CHAPTER ONE

Four motorcycles turned down the quiet side street buried among the backstreets of Slidell. It was lined with cracker-box-sized houses and too many foreclosure signs. The riders slowed and turned in the drive of a rundown ranch house with gray siding, tinged green with mold.

As they climbed from their bikes, Undertaker pulled his wraparound shades from his face, his eyes scanning the place. The gutter was half hanging from the house, there were several mismatched and broken chairs near the door under the overhanging roof, the screens were badly torn, and the grass hadn’t been cut in forever. “I thought he was fixing up this place. That’s all he ever talks about, all the remodeling he’s been doing.”

“Maybe the inside looks better,” Blood suggested.

“Doubt it.” Undertaker knew the signs were all there, and they didn’t bode well for what they might find. He made a deep sighing sound, tired to his bones with this bullshit.

Undertaker, Blood, Sandman, and Bam-Bam moved through the yard, their eyes darting over the neighboring houses. Mutt’s bike was parked in the carport, so they knew he was home.

Blood didn’t bother to knock. Undertaker followed him through the door, the other men bringing up the rear.

As President, Undertaker didn’t need to be on this visit, but he’d heard the rumblings of the club, and he’d wanted to see for himself just how bad off Mutt had gotten. Rumor was he’d fallen hard and fast down the dark well of crystal meth addiction, something that wasn’t tolerated.

“Mutt!” Blood barked. As the club’s Enforcer, dealing with this kind of shit fell to his shoulders.

Undertaker glanced around the interior. A small living room led through to a dining room/kitchen combination. The tile was torn up, revealing the plywood subflooring, and the blue walls were half painted a strange peach color, the hideous shade only going halfway up the wall. The stove had been ripped out, the connections dangling from the wall, and several cabinet doors hung haphazardly by one hinge. His sharp eyes took it all in, including the used needles, pipes, and drug paraphernalia lying on the filthy kitchen counter. He picked up a small piece of foil.

“Ice,” he murmured as Bam-Bam looked over his shoulder. It was the purest and most potent form of methamphetamine. “Damn it. I was hoping we were wrong about this.”

They heard a shout from the rear hall where Blood and Sandman had disappeared. Undertaker frowned at Bam-Bam; the voice sounded feminine.

“Find him?” Undertaker called out as he headed that way, Bam-Bam at his heels. He came to stop in the hall, where Sandman was standing in the doorway to a bedroom. He glanced in.

Blood stood with his arms folded, staring down at two young girls sitting on a mattress on the floor, their backs to the wall, looking scared as shit. More drug paraphernalia lay scattered around them.

“Nope. But it looks like we’ve got us some juvenile delinquents.”

“What the fuck are you girls doing here?” Undertaker barked, his eyes skating over the teens. They couldn’t have been old enough to drive.

“W-we just came to s-see my uncle,” one of them stammered.

“Bullshit,” he snapped back. Mutt was an only child. “You’re runaways, aren’t you?”

The girls stared up at him with wide-eyes, not bothering to deny it.

“Where’s Mutt?” Blood asked.

Both their eyes shifted to him, and then slid to the closet door.

All three men swiveled.

Undertaker jerked his head toward the bedroom door. “Get the fuck out,” he told the girls, “and get your asses home where they belong. Now.”

They both scrambled to their feet and dashed out of the house.

Blood moved to the closet door and yanked it open.

Mutt was sitting on the floor, his hands moving frantically over his arms, fingernails scratching the skin. “Damn bugs. I can’t get ‘em off.”

There were no bugs crawling on him, but the men all knew the signs. Long-term meth use could cause psychotic symptoms such as paranoia, hallucinations, and delusions.

“Mutt!” Blood barked, but got no response. He bent and grabbed two fistfuls of Mutt’s shirt and dragged his body up and out of the closet, pinning him to the wall with a boom that cracked his head against the sheetrock.

Undertaker got a good look at Mutt’s dilated pupils. He was heavily sweating and gave off the stink of the drug. He’d dropped twenty pounds at least, most of it muscle.

Suddenly, Mutt’s paranoia gave way to rage, and he tried to take a swing at Blood. “Get your fuckin’ hands off me, asshole!”

Blood kept him pinned to the wall, his biceps bulging with the effort it took to restrain him.

“Shut the fuck up!” Undertaker snapped, drawing Mutt’s attention. His already big eyes, bugged out even more as the voice of his President penetrated his drug-fogged mind.

“Prez,” he whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“What the fuck do you think I’m doing here? I came to see for myself how badly you’d let your brothers down, let your club down, let me down!”

Mutt began a sad attempt at laughing.

Blood banged him against the wall again. “Ain’t nothin’ funny, shithead!”

Undertaker got in his face. “You better get serious about this right now, because I’m not fucking playing games with you, Brother!”

Mutt dropped his head, the laughter turning to shame.

“Look at me!” Undertaker waited until he lifted his head, his darting eyes trying to stay focused on him. “The pipe, the needles, the ice… they’re ruining your life. You’re useless to me. So, tell me, Mutt. Are you fixable? Are you?”

“I don’t know, man.” He dropped his head, shaking it.

“Is there enough Evil Dead MC still left in your blood to come out of this?”

Blood slammed him up against the wall again, encouraging an answer, encouraging the right answer.

“Yes, yes.” Mutt nodded frantically.

“You’ve got brothers for a reason, Mutt. You need help, you ask. There’s nothing these boys wouldn’t do for you.”

“I got no excuse, Prez, but shit, sometimes the drugs…they’re the only thing keeping me from eating a bullet.”

Undertaker knew Mutt had been through hell. He’d served his country, fighting in Afghanistan on more than one deployment before he got out and joined the MC. It was that fact that tipped the scales in his favor and compelled Undertaker to give him another chance. “I’m all about second chances, but you fuck up again, you’re done, you understand me? Tough love.”

Mutt nodded.

Undertaker turned to Bam-Bam. “Put him on lockdown until that shit is out of his system. Tie him to a chair if you have to, but get him through this.” They both turned to Mutt.

Mutt let his head fall back against the wall, mumbling a string of curses, obviously not looking forward to what was in store for him.

“Get him off the ice and get him back with his brothers,” Undertaker snapped.

“You got it, boss.”

Undertaker turned to Sandman. “Call Doc. Get him over here.”

“Will do.”

“And help Bam-Bam with him,” Undertaker added.

Sandman’s eyes strayed to his broken brother. “I didn’t want to believe it was this bad.”

“None of us did,” Undertaker replied.

“We’ll take care of him,” Sandman assured him.

Undertaker jerked his chin at Blood who released the man to slide down the wall to a heap on the floor and followed his President out the door.

They paused by the bikes.

Undertaker hesitated, his eyes moving to the setting sun before slipping on his wraparound shades. “Fucking hate to see that.”

“Yeah,” was Blood’s only response.

“Think we just lost a brother?”

“Time will tell.”

“Yeah. It has a funny way of doing that. Let’s get out of here.”

They mounted and roared off down the street, their bikes aimed back toward the clubhouse.