Find Her: Avenging Angels MC Book 1 Read online

  Table of Contents

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Author Bio and Links

  Previous Titles

  FIND HER

  Avenging Angels MC Book 1

  by

  Nia Farrell

  FIND HER: AVENGING ANGELS MC BOOK 1

  by Nia Farrell

  Copyright 2017 by Nia Farrell

  Edited by Anita Quick

  Cover Design by Crystal Visions

  Stock Photography from depositphotos.com

  Formatting by Anita Quick

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used without the written consent of the author, except for brief quotes in reviews. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or any other means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book. Such action is in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law.

  Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Release Date June 8, 2017

  Length 40,627 words

  ASIN: B071WCFFKQ

  Long Branch Books

  Shattuc, Illinois

  Disclaimers

  This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The use of any real company, organization, and/or product names is for literary effect only. All other trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.

  Titles

  by Nia Farrell

  SOMETHING ELSE

  (The Three Graces Book One)

  SOMETHING DIFFERENT

  (The Three Graces Book Two)

  SOMETHING MORE

  (The Three Graces Book Three)

  Finalist, Best BDSM Book of the Year, Ménage Category,

  2016 Golden Flogger Awards

  THE THREE GRACES TRILOGY

  SOMETHING SPECIAL

  (The Three Graces Book Six—sequel to SOMETHING ELSE)

  Nominated for Best Erotica and Best Romance,

  2016 Summer Indie Book Awards

  DARK MOONS RISING

  REPLAY BOOK 1: VIKING RAID

  Nominated for Best Erotica,

  2016 Summer Indie Book Awards

  AS WICKED AS YOU WANT

  (FOREVER OURS BOOK 1)

  Voted #1 Erotica and #10 overall,

  The 50 Best Indie Books of 2016

  Nominated for Best Historical, Best Erotica, and Best Romance,

  2016 Summer Indie Book Awards

  REPLAY BOOK 2: TRIPLE PLAY

  REPLAY BOOK 3: HONOUR BOUND

  REPLAY BOOK 4: HOOKED

  Winner, Favorite Leading Lady,

  2017 Our Book Stars Awards

  REPLAY BOOK 5: NIGHT MUSIC

  REPLAY BOOK 6: HIGHLAND FLING

  KEEPER—THE AVENGING ANGELS MC INTRODUCTION

  Titles

  by Nia Farrell and Jane Austen

  PRIDE AND PUNISHMENT

  An Erotic Retelling of Jane Austen’s Beloved Classic

  Voted Best Historical Romance,

  2017 Ménage Romance Readers Favorites

  Nominated for Best Historical, Best Erotica, and Best Romance, 2016 Summer Indie Book Awards

  and by Nia Farrell writing as Erinn Ellender Quinn

  RIDE THE WIND

  TOUCH THE WIND

  REAP THE WIND

  DARE THE WIND

  DEDICATION

  To my fellow Wicked Pens who knew my every challenge in writing this book. As of May 7th, it’s a brave new world. Let’s make the most of it!

  ~ Nia

  We are the Wicked Pens. Follow us!

  Website

  http://wickedpens.wordpress.com

  Facebook fan group

  http://www.facebook.com/groups/WickedPens

  Twitter http://twitter.com/WickedPens

  Hashtag #WPRTG

  Wicked Ways newsletter signup http://bit.ly/WickedPenNews

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Author Bio and Links

  Previous Titles

  Prologue

  Rose: It’s only a matter of time before they come for her again. Their party favor, Krissy Castellari. The Blackwater Demons MC took Miss High and Mighty five days after me. They’ll use her like a fuck toy until she’s broken, and from the crying I heard, they like to play rough.

  I’ll find out soon enough. I’d be up there with her, except that I’m the daughter of their rival and a virgin. The Demon’s president, Reaper, is saving me for his son, who’s due back any day.

  Footsteps sound on the stairs. Krissy looks wildly around the basement where they’re keeping us. Prissy Krissy never wanted anything to do with me in school. Now she’s begging me to save her. How can I, when I can’t save myself?

  It takes two of them to drag her away. Unable to watch, I focus on the basement window, good for little more than a patch of light when it’s daytime. I stare at it, and blink when I see the brilliant blue eyes of my brother’s best friend, Michael O’Flaherty. Only for a moment, then he’s gone.

  I say nothing to Krissy when they bring her back, but I cling to the memory like a lifeline, holding onto the first glimmer of hope I’ve had since being taken.

  Michael: The local mob boss Giovanni Visconti contacted me as soon as word came that his security guy was found dead behind a biker bar and the girl he’d been with—Visconti’s niece—had been taken. Krissy doesn’t know it, but there’s a tracking device in the bracelet that her uncle gave her. All well and good, except her late date took her off the grid so they could hook up, and no one in his organization knows fuck about passwords and hacking.

