Page 1 of Finn

PROLOGUE

FINN

It was rough when my Dad crossed over to the other side.

Five years ago, and it still felt like it happened yesterday. He was shot in cold blood protecting his brothers in the MC. His death rendered me a walking zombie for a year.

He'd taught me everything I knew. I was born into the motorcycle world—hell, I was even conceived there according to my mother. "Your father, he doesn't mind the backseat of a car. It's his favorite place, that motorcycle warehouse… we had some good times in there." She'd smirked, kissing the top of my father's head. Dad still had a full head of hair right up until he was killed. He was my idol then, and he still is.

My father had earned the affectionate term of 'bulldog.' He was built solidly, and if he was after something, he pursued it relentlessly—one that would rip you to shreds, especially rival clubs.

The funeral was phenomenal. Small and intimate with both tears and celebration. He would have wanted us all dancing and drinking beer.

The community of bikers in Edgewood loved my father; he'd done a lot for them. He gave back to the street kids, helpedwomen get out of the strip clubs earlier by giving them 'runs' to do. He employed locals at the shop to help them get their mechanic's license. He and Pops hand-picked most of the crew, and I recruited Shaggy and Quicks later on. All the knowledge he held was passed on to me.

When he passed, I became Sgt. At Arms, and the boys all respected that. My sweet mother eventually remarried, and I approved. Clive was a good guy for her. Not as much hair as Dad, but a normal, steady man. She told me once, "Now I can sleep a little better at night. I don't have to worry that Clive's out there doing God knows what. Now I just have you to worry about."

Clive was definitely a good guy, and he obviously loved my mother. "I'm never going to try and replace your father, but I will be here for you like him." I appreciated that, and we got along pretty well.

The war with the Devils started years back when they attempted to snatch up one of our prospects. They were successful, and the stupid fucker joined the second-rate Devils of Destruction. They had more members, but as far as I was concerned it was just padding. We had more street cred and longevity in Edgewood.

Small incidents between us started to flare up tensions as they began their drug operation. Some of their boys were getting high off their own supply and made several attempts to break into our warehouse and steal our gun stash. Every time we blocked them, but they kept coming like gnats buzzing around stale food. So now they were on our radar and needed more attention.

Other smaller clubs existed around New Mexico, but none with our firepower and resources. We were known as one of the most notorious clubs in the region—and it would stay that way.

1

FINN

I hammered down on the throttle, feeling my bike punch forward. Mitch, my enforcer, flanked my left side with the other Guardians in single file behind on my command.

We were flying on I-40 in Albuquerque, New Mexico. We'd just hauled ass through the back streets, dodging civilians and cars. I knew we would pay for it. Wrapped around my face was my black and white bandanna, tied low against my mouth to avoid the exhaust fumes and being recognized if cops came into the mix.

Vengeance was running a highlight reel in my mind as my bike responded, providing the speed I craved.

My eyes were laser-focused like an owl's in the night. All I could hear was the thunder of bikes on the open road.

One of the Devils of Destruction members tried to crunch out Axle. He met the challenge, bumping the rider to the side of the road. The Devil's bike slid out from under him—I caught a glimpse of metal grinding against asphalt in my side mirror.

My mind stayed focused on the main lead of the pack. The one who put my cousin Jessica in a coma. Ice ran through my veins. I wanted to end this fucker's life. He had some yardson me, but I was gaining. Two other Devils rode up ahead, protecting him.

The cool night air was like a ghost's breath across my face. I was banking on my Harley giving me enough thrust to catch the motherfuckers. The bastards had found the hiding spot for our artillery. I cursed under my breath. Pops, the club president, was going to have a fit.

The tar road was clear as my high beams hit the chrome of the perpetrators ahead. I had two in my sights. I was strapped, and if I got in range I planned to take them out. Tonight, I wanted blood.

Hawk, my road captain, squeezed off a shot to my left. It must not have hit—the riders kept moving at pace along the highway. They were edging away. I grimaced and waved my heavily tattooed arm to the crew in a forward motion.

I joined Hawk in one last shot, watching one of the Devils dodge the bullet by maneuvering his bike to the side. I clenched my jaw. Fuck!

Taking the shot had slowed me down. I shook my head as I held my hand high with my palm out. It was the stop signal. There was a long stretch of dark road ahead and we weren't gaining. We were losing valuable speed and time. Blood pulsed through my body, flooding my eardrums. The kill shot wasn't happening tonight.

Nobody was on the road except us. I let them ride off into the night, disappointed. I eased my bike to low speed and the rest of the crew followed suit. We brought our bikes to a stop on the side of the road, keeping an eye out for rattlesnakes, which were pretty common out here at night.

"Motherfuckers!" Hawk screamed, veins standing out on his neck with his rage.

"I second that," I growled. "Let's hit the clubhouse. We need to work out a plan." I led the boys back out onto the road in the pitch darkness, fuming.

Luckily, the Devils hadn't been able to steal any goods. We had a pretty solid alarm system, but not solid enough to stop them from trying.