Page 2 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

ATLAS

Wolf’s Den hums with evening energy as I watch servers weave between tables packed with locals and travelers.

Kitchen noise filters through the pass-through window—orders being called, plates clattering, the steady rhythm of a restaurant in full swing.

From my position at the bar’s end, I can monitor the dining room while staying close enough to the office if business calls.

“Atlas.” Rico slides onto the stool beside me, keeping his voice low. “You wanted to see me?”

I turn to face him, noting how his eyes automatically scan the room before settling back on me. Good habits die hard, especially for men like us who’ve learned that survival depends on constant awareness.

Rico spent eight years in Army Intelligence before everything went to hell in Afghanistan. Now he handles information gathering for our operations, and tonight I need his particular set of skills.

“New waitress starts tomorrow. Ember Collins.” I slide a folded paper across the bar. “Phoenix address, ASU graduate, references in Flagstaff. I want you to verify everything.”

Rico unfolds the paper, scanning the details with the kind of attention that made him valuable overseas. “Something feels off about her?”

“Maybe. Could be nothing.” I take a sip of whiskey, letting the burn settle in my chest. “But I didn’t survive this long by ignoring instincts.”

“How deep do you want me to dig?”

“Deep enough to know if she’s who she claims to be. Check the references, verify the employment history, and see if there’s anything that doesn’t add up. And one more thing…” I meet his eyes. “Keep it quiet. I don’t want anyone else knowing about this yet.”

He nods and pockets the paper. “Give me twenty-four hours.”

“Good man.”

Rico disappears into the crowd, and I return my attention to the dining room.

Business is strong tonight with bikers from three different clubs occupying separate sections, a few local families celebrating something, and truckers grabbing dinner before pushing on to their next destination.

Everyone staying in their lanes, keeping the peace that keeps Wolf Pike profitable.

My phone buzzes against the bar. Unknown number. I step outside through the back door, letting cool mountain air hit my face as I answer.

“Bishop.”

I recognize the voice.

“Shipment’s running late.” Carlos’s tone is tight. It always gets like this when he encounters problems moving high-value cargo across state lines. “Border patrol’s been active the last two days. We’re taking the long route.”

“How late?”

“Forty-eight hours, maybe more. Can’t risk pushing it with this much heat.”

I lean against the building’s brick wall, calculating the delay’s impact on our timeline. “Is the storage facility ready?”

“Jake’s got everything set up on his end. Climate controlled, security cameras are disabled for the window you requested. He’s asking about payment.”

“Same terms as always. Half now, half on delivery.” I watch a pair of headlights wind up the mountain road toward town. “Make sure your boys understand the rules. No stopping in Wolf Pike, no contact with locals, no detours. They deliver and disappear.”

“Copy that.”

Call ends, and I pocket the phone. Forty-eight-hour delay means adjusting schedules, moving money, and ensuring our legitimate front operations don’t show any suspicious gaps. Government betrayal taught me that planning for contingencies keeps operations running when others fall apart.

Afghanistan feels like a lifetime ago, but the instincts never left. It still haunts my dreams sometimes. Alpha-7 was supposed to be elite, untouchable. Instead, I spent six months eating scraps and watching good men die while Washington pretended we never existed.

Radio went silent when we needed extraction most. No backup, no support, no acknowledgment. Just me and my team abandoned in hostile territory because some desk jockey decided our mission was too politically sensitive.

That’s why I verify everything twice now. That’s why I trust only what I can control.

Back inside, I settle into my usual spot.

“Boss?” Finn appears at my elbow, bar towel slung over his shoulder. “Kitchen’s running low on the Macallan. Should I grab another bottle from storage?”

“Do it. And Finn? Check the inventory on the Jameson while you’re back there. We’ve been going through it faster than usual.”

He nods and heads toward the storage area behind the kitchen. Good kid, works hard, asks few questions.

My attention drifts to the booth in the far corner where Jake sits with two men I don’t recognize.

Jake runs our primary storage facility, located about twenty miles outside town, and handles the logistics that keep sensitive cargo moving without drawing attention.

