Locked By the Treasurer (Broken Halos MC #8)

Chapter 1 Mia

MIA

My check engine light is a passive-aggressive little jerk.

It flickers on just as I pass the rusted sign welcoming me to Pine Valley.

It’s mocking me. It knows my bank account holds exactly three hundred dollars and twelve cents.

It knows I’m running on straight caffeine and a half-eaten bag of stale pretzels.

The dashboard warning clearly understands that my entire career as a forensic auditor—my meticulous, spreadsheet-governed life—just went up in flames three hundred miles back in Seattle.

"Don't you dare," I whisper to the steering wheel. "I will turn this Honda Civic into a planter. I will do it."

The engine sputters in response. The wet, coughing sound absolutely destroys my remaining confidence.

Snow swirls against the windshield, smearing in thick clumps.

The wipers squeak a rhythm matching the frantic thumping in my chest. My fingers cramp around the wheel.

I need this job. The email from Peak Wilderness Outfitters remained vague, asking for a consultant to review sensitive discrepancies, but the pay rate made my eyes water.

I desperately need the money. The distraction is a close second. The FBI raided my last client’s office the day after I signed off on their quarterly projections.

A siren wails behind me.

My stomach drops through the floorboard and hits the asphalt.

"No," I breathe. "No, no, no."

Blue and red lights explode in the rearview mirror. Frantic, seizure-inducing strobes demand my immediate compliance.

I pull over to the shoulder, the gravel crunching loudly under my tires. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Breathe, Mia. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re the auditor. You fix the mess; you don’t make it.

Two vehicles box me in—a dark sedan in the front, an SUV blocking the rear. Men in cheap suits and windbreakers swarm the dying Honda.

"Mia Carlson!" The man at my window barks the name. His buzz cut exposes raw scalp above flat, dark brown eyes. "Step out of the vehicle."

"Why?" I force my shaking voice to steady. "I was doing thirty-five in a forty limit."

"Step out of the vehicle now, or we remove you."

He yanks the door open before I can unbuckle. Cold mountain air rushes in, smelling of exhaust and snow. He grabs my arm.

"Hey!" I twist away, instinct taking over. "Let go! You can't just—"

"Federal Agents. You're under arrest for conspiracy to commit wire fraud and embezzlement."

The accusations ring in my ears.

"That's insane," I snap, stumbling as he drags me onto the slushy shoulder. "I’m a forensic auditor. I catch the fraud. I don't commit it. Check my credentials. Check my—"

"We checked," Buzz Cut sneers. He spins me around, shoving me against the freezing metal of my own car. "Your signature is on the approval docs for the shell companies in the Sterling case."

"My signature was forged!" I yell, acidic panic rising in my throat. "I reported that discrepancy two days ago!"

"Tell it to the judge." Cold steel cuffs bite into my wrists, ratcheting tight as he jerks my hands in front of my stomach. "You're coming with us."

"This is a mistake!" I shout, thrashing against his grip.

Heat flares in my chest, a violent contrast to the mountain air.

Hot tears of frustration sting my eyes. I spent ten years building an ironclad reputation for being unbribable.

Now, a stranger manhandles me on the shoulder of a narrow two-lane mountain road because my ex-boss needs a convenient scapegoat.

"Get her in the car," Buzz Cut orders the other agent.

A low rumble vibrates through the soles of my boots.

A mechanical growl shakes the snowflakes out of the air, deeper than any thunder. A behemoth of matte black steel tears around the bend, roaring toward us while taking up both lanes of the narrow road.

Buzz Cut freezes. "What the hell?"

The truck screeches to a halt ten feet away, angling sharply to block the road entirely. The heavy-duty brush guard reinforcing the grill looks perfectly capable of punching through a brick wall.

The driver’s door opens.

A heavy black leather boot hits the pavement.

The man unfolding from the cab is an absolute mountain. Broad shoulders fill out a black leather cut worn over a thick gray hoodie. Towering and solid, he moves with a terrifying, efficient silence.

He walks toward us, ignoring the agents and the guns they’ve instinctively reached for. Shadows cling to the hard angles of his face, drawing attention to a closely trimmed dark beard and eyes the exact color of a winter storm.

He is a walking, breathing threat.

"Step back, sir!" Buzz Cut yells, resting his hand on his holster. "Federal operation!"

The giant continues his steady approach without blinking. Halting right in front of the agent holding me, his gaze drops to the handcuffs on my wrists. A muscle feathers in his cheek.

