Seven Crows

Book 1: A Killian Delaney Novel

by Kate Kessler

Genres: Action & Adventure; Amateur Sleuth; Female Sleuths; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

An ex-con tracks down the men who have kidnapped her niece in this gritty and visceral thriller. Killian Delaney has a skewed moral compass, a high threshold for pain, and has just been released from prison to discover that someone has taken her niece. Killian does not hesitate. Loyalty is the most important thing in her life, and when she gets a call from her sister saying that her daughter is missing, Killian immediately begins hunting down the men responsible. She quickly discovers her niece was involved with a notorious biker gang who are engaged in everything from drugs to human trafficking. And to make it worse, the man who sent Killian to jail, the one she nearly beat to death, is at the center of it all. To save her niece, she'll need a plan. A smart, quick, and efficient one. Because she's going to do it right this time. She'll burn them to the ground. For more from Kate Kessler, check out: The Killian Delaney Novels: Seven Crows Call of Vultures The Audrey Harte Novels: It Takes One Two Can Play Three Strikes Four of a Kind Zero Hour (novella) Dead Ringer

Release date: October 8, 2019

Publisher: Redhook

Print pages: 385

Sample

One

The phone rang at four A.M., jolting Killian Delaney violently awake. Squinting at the bright screen, she grabbed the cell and brought it to her ear. “What?” she growled, the taste of whiskey clinging to the back of her throat.

“Aunt Killy.”

She sat upright at the voice. “Shannon? What’s wrong?”

Her niece—her fifteen-year-old niece who should be at home and in bed—made a small noise, like a rabbit. “Can you come get me?”

Deep breath. Her pounding heart had already shoved enough blood to her brain to clear the fog of too much booze and too little sleep. “Where are you?”

“New Britain.” She quickly whispered an address. “Please, hurry.”

“I’m on my way.” Killian hung up, threw back the blankets, and leapt out of bed. The scarred wooden floor was cold beneath her feet, but she barely noticed as she grabbed her bra from the footboard and pulled it on over her head. The parking lot lights illuminated the room with a watery yellow light that reminded her of prison in an oddly comforting way.

“What’s up?” the guy she’d brought home with her mumbled against the pillow. He was young and pretty and thought he was a better lay than he actually was, but then young, pretty boys usually did. She should have known better than to respond to his flirting, but she’d wanted a warm body and he’d offered his up for the taking.

She snatched his jeans off the floor and threw them at him. “Get out.”

He lifted his head, looking at her in surprise. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously.” She pulled on her leggings and grabbed her socks from under the bed. “I’ve got someplace to be. You’ve got two minutes.”

He rolled onto his side, revealing his shaved chest and sculpted abs. “You’re a cold bitch, you know that?”

“It’s been mentioned before in conversation.” One of her socks was twisted weirdly. She jerked it around so the heel was in the right spot. “One minute, or I start throwing your shit out into the hall.” She pulled on a sweater and went to grab her boots. Behind her she could hear him swearing. If he called her a bitch again she was going to make sure he pissed blood for the next two days.

By the time she finished tying her laces the guy was gone. Killian didn’t even bother picking up the condom wrapper from the floor before she left. She grabbed her keys and headed out. She supposed she could have offered her hookup a ride, but if he was old enough to troll clubs for sex, he was old enough to get himself home. She had to get to New Britain. It was a fifteen-minute drive normally. She could make it in ten or under, but a lot could happen in ten minutes. A lot of terrible things.

She’d never heard that kind of fear in Shannon’s voice before. Usually the teenager was confident, sometimes even boisterous. Megan, Killian’s sister, was always getting after the kid for having too much swagger. She wanted her daughter to have less ego. Sometimes Killian wanted to remind Meg that the world would dent Shannon’s self-worth soon enough. She didn’t have to wish it on her. She didn’t say it, though. It wasn’t her place.

At least if Shannon was in real trouble, she had the sense to call. That was good. When Killian had been the same age she’d thought she could handle everything on her own. She’d learned the hard way that she couldn’t, and she’d been a helluva lot tougher than Shannon.

