Chapter 1
Flash-Forward: Betrayal

The shadowy world of Neo-Nazism operates in the margins, hidden from mainstream view. Its influence seeps through the cracks of public consciousness, festering just below the surface, waiting—hoping—for the downfall of American democracy. Occasionally, it erupts into the spotlight through acts of terror—bombings, mass shootings, hate crimes—sudden bursts of violence that shatter lives and leave devastation in their wake.

For me, Neo-Nazism wasn’t just an ideology—it was my life.

For over two and a half decades, my entire existence was bathed in it. It shaped my thoughts, my choices, my identity. What began as a childhood fascination, reinforced by family ties, dragged me deep into its dark, seedy underworld. I didn’t just follow the movement—I led it. I recruited, trained, preached, and prepared for war.

That belief hardened into full-scale conflict with the world itself. Convinced of the righteousness of my cause, I sacrificed my own humanity—while stripping others of theirs in the process.

I became infamous.

For years, I was the face of Neo-Nazism in America. A name synonymous with hate. The leader of the National Socialist Movement—once the largest Nazi organization in the United States.

Breaking free from the cycle of destruction I had built my life around wasn’t instant—or easy. It took years. Years of unlearning. Years of reckoning with the damage I had done. Years of clawing my way back to something resembling humanity.

In the end, it wasn’t force or punishment that shattered my belief system.

It was the very people I had once vilified who reached out their hands instead of turning their backs. The ones I had dehumanized were the ones who showed me what it truly meant to be human. They didn’t just challenge my worldview—they dismantled it, piece by piece, replacing hate with something I never expected to find.

They taught me that race, color, tribe, and ethnicity—things I once saw as insurmountable barriers—were nothing more than illusions. That beneath it all, we are not enemies. We are one human family.

Today, I work alongside the Simon Wiesenthal Center, an international human rights organization, to educate youth across the country about the dangers of extremism—how to recognize it, resist it, and avoid the paths that lead to hate, violence, and division.

I often wonder how different my life might have been if someone had offered me that same guidance when I was young—if someone had shown me another way, before hate took hold, before the damage was done. I can’t rewrite the past, but I can help ensure others never follow the same destructive path I once did. 

The Neo-Nazi movement thrived on paranoia.

It wasn’t just an undercurrent—it was the lifeblood. Every conversation was measured, every action scrutinized. A misplaced word, an intrusive question, even a moment’s hesitation could plant the seed of suspicion. Betrayal could come from anywhere. Trust was a rare, fragile commodity—never given freely, only earned over time.

Accusations were constant. Some were baseless, driven by fear, ego, or the desperate need to prove loyalty. Others, disturbingly, turned out to be true. Over the years, we uncovered more informants than I cared to admit. However, the real danger wasn’t just infiltration—it was the way paranoia devoured us from within.

I saw men’s reputations destroyed, their lives upended over nothing. Innocent people falsely accused, cast out, or worse. Once suspicion took hold, it spread like wildfire—indiscriminate, relentless, impossible to contain.

As the leader of the NSM, I demanded proof before condemning anyone as a rat or an informant. But in a world where survival hinged on loyalty, even a whisper of doubt could be a death sentence, and sometimes, that doubt was justified.

The enemy wasn’t always beyond the gates. Sometimes, it was already inside.

One incident stands out.

A recruit named Matt started hanging around. His past was complicated. In high school, he ran with a skinhead crew, but later, he joined a nationally known, predominantly black street gang. Now, years later, he was circling back to the movement. That kind of history didn’t just raise eyebrows—it set off alarms.

After an NSM meeting, I pulled him aside. “Matt, if we catch you associating with gang-bangers, we’ll put you in the ground. That’s not a threat—it’s a promise.”

I didn’t sugarcoat it—his past had people on edge, but I was willing to stake my reputation on giving him a chance.

Matt swore he had cut all ties, and for months, he played the role convincingly. He showed up, put in work, and earned trust. Slowly, the tension around him faded.

Then, one day, he disappeared. No call. No explanation. Just gone.

In a world fueled by paranoia, silence was the loudest warning of all.

Rumors spread like wildfire. Had Matt gone back to his old gang? Had he been a plant from the start? The uncertainty ignited fear. His past, combined with his sudden vanishing act, made him a prime suspect.

I needed to know if Matt was a threat—or if we were chasing shadows. So I set a trap.

Armed with a payphone and a tape recorder, I disguised my voice, mimicking what we considered Ebonics, and posed as an old gang associate. The plan was simple: get Matt talking, gauge his reaction, and uncover the truth.

Would he take the bait?

Or had we been wrong about him all along?

The phone rang.

Matt picked up.

I dropped into character as Tyrone.