Meeting with strangers in my restaurant means either new business opportunities or potential problems. Either way, I need to know which.

I make my way across the dining room, nodding to regulars, stopping briefly to check on a table of locals celebrating someone’s birthday. Finally, I slide into the booth across from Jake.

“Evening, gentlemen.”

Jake straightens slightly. “Atlas, good to see you. These are the associates I mentioned. David runs transport operations out of Denver, and Marcus handles distribution networks in Colorado Springs.”

I shake hands with both men, reading their faces. David has calloused hands and prison tattoos, barely visible under his sleeves. Marcus wears expensive clothes, but his eyes never stop moving. Both men carry themselves like they’ve seen violence and aren’t afraid of more.

“Jake says you might have storage needs in our area,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.

David leans forward. “We’re expanding operations and need reliable facilities for temperature-sensitive merchandise. Jake vouched for your discretion and security measures.”

“Depends on the merchandise and timeline. I don’t handle anything that brings federal attention.”

“Nothing like that,” Marcus interjects. “High-end electronics, some pharmaceutical supplies, maybe occasional art pieces for private collectors. Clean paperwork, legitimate buyers, just need secure storage between acquisition and delivery.”

Electronics and pharmaceuticals mean stolen goods. Art pieces for private collectors translates to items taken without the owner’s consent. However, their story holds together, and Jake wouldn’t bring them here without verifying it first. Still, new partnerships require careful evaluation.

“I’ll need references from your previous storage providers, insurance documentation, and a clear understanding of your security requirements.

” I lean back in the booth. “This isn’t a handshake business, gentlemen.

Everything gets documented, every transaction gets recorded, every shipment gets tracked. ”

David and Marcus exchange glances. “That level of recordkeeping might complicate things on our end,” David says.

“Then you need different facilities. I run legitimate operations with proper oversight. Anyone uncomfortable with transparency can find storage elsewhere.”

The truth is, detailed records protect everyone involved.

Government taught me that documented operations with proper paper trails survive scrutiny better than shadow deals based on trust. When federal prosecutors start building cases, they look for gaps and inconsistencies.

Give them complete records of legitimate business activities, and they struggle to prove criminal intent.

“We’ll discuss it and get back to you,” Marcus says, sliding out of the booth.

“Take your time. Good business relationships develop slowly.”

They leave with Jake, who promises to call tomorrow with their decision. I check my watch—nearly ten o’clock. Time to head home and brief Garrett on tomorrow’s new hire.

I lock up the office and walk through the kitchen, where Finn is cleaning the grill. “Good night, boss,” he calls out, and I wave back before stepping out the rear exit.

Behind the restaurant, our compound sprawls across three acres of fenced property.

The main house sits in the center, a two-story log structure we finally got around to building ourselves seven years ago.

My brothers have their own workshops here. Garrett occupies the left side, where he does woodworking and restores vintage furniture when he’s not handling security. Silas’s forge sits on the right, where he crafts custom metalwork and the occasional blade when clients need specialized tools.

Storage buildings line the back fence, officially for restaurant supplies but actually housing more sensitive inventory.

Lights are on in the main house, and I can hear music drifting from the kitchen windows. Sounds like Garrett’s entertaining again.

I push through the front door and immediately understand why the music’s so loud. Garrett has a redhead pressed against the kitchen counter, her legs wrapped around his waist while he moves against her with the kind of raw intensity that makes me glad the nearest neighbors are miles away.

“Christ, Garrett,” I mutter, grabbing a beer from the fridge without making eye contact. “Some of us live here.”

“Then knock next time,” he growls, not breaking rhythm. The woman moans something that might be encouragement, and I decide the living room is far enough away to avoid further details.

Twenty minutes later, Garrett joins me on the couch, pulling on a T-shirt while his companion lets herself out the front door.

“Who was that?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know.

“Tina from the auto shop. She’s been dropping hints for weeks.” He settles into his chair with a satisfied grin. “Figured I’d finally take her up on it.”