She buttoned her coat as she stepped outside. It’d rained earlier, leaving the air heavy with the smell of wet pavement and damp leaves. One of the kids in her building had carved a jack-o’-lantern and put it out on the front step. Its eyes were lopsided and it had a gap-toothed grin that reminded her of a guard she’d once taken a swing at. She resisted the urge to kick it.

It was eerily quiet as she crossed the lot to her car. The cherry-red Impala shone in the light. If things ever went south, all she had to do was get behind the wheel and drive—go somewhere and start over. Freedom, that’s what the car was. Her keys jangled in the lock, every noise amplified by the dampness in the air. Behind the wheel, she leaned her head back against the leather seat and drew another deep breath. Worry was a useless emotion. It got in the way of doing what needed to be done. Made you hesitate—which got you knocked on your ass. That’s what her coach always said when she was nervous before a fight. You just had to focus on the goal and stay focused until you knocked out your opponent.

She exhaled and started the engine. The car came to life with a deep rumble that soothed her nerves and helped her gain that focus.

There was hardly any traffic on the streets. Killian drove as fast as she dared. A woman only a couple of months out of prison couldn’t afford to get pulled over. As she rolled up to a red light, she tapped her thumb against the steering wheel impatiently. Every instinct told her to run it. Her foot practically itched to push the gas pedal fast and hard.

“Come on.” What the fuck was it waiting for, Halloween?

The light went green. Her foot came down and the Impala lunged forward, roaring in gratification. The car was older than she was, but twice as dependable, and she thought maybe it had missed her just as much as she’d missed it.

She took Route 9 to New Britain. From there she had to depend on the GPS on her phone to find the right place. It was a dingy two-story in a not-so-great part of town. The front porch was sagging and in need of paint, and there were bedsheets hung in the upstairs windows in lieu of curtains. She parked behind a battered Toyota and climbed out. Someone was having a party—she could smell pot from the street.

The bass line of whatever music they were listening to was so heavy she could feel it beneath her feet as she walked up the short drive. She smirked at the bright white-and-red crotch rocket parked near the steps. Jason—her first and only love—would have offered up a complete psych profile of the owner with all the confidence of a true gearhead, but all she could think was that it was ugly. Like a Lego toy or something a toddler had drawn. She couldn’t imagine riding one, let alone owning it.

The worn soles of her boots scuffed against the rotting wood of the porch that dipped with every step. She rang the doorbell and waited. No one answered. Killian opened the screen door and tried the knob—it turned without resistance. She hesitated at the threshold. Was she breaking any laws by going in? Was she breaking parole just being there?

Didn’t matter.

The first thing that hit her when she walked into the house—other than the horribly loud music—was the wall of smoke. Cigarettes and grass—maybe a little crack tossed in. The back of her throat burned, as if it had forgotten she used to enjoy inhaling shit into her lungs. The kitchen was a mess, the counter and table littered with beer bottles, take-out boxes, and ashtrays. The place was a friggin’ luxury hotel for roaches.

Bodies were everywhere—some still conscious, and all young. They sagged against walls, slumped in chairs, or lounged on the dirty floor. A few gave her unfocused but suspicious glances as she walked by. None of them were a threat, so she kept moving, deeper into the house. Was this some kind of trap house?

She walked into the living room. More people were sprawled across couches and chairs. Beer cans and liquor bottles littered the stained carpet. Ashtrays overflowed. Someone passed a water pipe to the person next to them on a sofa. And in the middle of this tribute to bacchanalian ritual sat Shannon. Her heavy eyeliner had started to melt, and her lipstick was smeared. She looked like she’d been drinking. If that was all she’d been doing, then halle-fucking-lujah.

Killian walked up to her, aware that everyone in the room had by now noticed her presence.

“Who are you?” a guy with dreads asked, turning down the music.

None of them looked to be much of a concern, but she was on guard regardless. She pointed at Shannon. “I’m here for her.”