“Yo, Matt, what up? This be Tyrone.”

A pause. Then, his cautious reply: “I don’t think I know you.”

“You better know me, muthafucka!” I snapped. “We used to hang at the club.”

Another pause. My pulse quickened. Had he figured out the ruse? Then his tone shifted.

“Oh yeah, I remember. What’s up, homie?” Feigned familiarity.

Tyrone pressed on. “Word on the street is you’ve been rollin’ with skinheads.”

“Nah, not anymore. Screw those guys.” His voice wavered, anxiety creeping in.

I pushed harder. “Them skinheads are on our turf and need to be dealt with. If we take out the leader, the rest of them crackers will crumble.”

Then came the moment that turned suspicion into rage.

Matt didn’t hesitate. Without a second thought, he casually dropped my full name—and didn’t stop there. He handed them a strategy. A blueprint.

“Get a white guy to call the NSM hotline, say they want to join. Jeff meets new recruits at a café in St. Paul with his girlfriend and a couple of skins.”

Betrayal. Cold. Calculated. Served up without hesitation.

“You’re alright, white boy!” Tyrone laughed. “Maybe we’ll line it up and do a drive-by.”

With recorded evidence of Matt’s treachery, there was no room for doubt. No room for mercy. His willingness to expose me, and casually hand over operational details, sealed his fate.

Retribution was inevitable.

Over the next few days, I meticulously crafted a plan. I didn’t need an army—just a handful of trusted members. Carol and Maggie were perfect for the task. Matt had always mistaken their friendliness for flirtation, making him an easy mark. I kept the specifics of his betrayal from them, giving them only the role they needed to play: lure Matt from his home and bring him to a nondescript apartment.

The trap was set.

When the girls arrived with Matt, I was waiting behind the door. The second it clicked shut, I slid the deadbolt into place. The sound cut through the air—sharp, deliberate, final.

 On cue, the others emerged from the shadows.

I stepped forward, arms crossed, blocking his only exit.

“Hey buddy, where’ve you been lately?”

My voice was calm, controlled, but carried an unmistakable edge.

Matt’s smug grin flickered, barely for a second. Then his eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape that wasn’t there. His expression shifted instantly—fear flashing across his face, his body stiffening like a deer caught in headlights. At that moment he certainly knew he’d walked straight into the lion’s den. You could see the wheels spinning in his head, scrambling to assess the situation, to calculate his odds.

“Just working,” he muttered, voice trembling, betraying the unease he couldn’t quite hide.

“Working, huh?” I let the silence linger and the tension coil around him. “Not working with any gang-bangers, hopefully?”

I took a step closer, my eyes locked onto his, pressing the question harder.

“No, of course not,” he stammered, shaking his head, trying to maintain his crumbling facade of innocence.

I reached into my flight jacket and slowly pulled out a tape, holding it up for him to see. “You’ll want to hear this.”

Rich stepped forward, dragging a chair to the center of the room, shoving Matt into it with deliberate force. His hands clamped down on Matt’s shoulders, keeping him firmly in place.          I moved in slowly, letting the tension simmer as I slid the tape into the stereo. Without breaking eye contact, I let the silence hang a bit longer before cranking the volume and pressing play.

Matt’s voice erupted from the speakers, the words he thought would stay buried spilling out for everyone to hear. Each syllable struck like a hammer blow, shattering the thin walls of deception he had built around himself. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as the gravity of his betrayal sank in.

The girls gasped, hands flying to their mouths in disbelief. Their wide, unblinking stares burned into him.

Matt sat frozen, the color draining from his face, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. His eyes—wild, darting, desperate—told the whole story.

It was like watching a condemned man forced to witness his own execution in agonizing slow motion. The crushing reality of his betrayal bore down on him like a vise, squeezing out any last flicker of hope he might have clung to.

Rich spat in his face, his voice dripping with venom. “Take off your boots and flight, you rat bastard!”

The command was steeped in tradition.

Being stripped of one’s boots and flight jacket wasn’t just punishment—it was humiliation. A ritual reserved for enemies and traitors, meant to strip them of their identity and dignity. To lose them was the ultimate disgrace.

 Some of our crew wore flight jackets taken from SHARPs or other defeated enemies—trophies of conquest.

Matt knew exactly what this meant.

Without a word, he slumped forward, his hands moving sluggishly as he pulled off his boots and jacket. He handed them over, head bowed, shoulders caving inward like a man already broken. Whatever shred of honor he had left was snuffed out in that moment.

Then, without warning, Rich’s fist shot out.

The impact was brutal—bone meeting bone with a sickening crack. Matt’s head snapped back, his body whipping sideways as the chair beneath him flipped, sending him crashing to the floor.

What followed was pure chaos—a violent eruption of pent-up rage.

