The website was for the Hudson Footmen. The site’s rhetoric took care to fall shy of inciting violence. They focused on being the antidote to anarchy.
Matt went back to YouTube and watched a few more videos. The content was disturbing as hell, but that wasn’t what held his attention. There was something familiar about the production, the style, the general feel of the videos. They weren’t Hollywood slick but instead had a homemade quality to them reminiscent of The Blair Witch Project. The amateur look gave them an authentic quality. Matt was no expert, but he sensed this false genuineness wasn’t accidental.
Then he realized what felt so familiar.
The Hudson Footmen’s recruitment videos felt just like the deepfake porn video of Bree.
If Bri Bri Dee was Brian Dylan, had Dylan made the deepfake video of Bree?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Todd drove home, parked in his driveway, and shut off the engine of his SUV. Sitting in the darkness, he pulled out his cell phone. It was after ten. Too late to call Cady?
Since Matt had suggested adopting a dog, Todd had been unable to get Cady out of his head. Who was he kidding? He’d been thinking about her nonstop for months, which was why he’d volunteered to help with the fundraiser. She’d offered to row while he swam—which was a great idea—but how much could he talk to her while he was in the river?
He was lonely, and an older dog would be a good fit for him. But he simply wanted to spend time with Cady. If he adopted one of her dogs, she’d need to come over and assess his house. She’d want to introduce him to multiple dogs. Hell, maybe by the time he actually picked a dog and adopted it, he and Cady would have established some kind of relationship that had nothing to do with the upcoming fundraiser or his triathlon training.
He sent her a text. HEY, WHAT DO U THINK ABOUT ME ADOPTING A DOG?
She responded immediately, and a tiny spark of joy flashed in him. I LOVE IT! I HAVE IDEAS.
He typed back, TALK TOMORROW?
She answered with a smiley face emoji that matched his mood perfectly.
Shoving his phone into his pocket, he stepped out of his car. Though it was late, and he’d had a long-ass day, the text exchange with Cady had energized him better than a thermos of coffee. In his driveway, he stopped and stared at his house.
Sitting in the middle of a one-acre wooded lot, it looked empty, almost like no one lived there. Then again, he didn’t really live there. He used the house for eating, sleeping, and doing laundry. He’d never invited guys over for a beer. He watched football alone. He’d never cooked a decent dinner.
Never had an overnight guest.
And that thought brought Cady to mind again.
It was time for a change.
As usual, he’d forgotten to leave a light on. He glanced over his shoulder at the neighbors’ house across the road. Lights glowed in the windows. Some kind of gold flowers brightened the front beds. Spotlights shone on a few ornamental trees and shrubs. The landscaping wasn’t fancy but made the place look like a home, as if the people who lived there cared about more than meeting the bare minimum.
In comparison, his own property was barren—almost forlorn—which he supposed reflected his own state of being.
He’d moved into the tiny bungalow after his divorce six—no, wait—almost seven years ago. He’d progressed from a personal pity party to plain apathy. The split might have been mostly amicable, but it had still left him depressed and uninterested in his personal life. He worked late most nights and had never cared much about appearances. The outdoor space was neat enough to keep the neighbors from complaining. He mowed the lawn and pulled the weeds, but he hadn’t put any effort into curb appeal.
He walked around to the side yard and stopped at the picket fence gate. Branches overhead blocked out the moonlight. The rear yard backed to woods, and he’d left it mostly natural. The fence that encircled the cleared portion was four feet high. So as long as the dog he adopted wasn’t too agile, it would work just fine. Cady would surely approve.
But the thought of her coming over and giving the place a preadoption once-over made him want to spruce up the yard. He needed lights or landscaping—both, he decided. The inside could use some work too. The walls were still up-for-sale white. He hadn’t hung a single picture or piece of art, and his furniture leaned toward essentials only. He couldn’t fix everything at once, but he could begin making his house look like a home. He started a mental list for the home improvement store: paint, flowers, mulch.
A twig snapped behind him. He spun toward the sound.
The first blow cracked against the side of his head. The pain exploded through his skull and sent him to one knee. Light flashed across his field of vision, like shooting stars. At first, he thought he’d walked into a low tree branch. Then he sensed more than saw the figures moving around him. With the pain ricocheting in his head like a pinball, it took a breath for him to realize he was being attacked.
He reached for the sidearm on his hip. As soon as his weapon cleared its holster, a second blow struck his elbow, hitting the nerve. White-hot agony raced from his fingertips to his shoulder, and he dropped the gun. A man loomed over him, blotting out the moonlight. He wore camo. Something swung from his hand. Some kind of stick or baton? A brimmed hat shielded his eyes, and a dark bandana covered his face.
The group shifted around Todd. He tried to count them, but his vision went blurry as blood ran into his eyes.
Four? No, five.
His hand went to his waist again, but he was out of uniform. Without his duty belt, he had no Taser, no pepper spray, no anything. Levering to his feet, he spun in a circle, a futile attempt to face all his attackers. A body passed close to him, and he lashed out with a hook punch. His fist caught a soft belly, and the man grunted.
Another blow from the baton struck him low across his back. The pain nearly folded his legs, but he knew once he went down, that was where he would stay.
And the fight would become a beating.
He remained upright by sheer willpower. Staggering, he braced himself and kicked out. His boot caught a knee. Something cracked. The recipient screamed, his knees buckled, and he fell to his ass. One down. Satisfaction drove Todd to lash out again. He stomped on a foot, then drove his left elbow under a jaw. The sound of teeth snapping together revitalized him.
A punch sailed toward his face. He dodged it, but a second fist came out of nowhere, hitting him in the eye. Adrenaline blocked some of the pain, but his vision doubled for a few seconds.
He was a decent fighter, but not against five opponents who’d gotten the jump on him. There was no way for him to win. He remembered Oscar’s bruised face, and the bullet holes in his knees, shoulder, and forehead. Had his last moments gone like this? Were these the men who’d killed him? Would they torture Todd like they had Oscar?
Something moved on his left. He ducked, and the baton swished over his head, close enough to his face that he could feel the disturbance of air on his skin.
Men circled him.
Todd knew they would probably kill him. He pushed away the regret and fear. He would die tonight. His only choice was whether he would go easy or hard. Hard, he decided.
Fuck them.
He would inflict some damage on his way out. Anger burned away some of his pain. He’d wasted the last seven years. Now, he’d finally found someone he wanted to be with, and these fuckers were going to kill him. Cady’s face crossed his mind.
I’m sorry.
He hadn’t even asked her on a date. Stupid.
A punch to the kidneys rocked him. He stumbled a few steps away, then caught his balance and whirled. Using the momentum of the spin, he whipped the heel of his hand across a face, then raked his nails across the man’s eyes. He felt a liquid pop.
“Fuck. My eye.” The man grabbed his face with both hands and staggered away.
That’s two.
Todd’s hand came away wet. He wiped it on his shirt, making sure blood soaked into the fabric and skin and tissue drove deeper under his own nails.