“Aunt Killy!” The girl jumped to her feet but was stopped from moving when another guy grabbed her arm. He was skinny but ripped, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. His head was shaved close and his sideburns sculpted into sharp slopes. A tattoo of a jaguar head decorated his right shoulder. Cliché much?

“You’re not leaving,” he said, tongue drunkenly thick.

Shannon looked at her aunt, her blue eyes pleading. God, she was beautiful—that wild hair and dark skin. Every time Killian saw her, she was more gorgeous than she had been the time before. Sometimes it almost hurt to look at her. This was one of those times.

“Yeah, bud, she is,” she said, placing her hand over his. Her knuckles were scarred, the back of her hand decorated with a faded tattoo of the Om symbol. In comparison the boy was so very pale—almost like snow. His fingers were stained yellow, his knuckles chafed and red. She applied gentle but firm pressure, her gaze locked with his. With him sitting, she had the height advantage, but that would change if he stood. She wasn’t afraid—even an idiot could see that. “Let her go.”

He did. Shannon looked surprised but didn’t hang around to see if he changed his mind. She grabbed her aunt’s arm and pulled her toward the exit like the place was on fire. Killian stepped on a beer can.

“Fucking cunt!” the boy yelled. “Just going to leave me here? I said I was sorry!”

That was when Killian noticed the welt on Shannon’s face. Her hair had hidden it before. Little asshole had hit her. Shrugging out of the girl’s grip, she turned around.

“Aunt Killy,” Shannon said. “It’s okay.”

But Killian was already moving. She seized the kid by the elbow and hauled him to his feet. He looked surprised to find himself standing. He had spit on his chin. “Did you hit her?”

“Shit,” she heard a girl say. “Is she the aunt?”

“Yeah,” Shannon replied. “She is.” There was pride in her voice—as if Killian deserved it. The kid read too many urban books.

“Hell, Cody,” the girl singsonged. “You gonna get your ass kicked now, son!”

Killian shot her a dark glance, even though the kid had probably just stopped her from doing something stupid—something parole breaking. She shoved Cody back into his seat. “Don’t touch her again, got it? She’s off-limits for you.” The words tasted bad in her mouth. She wanted to leave a few marks of her own, but there were too many witnesses who could put her ass back in prison for trying to teach him a lesson he’d never learn.

Cody muttered something, but she didn’t ask him to repeat it. Instead she turned on her heel and marched to where Shannon stood. Was the kid relieved that she hadn’t resorted to violence, or disappointed? “Go,” she said.

The girl did as she was told. As they approached the Impala, the roar of choppers overpowered the music. Three bikes rolled into the driveway. It wasn’t the machines that made her heart jump into her throat, but the man who took point over the other two. She hadn’t seen his face in a long time.

“Get in the fucking car,” she told Shannon, her jaw clenched. “Now!” The bike engines died, spiking her adrenaline even more. She could take one of them, maybe two if they weren’t carrying, but she couldn’t take all three. Not without a weapon or two of her own.

The man turned just as Shannon stepped into the car. He looked as surprised to see Killian as she was to see him. Wex—she didn’t know his last name—led the Sons of Bitches, a motorcycle club that was as white as it was dirty. You couldn’t be a member if you weren’t 95 percent Caucasian or higher, and you had to have killed someone—usually someone of the club’s choosing.

They’d chosen Jason to be Wex’s initiation.

“I’ll be damned,” he drawled with a slight grin.

Killian’s fists tightened. If only she had a gun. If only they were somewhere more private. Instead she had to settle for glaring at him, then got into the car and slammed the door. She didn’t even bother with her seat belt before starting the engine and pushing hard on the gas. Shannon slammed back against her seat as they tore away, tires screaming.

“The fuck?” The girl weaved drunkenly.

“Who the hell are you running with?” Killian demanded, checking the rearview just to make sure they weren’t followed. Her heart hammered, not with fear but with anticipation. The idea of revenge hadn’t occurred to her in a long time, but now…now it was tickling her again.

