Page 24 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

EMBER

“Ready?” Atlas asks, hand on the door handle.

“No. But let’s do it anyway.”

He pushes open what’s left of our front door, and we step into the morning sunlight.

Immediately, I’m looking down the barrels of at least a dozen assault rifles, red laser dots dancing across our chests like deadly fireflies despite the daylight. The tactical team has positioned themselves with agents in overlapping fields of fire and snipers on the ridgeline behind them.

They came prepared for war.

Atlas moves slightly to my left, Garrett to my right, Silas behind me. Their triangle formation is loose enough that we don’t present a clustered target.

“That’s far enough.” Ben’s voice echoes across the parking lot through his bullhorn. “Weapons down, hands visible.”

“Fuck you too,” I mutter under my breath.

“Agent Hayes,” Ben continues, stepping out from behind his SUV.

He looks exactly the same as he did three months ago—tall, lean, that long neck making him look like a crane in tactical gear.

Still chewing gum like it’s his job. “You’re under arrest for failure to complete your assigned mission, destruction of federal property, and conspiracy with known criminals. ”

“Known criminals?” Atlas’s voice carries dry amusement. “That’s new.”

“Atlas Bishop, you’re also under arrest for harboring a federal fugitive, obstruction of justice, and operating a criminal enterprise.”

“What criminal enterprise would that be?” Atlas asks calmly.

“The one Agent Hayes was sent here to investigate.”

I step forward slightly, just enough to draw Ben’s attention. “You mean the medical supply network that helps veterans who can’t afford their medication? That criminal enterprise?”

“Agent Hayes, stand down. You’re clearly suffering from Stockholm syndrome and are not thinking rationally.”

“I’m thinking more clearly than I have in years.”

“These men kidnapped you. Held you against your will. Whatever they’ve done to make you sympathize with them—”

“They showed me what you really are,” I interrupt. “What the FBI really wanted from this operation.”

Ben’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Agent Hayes, you’re coming with us. Willingly or not.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You killed a Mexican national last night. That’s a federal crime that could put you away for life unless you cooperate with this investigation.”

“Mexican national?” Garrett laughs harshly. “You mean the cartel soldier who was about to murder a family with children?”

“That’s not how the report will read.”

And there it is. The threat I was expecting, delivered with the same casual authority Ben’s always used when he needed me to do something I didn’t want to do—cooperate or face consequences that could destroy my life.

Except my life is already destroyed. The old one, anyway. And I’m not interested in going back to it.

“Let me guess,” I say, taking another step forward despite the rifle barrels tracking my movement.

“The report will say I went rogue, killed an innocent Mexican citizen, and need to be brought in for my own safety. Clean narrative that explains away any inconvenient questions about what I found here.”

“Agent Hayes—”

“Or maybe the report will say I died in the line of duty. Tragic loss during a dangerous undercover operation. Much simpler that way, isn’t it, Ben?”

Several of the agents exchange glances. They can hear the conversation, see Ben’s expression, and some of them are starting to realize this isn’t a standard fugitive recovery.

“Agent Hayes, you’re clearly not thinking rationally. These criminals have brainwashed you—”

“Brainwashed me into what? Into discovering that the FBI wanted me to plant evidence connecting innocent people to crimes they didn’t commit?”

Ben’s face goes carefully blank, but I see he’s trying to figure out how much I know, how much I can prove.

“That’s a serious accusation,” he says finally.

“It’s a serious crime. Which is why I recorded our conversation.”

Ben goes completely still. Even his gum chewing stops. “What conversation?”

I pull out the burner phone I’ve been carrying—the one with cloud storage access that survived after my other devices were destroyed.

“The one where you admitted the FBI orchestrated a frame-up operation. Where you told me to plant evidence connecting these men to crimes they didn’t commit.

You said sometimes we have to help the evidence along to ensure justice is served. ”

“Agent Hayes, put the phone down.”

“Why? Worried about what your own people might hear?”

I activate the speaker function and find the saved recording. Ben’s voice is crystal clear and damning: “We want you to ensure that dangerous criminals don’t escape consequences due to technicalities.”

“That could be taken out of context—”

The recording continues, “Sometimes we have to help the evidence along to ensure justice is served.”

More glances between tactical agents. These aren’t corrupt cops or dirty agents—they’re career FBI personnel who took the same oath I did and believed they were serving justice, not participating in frame-ups.