Boots and fists hammered down on Matt as the crew unleashed their fury. He didn’t stand a chance. The first blows sent him sprawling, his body curling inward on instinct, but there was no defense against the relentless onslaught. Every hit landed with bone-crushing force, each one fueled by betrayal.

The women recoiled. Carol gasped, hands clamped over her mouth. Maggie turned away, shielding her eyes, unable to stomach the savagery unfolding before them.

Matt had made his choice, and now he was paying for it.

Rich grabbed Matt by the throat, yanking him to his knees. His voice was low, guttural. “This rat bled all over my new flight!” His grip tightened, rage twisting his face.

Matt’s rodent instincts kicked in. With a desperate wrench, he broke free, scurrying into the kitchen like a cornered rat. His eyes darted wildly, searching for an escape. Then, in a blur of panic, he grabbed a butcher knife, waving it erratically before bolting through the apartment door.

A thick trail of blood stretched down the hallway, like the path of a gut-shot buck, leading all the way outside.

The commotion stirred the neighbors—doors cracked open, cautious faces peeking out. We hesitated, giving Matt a head start to avoid drawing more attention.

By the time we stepped outside, flashing red and blue lights greeted us. The cops were waiting with guns drawn.

“Get on the ground and put your hands behind your back!” an officer barked, his pistol locked squarely on my chest.

Fueled by bravado and adrenaline, I smirked and lifted my beer. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll hit the deck after finishing this.”

“Get on the ground now! This is your last warning!” The officer’s voice sharpened, the tension crackling like static in the air.

With a slow, deliberate motion, I started to comply—still insolently sipping the beer.

“Drop the can!”

I grinned. “And risk a littering fine? Not a chance.”

That was it. A cop stormed forward, ripped the beer from my hand, and tossed it aside before ratcheting the cuffs on extra tight.

I smirked, shaking my head. “Wasting a perfectly good beer? That’s alcohol abuse.”

A couple of the guys chuckled. The cops weren’t amused.

Carol and I were shoved into the back of a squad car together. She was falling apart—tears streamed down her face, hands trembling uncontrollably. She stared blankly ahead, her breathing shallow and uneven, as if trying to process the nightmare she’d just lived through. Guilt hit me like a ton of bricks. This was my fault—she never should’ve been dragged into this mess.

“Carol, don’t worry,” I whispered, gently trying to reassure her. “No one’s gonna talk to the cops. You’ll be home soon.”

She nodded weakly, swallowing hard, but her entire body was tense. Then the police radio crackled to life.

“Suspect matching the description—tattoos, white t-shirt, no shoes, covered in blood, wielding a knife—suspected skinhead activity.”

Carol tensed beside me, her whole body rigid.

Minutes later, an officer returned and yanked open the squad car door. “Your boy Matt told us he tripped down some stairs. We don’t buy it, but with no witnesses willing to talk, it’s just another case of skinheads beating the hell out of each other.”

They released everyone, except me.

The officer who had drawn his gun on me earlier approached, his gaze steady.

“Do you realize how close you came to being shot tonight?”

I shrugged, bravado still intact. “I didn’t do anything that justified lethal force.”

He raised an eyebrow, his response calm but firm. “We were responding to reports of a blood-covered suspect running down the street with a knife. If, for even one second, I’d believed my life—or anyone else’s—was in danger, I’d have been legally justified in shooting you.”

His eyes locked onto mine, unflinching.

“And your attitude while being held at gunpoint? That only made things worse. You escalated the situation. You came off as unstable, which heightened concerns for officer safety.”

His words hit harder than expected. The gravity of the situation settled in, gnawing at the edges of my bravado.

Before releasing me, he added, “Next time, give me your word that you’ll comply when an officer has a weapon drawn. It might save your life.”

I nodded, the seriousness of his warning finally sinking in. “You’ve got my word.”

Matt was branded a traitor, but since he hadn’t squealed to the cops, our business with him was over. He wouldn’t be hunted down. He was left to his own devices—exiled.

The violence we inflicted wasn’t random or impulsive—it was calculated, deliberate. A psychological imprint burned into the minds of anyone who might consider betrayal. To outsiders, it was barbaric, an act of paranoia and an unyielding code. For me, it was routine. Business as usual. Just another day in that world.

Leading an extremist group meant living on borrowed time.

Every day, your life, your freedom, and the lives of those around you hung in the balance. Violence wasn’t a last resort—it was the cost of doing business. A dark, ominous shadow that followed you everywhere. Never out of reach.

How did I go from living in that darkness to standing alongside those I once sought to alienate? How did I transform from harboring hatred—rooted in race and religion—to working with human rights organizations, helping others avoid the path I once walked?

This is my story.