“What d’you mean?”

“Those were gangbangers, Shan. Bad fucking news. Who the fuck do you know who’s doing business with them?”

The girl shrugged, just drunk enough to be unaffected. “I dunno. Rafe, I guess. That’s his house.”

“Yeah, well, you stay away from Rafe from now on. And who was that fucking douche you were with?”

“Cody.” Her head lolled as she smiled. “Y’know, for a minute I thought you were going to hit him.”

“For a minute I was,” Killian replied as they rolled up to a red light. “But I’m not going back in for that little prick. Tell me he’s not your boyfriend.”

Shannon ducked her head.

“Beautiful fucking choice,” Killian drawled. “Really great guy. Just sayin’.”

“He’s never hit me before.”

“Well, now that he’s started, don’t count on him stopping.” Just thinking about it made her fingers tighten on the steering wheel. She didn’t just want to hit the little sack of shit; she wanted to kill him for laying hands on Shannon. “You’re done with him, understand?” If the violence wasn’t enough of a reason, his connections to the SOBs were.

“Yeah.” The girl nodded. Her eyelids drooped. “You’re not going to tell Mom, are you?”

Sigh. Was that really Shannon’s worst-case scenario? Jesus. To be that young and stupid. “Where does she think you are?”

“At Madallya’s.”

Killian tossed her a quick glance. “You can crash at my place and I’ll take you home later.” Covering for the kid wouldn’t win her points with Megan, but Shannon’s trust was more important.

“Thanks.”

She pulled onto the on-ramp. “You know, your mother deserves better than to be lied to.” Her sister was a good mother—the best.

“Did you ever lie to your mother?” Shannon asked—smart-ass.

“All the fucking time.” She pressed down on the gas and smirked at the girl. “And hey, look how awesome I turned out.”

Killian let Shannon have the bed. Of course the brat found the Trojan wrapper on the floor. Her pert nose wrinkled. “Ew.”

“Get over it.” Killian dropped the wrapper into the small garbage can she set beside the bed. “If you’re going to puke, do it in this.”

“I’m not gonna puke,” the girl argued. A watery burp followed.

Killian raised a brow. “Mm.” She moved the can a little closer with her toe before grabbing a blanket for herself and heading to the living room. She curled up in the old recliner she’d picked up at the Goodwill. As soon as she closed her eyes she crashed, and she didn’t wake up until bright sunshine cracked her eyelids.

Her apartment wasn’t much, but it had large bow windows that she sometimes liked to sit in to read a book or listen to music. They let in a lot of light, something she’d appreciated since her release. She hadn’t gotten around to buying blinds for them. Maybe she never would. Windows were one of those things most people took for granted.

Shannon was still asleep—snoring softly in the other room—so Killian pulled her hair into a messy bun, shoved her feet into her old sneakers, grabbed her phone and earbuds, and went for a run. No one would know she’d slept in the clothes she wore. No one would care. It was a beautiful October Saturday and she still wasn’t used to being able to go outside whenever she wanted and feel the sun on her face. It was nice. And strange. And sometimes a little scary. Her nerves jangled as she warmed up. Her calves protested for a moment, then eased into the run as her muscles warmed. She picked up the pace.

There was a park not far from her apartment. She liked to work out on the playground equipment if there weren’t a lot of kids around, which there weren’t at eight o’clock in the morning. She hung by her knees from the monkey bars and did several sets of curl-ups before switching to pull-ups on the same structure. Sweat trickled down the side of her face as she worked her muscles until they burned and protested and her head buzzed with the high.

Killian had been fourteen when she discovered that strength made her feel safe. That it burned through the rage that so often filled her. She spent all of her free time going to martial arts classes and sparring with Jason and Dash. She’d met them in juvy when she was twelve and they were fifteen. It had been Dash who got her into MMA fighting, but it was Jason who gave her the confidence to chase being a champion. That dream died right around the same time he did. She still loved it, though. Took comfort in being capable of violence.

