Despite looking thoroughly well kissed, she attempted to glare at him. “Chief MacNair, there are children here.”

He gave her an innocent look. “Hey, I kept my dick in my pants.”

That set off all the women around her, including one who must’ve been about ninety.

As Audrey pressed her face against his chest, trying to smother giggles, he pulled her along with him.

“Where are we going?”

“We need a soprano”—he grinned at Caz who was on the stage—“right, bro?”

“Very true.” Caz leaned down to take Audrey’s hand and help her onto the stage. “Don’t look so worried, chiquita. You know we sound better with you singing.”

“That’s right.” Bull smiled at her and started the lead-in to “Rainy Day People.”

When their voices rose, there was a sweet soprano with them.

Twenty minutes later, someone said loudly, “One of these things is not like the others.”

Gabe looked up from his guitar.

In front of the stage, a large number of Patriot Zealots in jeans, work shirts, and patriotic-sloganed baseball caps stared at Caz.

Gabe’d never seen any of them before. For fuck’s sake, how many men did Parrish have at his compound?

A red-bearded man held his throat and made gagging sounds.

A guy with tats running up his arms said, “I crossed two borders to get away from the stinking beaners. And here’s one, front and center.”

Son of a bitch, their target was Caz for being Hispanic.

As the rest of the PZs descended into sarcastic agreement, Gabe’s fingers tightened on the fret, flattening the sound of the strings. He stared down at the bigoted idiots. “Move on. Now.”

They ignored him.

“Of course, the wetback made it here to Alaska. You know, like oil, greasers slide everywhere.” The man, all three hundred pounds worth, grinned as if he’d said something brilliant.

As Caz growled, Gabe winced. His brother endured this dumbass intolerance and even managed to ignore it most of the time. But there was a breaking point. And that sound meant he’d reached it.

Hell.

Gabe leaned forward. “Last chance. Get out of here before you regret it.”

“Oooh, the pussy cop is defending his tacohead friend. I’m so scared.” A squat guy with the face of a weasel pretended to cringe away, bumped into a young woman—and shoved her out of his way.

As she staggered, almost falling, a man dressed in black caught her.

“What a cunt,” Weasel-face muttered.

“Yeah, shouldn’t let women out of the kitch—”

“That’s it.” Caz stepped from behind his drum, launched from the stage, and hit the front-most man, knocking him to the ground.

In typical cowardly style, four of the bastards jumped on Caz.

That was definitely it. “You take the dogpile, Bull.” Gabe set his guitar down and dove at three more men getting ready to jump on.

His targets went down like bowling pins.