane had to prove his loyalty to the gang, and he had to do it with his fists. Dirk cracked his knuckles in a threatening manner. Owen knew what was coming: an epic beat-down. He studied each set of boots in his vicinity, expecting he’d be seeing them up close in the next few minutes.
“I told you he was fucking her,” Dirk said.
“You might be right.”
“Looks like he’s had some tattoos removed.”
“Strip him,” Shane said.
Owen held still as one of the other men came forward, ripping his shirt down the front and letting it hang off his shoulders. The swastika on his hand and the script on his neck were gone. His other tattoos had been altered, rather than removed. He’d changed the Old English lettering that arced over his stomach to read Irish Pride, instead of White Pride. More telling, perhaps, was the cross on his chest. The flames were covered and the name Cruz was added underneath, transforming the hateful image into a tender tribute.
He still had a three-leaf clover on his shoulder, minus the AB initials. Green ink was hard to remove, and it was a symbol of his Scotch-Irish heritage, so he’d kept it. He was damned lucky to be alive after several close calls.
But maybe this was it. The last scrape.
Dirk pointed out the obvious. “This motherfucker isn’t one of us.”
“Are you with us?” Shane asked.
Owen didn’t answer.
“Stand him up.”
Two men dragged him to his feet. He looked Shane in the eye, his pulse racing. His brother hit him with an open hand across the face, knocking his head to one side. Pain exploded in his cheek and gums.
“Are you with us?” Shane repeated.
Owen spat a mouthful