  Good thing that I do.

  I pinpoint her location. A few phone calls later, Mr. Visconti tells me that it’s a safehouse owned by the Blackwater Demons MC. He knows that I was in Marine RECON. He thinks I can extract her. I manage to convince him that enlisting the aid of their rivals, the Avenging Angels MC, might be his best hope for bringing her out alive. Right now, there are too many unknowns. Numbers. Weapons. Logistics—who’s where in the house. I
need to scout it out. Once I know what we’re dealing with, I’ll call him from the field.

  Depending on what I find, it may be after I’ve talked to the Vice President of the Avenging Angels, Luke “Mad Dog” McLanahan, my best friend since grade school and my brother in arms.

  I park off road and walk a mile in. There’s not a bike in sight near the two-story farmhouse. I’m guessing they’re parked in the machine shed out back. A basement window glows feebly in the dark. I focus my binoculars on it, hoping like hell that Krissy is down there.

  She is, but she isn’t alone. They’ve got Mad Dog’s little sister Rose, too. Son of a bitch.

  The girls’ heads snap at the same time. They’re hearing something. Three Demons come down the stairs. Two of them drag Krissy away. When Rose turns her head toward the window I’m watching, the hopelessness on her face is wrenching. I know I shouldn’t, but I risk it anyway. Crawling to the house, I come close enough to the small pane of glass that she fucking sees me. Only for a moment, but she knows that she’s been found. Now if we can just get them both the hell out of there….

  Chapter One

  Five days earlier….

  Rose McLanahan slipped in a CD, cranked up the volume, and settled in for a long night ahead. Balancing the books at each of the Avenging Angels MC businesses was demanding, but none more so than their tattoo parlor Angel Ink. Flynn McGee, the man running it, really needed to learn some basics. She was getting so tired of his shit, and his same old excuse.

  He was an artist, not an accountant.

  True enough. But then, neither was she, not really. She’d had high school business courses and one year of community college toward her goal of becoming a CPA. It was her dream…and her ticket out of Southern Illinois. Once she passed her exam and got her license, she could go anywhere. Champaign-Urbana. Springfield. Maybe even Chicago.

  Right.

  Taking the shoebox half-filled with paper, Rose separated out the bills from the handwritten receipts that she entered into Accounts Receivable. On the books, Angel Ink had officially had a good week. Unofficially, only a percentage of the work had been done. The rest was laundered cash that she wasn’t supposed to know about, like she was an innocent child, or a blonde bimbo whose only counting was notch posts on her bed.

  Rose didn’t have any notches. Instead, she had a mind, and she knew how to use it.

  Midnight came. Then one AM. Fucking Flynn. Paying cash for deliveries way beyond what he’d listed in receipts. She was going to have to figure up the difference and leave a note. Again.

  Next Monday, she’d be playing catchup with a pile of back-dated receipts that had miraculously appeared.

  Sighing, she went back into Accounts Receivable on the computer. Rather than write everything down, she decided to print it. She’d been too focused to restart her CD before now, but she had to admit, the music made the building seem less scary, masking the creaks and groans that came with a century-old structure.

  She was about to hit play when she heard it. A noise that didn’t belong. Men’s voices. Things crashing. She grabbed her purse, dove under the desk, pulled out her cell phone, and flipped it open. Nothing. A blank screen. Fucking battery. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck!

  Rose had been raised on the mantra, if you need help, you call on the Angels. Dialing 911 would have the law sticking their fucking noses in where they didn’t belong. She might be able to punch three numbers and hide again. Calling the clubhouse, waiting for someone to answer, then they’d want to wake her dad…no, she’d be exposed to whatever was coming down the hall.

  She reached in again for her last, best hope—the Sig Sauer P290RS 9 mm that she carried in her purse. It had eight rounds of takedown power in the extended clip. Depending on how they were clustered, she could probably take out two, maybe three of them before they got to her, but whoever was left would make her pay, and dearly.

  Either way, she was fucked.

  The door crashed open. Men came in, wearing heavy boots and accompanied by the smell of gasoline. File drawers were opened. They laughed as they poured. “All of it,” one of them said. “Otherwise Reaper and Mojo will have our asses.”

  Mother fuck. They were Blackwater Demons. Reaper and Mojo were the club’s President and Sergeant at Arms. Her only hope now was that they wouldn’t find her, and that she’d somehow escape the fire they were planning to set. Barring that, it would be the security system footage to show her family who had her.

  A quick glance behind the desk, and she saw a blank screen taunting her. Someone had probably turned it off for a late-night session of kink and ink and had forgotten to turn it back on.

  Fucking Flynn.

  “Come on,” one of them barked. “Every room needs doused. Once we torch it, we can pick up a party favor.”

