Doyle’s lips tightened. “Most of my men are simple farmers. The stress of the outbreak may have proved too much for some to handle. But I don’t have anyone with military training here to help. If Clutch joined my team, I could ensure there’d be no more…misunderstandings.”
Clutch and Tyler chortled in stereo. I frowned. Where the hell had Doyle gotten the idea that Clutch would join the Dogs? Hell, he’d been attacking us for the past week, and now he thought Clutch would sign up with a smile. He should hate Clutch for killing his men. It was almost as if he’d wanted Clutch to come to him all along. But why?
“You don’t have the authority,” Tyler said. “This man is Army and has been reactivated. He goes to Camp Fox under Lendt’s command.”
I could feel the tension roiling off Clutch, yet he sat there, saying nothing.
“Bah!” Doyle waved a hand through the air. “It’d be a waste for Clutch to join Fox, and he doesn’t want to, anyway.”
Tyler narrowed his eyes. “How would you know?”
Doyle blew him off. “Besides, the National Guard has never been anything but wet nurses. The militia is the people’s real protector. I’ve seen the future, and it ain’t pretty. The only way to protect people is to be hard. That Clutch took out two of my men today proves it all the more. Clutch would be a good fit here.”
“Excuse me? You don’t have the authority.” Tyler came to his feet, and the two soldiers with him stepped closer.
Doyle ignored him. “Really, Clutch, tell me. Do you think you can hold down your farm against the zeds that will be pouring out from every major city with only a kid and a wetback?”
My jaw dropped, and I stood. “Wetback?”
Clutch grabbed my arm, whether to protect me or keep me from going for Doyle’s throat, I didn’t know. He glared. “Watch it, Doyle.”
I put a hand on my hip. “My mother was Puerto Rican, and my dad was Irish. I was born here, just like my parents, and my parents’ parents before them. That makes me as American as anyone in this room, so fuck off.”
Doyle smirked. “No wonder you’re keeping this one for yourself. She’s feisty. She’d make good bait.”
I went to raise my rifle, but Clutch latched onto my forearm. I tried to rein back my temper, failing miserably.
“Fucking racist,” Griz gritted out from behind me.
I nodded.
“Enough!” Tyler slammed a fist on the table. “This ends now, Doyle. You hear me? No more games. We’re all in this shithole together and need to be working together.”
A door off to our side opened, and I swung my rifle around.
The three women carrying platters entered the room and froze, eyes wide.
Doyle motioned to the women. “Come in, come in.” He sat down as though everything was dandy. “Have a seat. Oh, and Captain, I’ve already sent a plate out to your driver.”
“Thank you.” Tyler eyed the room cautiously as he and the soldiers with him pulled out wood chairs. He waited until Clutch and I took our seats before taking his own chair. I propped my rifle against the table next to Clutch’s, keeping it in easy reach.
As Doyle poured the wine, I realized that all we were missing was Jesus because it sure as hell felt like we’d been brought in for the Last Supper.
Even with the heavy atmosphere, my mouth watered and my stomach growled as the aroma of roasted ham wafted through the air. Clutch hadn’t yet let us butcher a hog or cow, not until we worked the kinks out of the smokehouse. When the older woman set down the tray full of meat, I made a mental note to finish the smokehouse tomorrow.
“It looks delicious. Thank you, my dear,” Doyle said, briefly holding the woman’s hand.
She smiled and kissed his forehead before leaving the room.