Bloodhound’s Burden (Saint’s Outlaws MC: Morgantown, WV #2)

Prologue

Bloodhound

Five Years Ago…

My hands are steady as I adjust the carburetor on Porter's Harley, even as my mind drifts.

The garage at the club is quiet this late, just the occasional sound of a car passing on the main road and the distant glow of Morgantown University lights on the hill.

The work soothes me—simple, mechanical, and something I can fix with the right tools and enough patience.

Unlike other things in my life.

The phone in my pocket vibrates.

I ignore it, too focused on getting the idle just right.

It stops, then immediately starts again.

Persistence means trouble, dammit.

I wipe my hands on a rag and check the screen—unknown number.

I answer, voice gruff. "Yeah?"

"This Bloodhound?" A man's voice comes across, one I don’t recognize, and I can’t miss how nervous he is.

"Who's asking?"

"Look, man, I don't want no trouble with the club." His words rush together. "I'm just callin’ 'cause there's a chick here with your name and number in her phone. She's... fuck, she's not good. OD'd bad. Someone said you'd want to know before we call an ambulance."

My blood turns to ice. "Where?"

"That old company house on Maple, near Sabraton. Yellow one with the—"

I hang up, already moving.

I know the place.

Used to be miners' housing back when Morgantown was a coal town.

Now it's just another trap house in a neighborhood the city's forgotten.

My Harley roars to life under me, a familiar extension of my body as I tear out of the compound.

The July air bites through my leather, but I barely feel it.

University Avenue is empty this time of night, especially with summer break emptying out the college bars.

I push the bike harder than I should, taking corners at speeds that would kill me if I miscalculated, but I don't care.

The Westover Bridge stretches across the Monongahela, its steel frame glowing dull orange in the streetlights.

Below, the river runs black, carrying away this town's secrets like it has for generations.

Once across, I cut through neighborhoods where houses sag with age and neglect.

The streets here are narrow, badly maintained, forgotten by the city council that spends all its money on campus improvements.

The yellow house appears at the end of a dead-end street.

Even in the dark, I can see the peeling paint, the sagging porch, and the broken windows covered with plastic.

A house that's given up, just like the people inside it.

Three guys huddled on the porch straighten as I kill the engine.

WVU dropouts playing gangster, judging by their faded university hoodies and nervous eyes.

They know what my cut means, and they’d better not say the wrong fucking thing to me right now.

"Which room?" I demand, not bothering with pleasantries.

"Upstairs, end of the hall," one mutters, avoiding eye contact. "She was with Twitch, but he split when she started seizing."

I push past them, taking the rotting steps two at a time.

The stench hits me immediately—mold from the recent flooding, urine, vomit, and the sickly-sweet smell of meth cooking somewhere.

The floorboards creak dangerously beneath my boots.

The hallway is dark, lit only by a battery-powered lantern casting shadows across peeling Mountaineer football wallpaper, blue and gold faded to gray.

The door at the end is partially open.

I find her on a bare mattress, curled on her side, needle still hanging from her arm.

"Fuck, Vanna."

She doesn't respond.

Her skin has the gray-blue tint I've seen too many times in this war-ravaged state.

West Virginia's latest conflict isn't fought in coal mines but in veins, the casualties piling up faster than the old mining disasters ever claimed.

I drop to my knees beside her, pressing fingers to her neck.

Her pulse is there, but weak, erratic.

Shallow breaths barely move her chest.

"Savannah," I try again, using her full name as I shake her shoulder. "Vanna, wake up."

Nothing.

I pull the needle from her arm, tossing it aside.

She's so fucking thin, her once-lucious, curvy body now just bones wrapped in paper-thin skin.

Her arms are tracked with needle marks, some fresh, some scarred over.

Seven years married, and the woman before me is a stranger wearing my wife's face.

I pull out my phone, dialing 911 as I roll her onto her back, tilting her head to keep her airway open.

"911, where is your emergency?"

"Overdose," I say, voice clipped. "Yellow house on Maple, near Sabraton. Female, late twenties, unconscious but breathing."

"Sir, we're dispatching EMS now. Does she appear to have taken opioids?"

"Yeah." My eyes find the discarded needle, the burnt spoon, the small bag of powder. "Heroin, probably fentanyl cut."

"Do you have Narcan available?"

"No."

"EMS will be there in approximately eight minutes. Please stay on the line and—"

I hang up.

Eight minutes is too long. She might not have eight minutes.

Decision made, I gather her into my arms.