  “Or two,” said another. “Bad enough, I gotta go last. I need me some ass. The sooner, the better.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Drill ‘em and fill ‘em. Snake, how’s come you don’t never tell them what else you’re givin’ ‘em?”

  “‘Cause it don’t matter, Bull,” he laughed. “Ain’t none of ‘em gonna live long enough for the symptoms to show.”

  Oh, God.

  Hands trembling, Rose pressed her shaking fingers to her lips, squeezed shut her eyes, and silently prayed for deliverance. Footsteps sounded, headed for the door.

  God’s answer must have been not yet¸ because the next thing she saw was a scuffed pair of biker boots and the meaty fist that dragged her out by the hair and pulled her to a stand. Her purse was stripped away by someone with a weasel’s sharp face and a lean, wiry body, deceptively strong.

  Neither of them was wearing a cut.

  “Bull!” Weasel called. “We found our party favor! Lookee here!” Plopping her purse on the gas-soaked desk, he pulled out her billfold and opened it up. “No fucking way!” he crowed. “Hey, Bull!” he yelled towards the opened office door. “We got fucking Rose McLanahan! The Avenging Angels’ Little Princess! What’s your daddy thinking, girl? Letting you out of the compound this late at night? Papa Bear needs to keep better track of his cub. Guess he’ll learn, won’t he?”

  “What the—” A burly biker stopped just inside the door, the scowl on his face morphing into something much more frightening. “Goddamn,” he whistled, sweeping her with a lecher’s gaze from her head down to her toes and back up to fasten on her almost-C-cup breasts. “Let’s hurry the fuck up and get the hell out of here. Reaper will want first crack at this one. I’m calling seconds.”

  “What the fuck?” This, from the beefy one fisting her hair.

  “I’m in charge of this operation, Tank. I get next go, once he’s done with her. God knows how long that will be. Not every day he gets an Angel to warm his bed. The President’s daughter, no less. Tie her up, tape that mouth, and get a fucking blindfold on her. Be quick about it, Maggot. We shoulda been gone by now.”

  Maggot—the weasely one, probably a prospect, with a name like that—cursed beneath his breath.

  He used packing tape to bind her wrists in front of her. When it didn’t want to stick to the skin of her face, he wound it completely around her head. Taking a crumpled bandana from his back pocket, he shook it out, folded it into a triangle, and covered her eyes, pulling it tight before tying a knot at the back of her head.

  The excess fabric hanging over her nose reeked of stale sweat and chewing tobacco. The cage that they shoved her into didn’t smell much better.

  “On your knees, girl,” Tank growled. “Ain’t that how they do it in your club? Have you crawl and beg for whips and chains and all that kinky stuff? Let me tell you something, girlie. Real men don’t need that shit. Only toy we need is a fuck toy. Any party favor comes into our club, she’s in for the ride of her life. A one-way ticket to paradise if you’re lucky…or the highway to hell if you’re not.”

  Oh, God.

  Rose did as he ordered, sinking to her knees in a version of the pose that she’d seen countless times. He was right. The
women in their club, from old ladies to sweetbutts, were submissive to whatever club member they were with. She didn’t belong to anyone yet, but her dad and four older brothers had always ensured that she was as protected as if she wore a P.O. patch.

  Except they weren’t here.

  And she was going God knew where, in a van full of Demons, headed for the worst one of all.

  She could only pray for mercy and the strength to face whatever was ahead with dignity and grace.

  Chapter Two

  They didn’t take her to their clubhouse. The Blackwater Demon’s compound was only twenty minutes from town. Instead, they drove more than twice that far, finally turning onto a gravel drive and following it for another half mile before pulling to a stop.

  The van’s side door slid open. Beefy hands grabbed her biceps and pulled, knocking her off balance and dragging her out. It was sheer luck that she landed on her feet.

  Through the bandana, she could smell a field of fresh-cut wheat. Farm country. Fuck. She could be anywhere, in any direction. Even if she managed to escape, she was miles from nowhere, with no clue where to go from here. She’d once gotten lost hiking in Shawnee National Forest and spent the night covered in leaves for warmth. Knowing her luck, she’d go so far, she’d never get out. Two years from now, she’d be the human remains in the feature story on the local evening news.

  Fuck. Fuck. Mother fuck.

  Tank tugged on her arm and pulled her after him. “Steps,” he huffed, too late to keep her from falling.

  Rose landed on concrete. Pain burst where the front edges caught her denim-covered shins and her bare forearms. The Demons laughed. Not expecting any help, she pushed herself up and slid one foot forward, feeling for the first step, and the next, and the next. She shuffled across the wide board porch, hoping to find the door sill and avoid tripping again. She’d already done enough damage to that fair Irish skin of hers.