After her workout she ran back to the apartment. When she walked in the door, sated and damp, Shannon was sitting on the lumpy couch, drinking coffee and watching videos on her phone.

“It’s still hot,” she said, holding up her mug as she kept her eyes glued to the screen.

“Have you eaten?” Killian asked, swiping the back of her hand across her forehead.

“All you have in your fridge is yogurt, fruit, and some raw meat. No, I haven’t eaten.”

Killian rolled her eyes. “Let me shower, then we’ll get breakfast.”

Twenty minutes later they were at a local diner. Shannon had French toast and sausage while Killian had an omelet and two sides of bacon with a side of fruit. As soon as the plate was set in front of her, she began shoveling food into her mouth.

“You eat like a trucker,” Shannon commented with a slight edge of disgust.

“I eat like an ex-con.” Head down, food in mouth. “But I’m also starving.”

“I guess it takes a lot of protein or whatever to have arms like that.”

Killian glanced up at her. “It takes a lot of work to have arms like this.”

“How’d you get that scar?”

She didn’t have to look to know which one the kid meant. “Plastic spoon sharpened to a point.”

“Someone slashed you with a spoon? Why?”

Killian reached for her coffee. “Said she didn’t like my face. She was going for my eyes, but I got my arm up.” The woman had meant to kill her, but Shannon didn’t need to know that. As she took a sip from her cup, the girl’s phone chimed for the fourth time since they’d sat down. “That him again?”

Shannon turned the phone over so neither of them could see the screen. “He says he’s sorry.”

“Yeah, that’s what usually happens when they sober up. He’ll be sorry next time, too.”

“You don’t even know him,” the girl replied, unsurprisingly defensive. They always defended the guy.

“I’ve been hit by a lot of guys.” Killian crunched on a piece of bacon. “I never defended them. And none of them were really sorry.”

“Yeah?” Shannon’s jaw tightened. “Did you eat a lot of pussy while you were in prison?”

Killian laughed at her choice of deflection. That was the number one question she got asked—in one form or another—when anyone found out she’d done time. “If the idea of me being gay for the stay is worse to you than getting beaten up by your boyfriend, you are one seriously fucked-up kid.”

The guy in the booth next to them turned his head. He smelled like beer and vomit, and it was obvious from his unfocused, bloodshot eyes that he was still drunk. “Did you eat a lot of pussy in prison?” he asked. He had egg yolk stuck to his lip.

She smirked at him, leaning in as though she was going to share a secret. “No, but I got mine licked whenever I wanted. Now go back to your sad hash browns and mind your own fucking business.”

“Oh my God,” Shannon lamented, hiding her face. “Can we go now?”

“I’m not done with my breakfast,” Killian replied. She arched a brow at their eavesdropper until he did indeed close his mouth and go back to his own plate before she returned her attention to her food.

Maybe she ought to apologize to the kid, but Shannon needed a gentle reminder which one of them was dominant in their relationship. In prison you either ran the pack or were possibly prey for it. Killian had not spent nine years fighting to be the former to give it up to a fifteen-year-old, no matter how much she loved her. And she wasn’t ashamed of getting much-needed human connection from other women.

She didn’t make Shannon suffer for long. Killian ate a bit more, then paid the bill and they left. Shannon didn’t speak to her for the entire drive home, which was fine by her. Sometimes the kid talked too much. She filled the air with chatter until it hung there like perfume, leaving Killian unable to recall most of it. Maybe she’d been like that at one time, but she couldn’t remember.

Her sister, Megan, and her husband lived in a decent neighborhood in Plainville—nothing fancy, but the yards were clean and looked after, and the houses were in good repair. It was the sort of neighborhood where maybe people didn’t have a lot of money, but they had pride and took care of what was theirs. Killian respected that. They’d lived in that kind of neighborhood with Aunt Kathleen when she and Killian’s mother, both freshly divorced, decided to rent a house together. Megan had already gone away to college at that point, but Killian was glad to be rid of her stepfather. Glad to have a bedroom door that locked. She’d had the best sleep of her life in that house.