“On the kitchen counter where we eat?”

“I cleaned it.”

I shake my head and take a long pull from my beer. “Silas called earlier. He’s extended his stay in New Orleans another week. Something about his contact needing more time to arrange the documentation.”

“That’s what, three weeks now?”

“Four. But the papers he’s getting are worth the wait. Clean identities don’t come cheap or fast. I hired a new waitress today.”

“About time. What’s she like?”

“Ember Collins. Twenty-four, supposedly from Phoenix. Starts tomorrow night.”

“Supposedly?”

I lean back against the couch cushions. “Something feels off about her. Can’t put my finger on it, but she answered questions too smoothly, like she’d practiced her responses.”

“Maybe she really needs the job and didn’t want to blow the interview.”

“Maybe.” I finish my beer and set the bottle on the coffee table. “Just keep an eye on her. Observe how she handles customers and interacts with the staff. Trust your instincts.”

“It’s what I do.” Garrett’s expression grows serious. “You think she’s trouble?”

“Don’t know yet. But I’ve learned to be suspicious of coincidences, especially when they involve attractive women showing up right when we’re expecting sensitive shipments.”

Garrett grins and sits up straighter in his chair. “Attractive, you say?”

“Down, boy. Don’t even start.”

He throws his hands in the air. “I haven’t even said anything.”

“Sure you haven’t, but I know that look.”

“What look?”

“The one you put on when you’re ready to chase anything attractive in a skirt. We have rules about our staff.”

“Rules are meant to be broken.”

“Not this one. Keep it professional.”

“Fair enough. I’ll watch her.”

“Good. I’m heading to bed. Try to keep the noise down if Tina comes back.”

“You know you’re welcome to join us, right? She’s made it clear she’s interested in meeting my brothers.”

I pause at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m not sharing another woman with you unless it feels right. Your Tina’s sweet, but she’s not the type for us.”

“No promises on keeping quiet then.”

Evening rush at Wolf’s Den starts early on Wednesday nights. By four o’clock, most of the tables are occupied.

Rico appears at my shoulder, sliding onto the stool beside me with the kind of casual movement that suggests he’s got information.

“Found something interesting,” he says, keeping his voice low.

“Go on.”

“Ember Collins checks out on the surface. Employment records, university transcripts, and rental history in Phoenix. But there are gaps. Small ones, but they’re there.”

I set down my whiskey. “What kind of gaps?”

“Social media presence goes back three years, but earlier posts feel manufactured. It’s as if someone built a backstory.

References in Flagstaff confirmed employment, but their descriptions were vague.

Generic answers about work ethic and reliability, nothing specific about personality or memorable incidents. ”

“Could mean she’s running from something personal. Abusive relationship, family problems, debt collectors.”

“Could be. Or it could mean someone with resources helped her create a clean identity.” Rico’s expression stays neutral, but his tone carries weight. “On the off chance that she isn’t who she claims to be, I’ve got an explanation that might just be the truth.”

“Go on.”

“Her employment gap last year matches a time frame when a federal task force was operating in the Phoenix area. Drug trafficking investigation, but they were looking at legitimate businesses suspected of money laundering.”

The federal task force means potential law enforcement connections. Employment gaps during active investigations suggest possible cooperation with authorities. Combined with a manufactured social media presence and vague references, the picture becomes concerning.

“Keep digging, but carefully. If she’s connected to law enforcement, we need to know before she gets deeper into operations.”

“Already on it.”

Rico melts back into the crowd, leaving me alone with uncomfortable possibilities.

The front door chimes as more customers enter, but my attention sharpens when I recognize the woman walking through.

Ember Collins, arriving exactly on time for her first shift. Her Black Wolf’s Den T-shirt fits her perfectly.

She stops at the hostess station to check in with Lizzy, and I watch her scan the dining room. When she turns toward the bar area, our eyes meet across the crowded space.

For a moment, neither of us looks away, and I feel that familiar tug of attraction mixed with wariness.

Then Garrett appears at her side, and the spell breaks.