She weighs nothing, a ghost of the woman who used to ride behind me, arms tight around my waist, laughing into the wind.

As I carry her down the stairs, her head lolls against my shoulder, hair matted and greasy against my neck.

The guys on the porch scatter as I emerge, cradling her limp body.

"Ambulance coming," one calls out. "Should be here soon."

"Not waiting." I manage to mount the bike while holding her, positioning her in front of me, her back to my chest.

Her head falls back against my shoulder, and I secure my left arm around her waist while my right hand grips the throttle.

Not safe. Not even close to safe. But I'm not letting her die in this shithole.

The Harley roars to life, and I peel away from the curb, Vanna's body a dead weight against mine.

I take the turns slower than before, hyper-aware of her, but still push well beyond any legal speed limit.

As we race through the deserted downtown, past the brick buildings of High Street that have survived since the coal boom days, memories flash through my mind.

Vanna at seventeen, golden hair flying as she ran across Mountaineer Field after hours, daring me to catch her.

Vanna at nineteen walking down the aisle in a secondhand dress, eyes bright with promises we were too young to understand.

Vanna at twenty-five, screaming that she hated me, hated this town, hated the life we'd built, as I flushed her pills down the toilet during her first attempt at getting clean.

The accident happened a year before—simple rear-ending on University Avenue, whiplash and a herniated disc.

The doctor prescribed Oxy without blinking, and by the time I realized what was happening, the prescription had run out and she'd found other sources.

The five-way intersection where Beechurst Avenue meets Campus Drive is deserted this time of night.

I blow through the red light, hunching over Vanna's limp form as I push toward Ruby Memorial Hospital, the massive medical complex looming ahead.

I skid to a stop at the emergency entrance, nearly dumping the bike with how much I’m rushing.

"Help!" I roar, lifting Vanna's unconscious body. "Active OD!"

Medical staff swarm immediately, taking her from my arms, placing her on a gurney.

I follow as they rush her through the sliding doors, rattling off vital signs and medical terminology that means nothing to me.

"Sir, you need to wait here," a nurse tells me firmly, blocking my path as they wheel Vanna through another set of doors. "We'll take good care of her. I need some information."

I stare past her, watching until Vanna disappears from sight. "Savannah Mercer. Twenty-six. No insurance. Heroin overdose, probably fentanyl laced."

"Are you family?"

"Husband." The word tastes strange on my tongue.

We've been separated for over a year, but I've never filed for divorce.

Neither has she.

Just another loose end in the disaster of our life together.

"Wait here. A doctor will update you as soon as possible."

The waiting room is half-full even though it’s late.

Mining accident victims with dust-blackened faces, anxious families, and a drunk college kid holding a bloody towel to his head.

They all stare at me—six-foot-two of leather-clad biker, covered in engine grease and what I now realize is Vanna's vomit.

I drop into a molded plastic chair and call Ruger, keeping my voice low. "Vanna OD'd. I'm at Ruby."

"Fuck." He doesn't waste words. "Need anything?"

"No."

"Coming anyway. Thirty minutes."

I hang up and stare at the industrial tile floor, counting the black specks in each square to keep my mind occupied.

Anything to avoid the thoughts threatening to overwhelm me.

When I reach one thousand eight hundred and forty-seven specks, a familiar voice cuts through my concentration.

"Garrett?"

I look up to see my sister, Leah, standing before me in blue WVU Medicine scrubs, her ID badge swinging from a lanyard.

Her face shows the same concern it did at our mother's funeral, the same disappointment it did at my last birthday when I drank myself unconscious.

"Vanna OD'd," I explain unnecessarily. She'd have seen the chart already. Being a nurse in this hospital has its advantages.

Leah sits beside me, her small hand finding mine. "She's in good hands. Dr. Reynolds is treating her. He's the best we have for overdoses."

"She gonna make it?"

Leah's hesitation tells me everything. "It's bad, Garrett. They administered Narcan, but she was down for a long time. There could be brain damage from oxygen deprivation."

I nod, processing this. "Not her first OD."

"I know. I was here for the last one too."

We sit in silence, the hospital sounds washing over us—beeping monitors, squeaking shoes on linoleum, muffled voices over intercoms.

The doors open and Ruger strides in, flanked by Ounce and Maddox.

They draw every eye in the waiting room—three men in leather cuts, moving with the kind of confidence that makes people nervous.

Ruger nods to Leah, then sits on my other side.

The others remain standing, creating a protective perimeter.

"Any word?" Ruger asks.

"Not yet."

"Club's here for you, brother. Whatever you need."