"You're blocking the road," the giant says. His voice carries a heavy, gravelly weight that makes the very air feel thicker.

"We have a suspect in custody," Buzz Cut says, puffing his chest out. "Move your truck."

The giant shifts his gaze to me.

The world drops out from under me. Panic fades into buzzing static. His eyes lock onto mine, pinning me in place under cold, terrifying focus.

"State your name," he commands.

"Mia," I squeak. I clear my throat. "Mia Carlson."

His heavy brow dips. "You're the auditor."

"I… yes. I was hired by Peak Wilderness Outfitters."

He turns back to the agent. "She's employed by the Broken Halos Motorcycle Club."

Buzz Cut laughs, producing a nervous, ugly sound. "I don't care who she works for. She's going to federal prison."

Stepping closer, the giant invades the agent's personal space with the ease of a man who owns the pavement beneath his boots. "You're three miles outside city limits. You didn't clear this with the Sheriff. You didn't clear it with us."

"I don't need permission from a biker gang to enforce the law."

"You do when you're on this mountain," the giant says softly. "This isn't your jurisdiction. And she isn't your prisoner."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a correction." The giant looks at the cuffs again. "Take them off."

"Or what?"

The giant moves with blinding speed. One massive hand shoots out, grabbing the agent’s wrist hovering near his gun. A violent twist produces a sickening pop. Buzz Cut drops to his knees in the slush with a strangled yelp.

The other agents draw their weapons.

"Don't," the giant warns, his expression utterly bored. "Fire a shot here, and none of you leave this mountain. My brothers are two minutes out. They lack my manners."

The roar of incoming motorcycles echoes off the canyon walls.

Buzz Cut wheezes on the ground, clutching his ruined wrist. "You're making a mistake. Obstruction of justice—"

"She's under Broken Halos protection," the giant states.

Reaching into his pocket, he produces a small universal key.

He doesn't wait for the agent to move; he crowds directly into my personal space, his chest a wall of solid muscle against my shoulder.

He grabs my bound wrists, his massive hands dwarfing mine, and clicks the locks open.

The metal clatters to the slushy pavement, and the relief is instantly replaced by the searing heat of his skin against my bruised wrists.

My gaze drops to the metal falling away from my bruised skin.

"Universal," he murmurs. His thumb rubs over the red mark on my wrist where the metal bit in. Rough, calloused heat presses against my freezing flesh. My breath hitches, a sharp prickle of fire racing straight down my spine.

"Get in the truck," he commands.

"I can't just leave my car," I protest, though my voice lacks conviction. "And… are you kidnapping me?"

He pins me with that calculating stare. "Would you rather go with them?"

Buzz Cut glares murder at me from the slush. The other agents keep their weapons trained on him. The terrifying biker beside me just assaulted a federal agent without breaking a sweat.

"Good point," I say.

"Keys," he demands, holding out his massive palm.

I grab the keys from the ignition, my fingers trembling so hard they nearly slip.

"Blake—our Prospect—will get the Honda," the massive biker growls, his voice a dark, gravelly command that cuts through the freezing mountain air.

He doesn't look back at the federal agents as the roar of the incoming pack crests the hill, their headlights cutting through the snow like hunters.

He tosses my keys over his shoulder without a glance; a masked biker on a blacked-out Harley catches them mid-air. "Get in the truck. Now."

I scramble into the passenger seat, my legs shaking so violently I nearly trip on the running board. The cab already smells of him—leather, cold air, and something distinctly male.

Climbing into the driver’s side, his massive frame shrinks the cab instantly. The truck drops into gear and pulls around the federal blockade like the sedan and SUV are mere traffic cones.

"Who are you?" I ask, watching the flashing lights disappear in the swirling snowstorm.

"Elias," he answers, keeping his eyes firmly on the road. Steady hands grip the steering wheel, displaying scarred knuckles bare of any rings. "Treasurer."

"Treasurer? Of the motorcycle club?"

"Yes."

"So you're the one I'm supposed to be working with?"

"Yes."

The man barely speaks. I babble when my nerves fray. This pairing promises absolute disaster.

"They think I committed fraud," I say, the words spilling out independently of my brain. "I didn't. My former boss cooked the books. I found the second set of ledgers. I was going to turn them in, but he must have panicked and pointed the finger at me."

Elias says nothing, continuing to drive in silence.

"I'm really good at my job," I press on, desperate to fill the dead air. "I see patterns. Numbers talk to me. People lie, but math doesn't. If the numbers don't balance, there's always a reason. I can find the reason."