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won’t believe what I just missed out on.’
    â€˜A new STD?’ Winger asked, and ducked to avoid a blow.
    Jericho kept his attention on the fight, seeing Reaper throw two Slayers off him with ease. A disapproving rumble started in his chest when he spied bar patrons starting to press up against the wall, their expressions sliding from entertained to alarmed. At least some were still cheering.
    Reaper moved with the fluid grace of a born fighter, broad shoulders flexing as he grabbed another Slayer and threw him aside. The Slayer fell back, arms pinwheeling and legs sprawling, as he crashed into the jukebox, jumping a Bob Dylan song to Meat Loaf crooning about hell.
    The door to Turk’s tattooing room snapped open and the old man appeared in the doorway with a scowl. Black ink smeared his weathered forehead, and his teeth were clamped around an unlit Camel Turkish cigar. An eye patch covered his right eye and his arms were covered in faded bare-chested women and sailor motifs. Taking in the scene, he signalled to Winger and Blades, making a sequence of hand gestures.
    â€˜What’s he saying?’ Winger murmured.
    â€˜Man’s having flashbacks to Vietnam.’ Blades mimicked one of Turk’s hand movements, ending with a wanking motion. Turk flipped Blades off, then hurried over to help Reaper with the remaining bikers.
    â€˜You better hustle before the old dog shows you up.’ Jericho didn’t need to say it twice and both men surged forward, shoving Slayers away with heavy hands.
    Jericho stayed back, watching Frost, who still hadn’t moved. All of the Diablo Dogs were Breed who had appeared at the compound, broken in body and spirit. After they’d healed, each man had decided they were better off staying and working for Jericho. None were angels. Every one of them was dodging a past sin or two, but none more than Luke ’Frost’ Ruger. He’d told Jericho his memory took him until five years ago, when he’d suffered a head injury. Before that black hole, he’d confessed to Jericho about Black Ops work in his early years, before he’d shifted to a counter-terrorism unit. But those missing five years? Nothing but static. Before becoming an Enforcer, Jericho himself had served in the army, even commanding a specialised Commando Regiment for two years, and he had recognised the pain of a fellow soldier. He’d worked extra hard to help Frost maintain his humanity and the two had fought more than once as Jericho had tried to pull Frost out of the tail dive he found himself in, his killing instinct wrestling for control. Out of the crew, Frost was the only one still taking meds to help him keep himself level. Now, with ice-white hair pulled back in a thick plait and high Scandinavian cheekbones, Frost was a calm stream of water—until you flipped his buttons. Then, even Jericho had trouble controlling him.
    Jericho’s back stiffened when he spied Corbin Winslow, one of the younger Breeds, join the fight. As a rule, men from the Dog House did not socialise outside of the compound, unless they had been given a general pass rating, called a G1, allowing unsupervised visits to town and a job in the bar if they wanted it.
    Corbin wasn’t a G1 yet, but his work in the Dog House canteen had been nothing short of extraordinary and he’d quickly been promoted to working the kitchen at Dusty Roads. A short-order cook from Texas in his former life, the kid made burgers that were a top seller at lunch and Jericho had high hopes for the freckle-faced kid of sixteen who’d been bitten when he was eight, and had struggled since with the threat of reverting. He’d been fortunate to be bitten before puberty, since only the very young survived the virus, transmittable only through the bite of a fully reverted Breed. For a child, the process was manageable with drugs and heavy sedation, then being taught pack laws about containing the beast inside. But