“Plant the evidence, send us your location, and we’ll handle the rest,” Ben’s recorded voice continues.

“Turn it off,” Ben orders, but his authority is cracking.

But I let the recording continue: “This is a direct order, Agent Hayes. Plant the evidence, or face charges for failure to complete your mission.”

Several agents lower their rifles slightly. One removes his helmet entirely, staring at Ben like he’s seeing him for the first time.

“That recording is fabricated,” Ben says, but it sounds like even he doesn’t believe it.

“Is it? Because I’ve got metadata, time stamps, phone records. Everything your forensics team would need to verify authenticity.” I look directly at the agents who are wavering. “How many of you signed up to plant evidence on innocent people?”

Two more agents lower their weapons.

“Agent Hayes, you’re making a mistake—”

“The only mistake I made was trusting you.” I reach into my jacket, making sure everyone can see my movements, and pull out my FBI badge.

I hold the badge up so everyone can see it catch the sunlight.

“I’ve been carrying it since the day you told me to plant evidence, Ben.

Sometimes in my boot, sometimes in my pocket, sometimes inside my jacket.

I told myself it meant I still had a little loyalty left to the Bureau, that maybe the oath I swore hadn’t been a complete lie.

” My voice hardens. “But that’s gone now.

Every shred of loyalty died the moment I saw what you really wanted from me. ”

The gold shield catches the morning sunlight, reflecting everything I once believed in. Justice, law and order, protecting the innocent. All the ideals that brought me to Quantico, that carried me through three years of dangerous assignments.

All the ideals Ben and his operation perverted into something ugly.

“Agent Natalie Hayes, badge number 7429,” I say clearly, holding it up so everyone can see. “Three years of service, four undercover operations, three commendations for bravery.”

I drop the badge onto the gravel at my feet. “And one moment of perfect clarity about what the FBI really wanted from me.”

I lift my boot and bring it down hard on the gold shield, grinding it into the gravel and dirt. The metal scratches and dents, the proud eagle becoming just scrap metal under my heel.

“I’m done,” I announce to the tactical team, to Ben, to anyone who’s listening. “Done with an agency that sees agents as disposable assets. I’m done with superiors who order evidence planting, and a system that frames innocent people to make arrest statistics look good.”

The team is splitting now. Half still have their weapons raised, but the other half have lowered their rifles completely, some stepping back from their positions, others removing helmets and gear.

“This is mutiny,” Ben snarls.

“No, this is conscience,” one of the agents replies, a woman with sergeant’s stripes who’s holstering her sidearm. “We’re federal agents, not corrupt cops.”

“You don’t understand the bigger picture—”

“I understand it perfectly.” She looks directly at Ben. “You sent an agent into the field with orders to fabricate evidence.”

Two more agents step away from their positions. Then three more. Ben’s authority is crumbling in real time, his team fragmenting as they process what they’ve heard.

“Agent Hayes,” the sergeant addresses me directly. “Are you here under duress?”

“No. I’m here by choice.”

“Are you being coerced or threatened?”

“Only by him.” I nod toward Ben.

“What about the allegations about evidence planting?”

“It’s been recorded, documented, and verifiable.”

She nods, then turns to her remaining team. “Stand down. We’re not arresting anyone today.”

“You don’t have the authority to—” Ben starts.

“I have the authority to refuse illegal orders. Which is exactly what evidence planting is.” She keys her radio. “Dispatch, this is Tactical Team Seven. We’re aborting the current operation pending investigation into operational parameters.”

“Sergeant Lake, what’s your status?”

“Status is we’ve got a clusterfuck of epic proportions. Recommend immediate review by Internal Affairs and Office of Professional Responsibility.”

Ben’s face cycles through several emotions—anger, fear, calculation—finally settling on resigned fury. “This isn’t over, Hayes.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You think you can just disappear and start a new life with these criminals? The Bureau will never stop looking for you.”

“Let them look.”

“You’re making the biggest mistake of your life.”

“No. The biggest mistake of my life was trusting you.”

Ben stares at me for a long moment, then spits his gum onto the ground. “Load up,” he orders the agents still loyal to him. “We’re leaving.”

As the remaining federal vehicles pull away, silence settles over our compound. Dust drifts across the parking lot where my badge lies crumpled in the gravel, and I can hear birds singing in the pine trees like nothing world changing just happened.

“Well,” Atlas says finally, “that went better than expected. Nobody died.”

“Yet,” Garrett adds.