“You’re welcome,” she said—pointedly—as the girl opened the Impala door.

Shannon stopped, turned, and kissed Killian on the cheek. Killian melted inside. “Thank you. You better come in. Mom will freak if you don’t.”

“What do you want me to tell her?”

“I guess I called you this morning and you offered to pick me up? It’s kinda the truth.”

“Close enough.”

Killian followed her into the house, watched as she greeted her mother, who was rolling out piecrust, then spun her tale and bounded up the stairs to get a shower. Killian’s younger niece, Willow, was playing Barbies in the living room, and Shannon said hello to her as she hurried past. The little girl didn’t look up from her play but called out hi.

Cameron, Megan’s husband, walked into the room. He was tall and lean, with a shaved head and blue eyes that stood out against his dark skin. He was in the military and was due to ship out that week. Megan looked at him like she missed him already.

“Hey, Kiki,” he said, coming up to give her a kiss on the cheek. “How’s my second-favorite Delaney sister?”

Killian smiled. “Doing all right. You?”

“Gettin’ in my quota of tea parties and Barbie dolls before I ship out.” He held up a hand to reveal nails painted a very bright, very messy pink. “I’m in touch with my feminine side.”

“Mm,” Megan commented as she placed the sheet of dough over a pie plate full of apples covered in cinnamon and sugar. “Now I know why I never seem to have clean underwear—my husband’s wearin’ them.”

He grinned at her and smacked her on the ass as he went to the refrigerator. “You don’t have any underwear ’cause I like you better out of ’em.”

“Okay.” Killian held up her hands. “TMI.”

Cameron grabbed a can of Coke and turned to her, still smiling. “Guess who I saw yesterday?” He didn’t make her actually guess. “Dash Clark.”

Killian’s stomach tightened at the sound of his name. Dash. Her Dash? She hadn’t seen him in years. He had visited her in prison a couple of times but she told him to never come back—he listened. “How’s he doing?”

“Good.” He popped the tab. “Running his own business now.”

“He left the Crows?” She couldn’t believe it. Dash had thought of the motorcycle club the same way Jason had—as family. He’d been a legacy. His father had been part of the MC until he got shot when Dash was a kid. The Crows took care of him, his siblings, and his mother. Yeah, they’d been into some sketchy stuff, but they took care of their own.

“Far as I know they’re still friendly. I imagine they got fingers in his setup.”

“What’s he doing?” Not that she was interested or anything.

“Custom cars—real sick ones. Had a couple of celebrity sales and now he can’t keep up.” Cam shook his head. “Sure wish I could afford him. The man puts together some sweet rides.”

He sure as shit did. One of them was parked in the drive right now. That car had been one of the few things that kept her going after Jason’s death. Dash had made sure she’d been involved in the process—made her work on it with him even though she had no idea what she was doing.

And now Dash was legit. Huh. Well, if any of them was going to come out of life with something to show for it, it was him. He’d always looked beyond the club—which was the preferred term over gang—beyond what other people saw. He’d seen more in her than anyone else ever had, Jason included. That was why she got to a point where she couldn’t stand to sit across a table from him. “Good for him.”

Cam’s expression became more guarded. He glanced down at the can in his hand, then back to her. “He asked me to tell you that he’s usually around if you ever want to swing by.”

“What’s the name of his place?” Not so she could stop by, but so she could avoid it. Dash was one of the last people she wanted to see. Too much history. Too much resentment. Too much everything. She liked to keep her emotions muted these days, and Dash knew her too well for that to happen.

“Black Crow Builds in Newington.”

She’d noticed the place before. It wasn’t far from her apartment. Nice setup. And a quaint little shout-out to his roots. “Thanks.”

Her brother-in-law touched the soda can to his forehead in a salute and sauntered back into the living room just as Willow yelled for his return. The sisters watched him leave before slowly turning their attention back to one another.

“Does that girl honestly think I wouldn’t smell beer and weed . . .