Page 30 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

EMBER

Ten weeks now, and my body still hasn’t figured out that throwing up first thing every day isn’t helping anybody. I manage to keep the dry toast down while sipping ginger tea, but everything tastes like cardboard.

Lizzy’s already in the restaurant when I arrive, setting up tables with so much energy that it makes me tired just watching her.

“You look rough,” she says without looking up from arranging salt shakers.

“Thanks. Just what every woman wants to hear.”

“Sorry. I meant tired. You look tired.” She glances at me with concern. “The morning sickness still bad?”

“Getting better. I think. Maybe.” I collapse into a booth. “How are you doing? Haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“Been dealing with Tyler drama.” She rolls her eyes. “You know how men get when they think they can just waltz back into their kids’ lives whenever it’s convenient.”

Tyler is the father of her two kids, but never quite ready to be a real partner. I’ve heard his name mentioned, but never met him.

“He’s not taking responsibility well?”

“Oh, he loves playing daddy when it suits him. He shows up with toys and promises, gets the kids all excited, then disappears for weeks when work gets busy.” Lizzy moves to the next table, her movements sharp with frustration.

“Now he’s talking about how we should be a ‘real family,’ how he wants to move us closer to his job site, how the kids need stability. ”

“That doesn’t sound terrible.”

“It’s not terrible. It’s just…convenient timing.” She pauses in her work, staring out the window. “Six months ago, he could barely remember their birthdays. Now he’s making arrangements for our lives without asking what I want.”

“What do you want?”

“I want him to be consistent. I want to finish my nursing degree.” She sighs. “Is that selfish?”

“Not even a little. You have time to figure things out without rushing into decisions that will affect you and your kids for the rest of your lives.”

The restaurant door chimes, and Mrs. Andrew enters with her usual Tuesday morning energy. Lizzy immediately straightens, switching from frustrated baby mama to professional hostess.

“Morning, Mrs. Andrew. Your usual table?”

“Please, honey. And don’t forget extra cream for my coffee. Doctor says I need the calories.”

As Lizzy helps Mrs. Andrew settle in, I find myself thinking about timing and choices, and how complicated relationships become when children are involved.

Lizzy’s right to want consistency from Tyler before making major life decisions.

Twenty-seven is still young enough to figure things out without rushing into situations that might not work.

But then again, twenty-four isn’t exactly ancient wisdom territory either.

“You want some advice?” I ask when Lizzy returns.

“From someone who’s living with three men and pregnant by one of them? Yes, please.”

“Tell Tyler to prove himself with actions, not promises. Tell him you need to see real consistency before making big decisions about your family’s future. If he can’t respect that, then he’s not ready to be a real partner anyway.”

“What if he says I’m being unreasonable?”

“Then he’s proving your point. Good partners put the family’s well-being first, not their own convenience.”

Lizzy considers this, twisting her dishrag between her hands. “What if I’m wrong? What if I should give him another chance since the kids love having him around?”

“You’re not wrong for wanting stability for your children. You’re just not letting his promises override your need for proof that he’s changed.”

I hear Atlas’s voice from the kitchen, sharp and focused in a way that makes me pay attention.

He’s on his phone, pacing the small space behind the prep area.

“When did it arrive?” His tone has shifted from casual to business mode. “All of it? No, that’s not possible through normal channels.”

I stand up. Atlas doesn’t usually take calls during morning setup unless they’re important.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Lizzy, following the sound of his voice toward the kitchen.

He’s stopped pacing, standing near the walk-in cooler with his back to me. His free hand runs through his hair, a gesture I recognize as a stress response.

“We’ll be there in an hour,” he says finally. “Don’t let anyone else handle the inventory until we arrive.”

When he turns around, I’m standing in the doorway watching him. His expression shifts from business to neutrality.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Just supply chain issues. Nothing that can’t be handled.”

“What kind of supply chain issues require you to drive somewhere personally?”

He studies my face. “The Denver contact came through ahead of schedule. That specialized medical equipment we’ve been waiting for just showed up at the Mountain View facility.”

Mountain View. I’ve heard them mention it, but I’ve never been there. It’s one of their storage locations, I assume, though Atlas keeps the details of their network compartmentalized for security reasons.

“The dialysis machines?” I remember hearing them discuss expensive equipment that would help kidney patients who can’t afford regular treatment.

“Among other things. The timing’s unexpected, which means we need to verify everything personally before it gets distributed.”

“All three of you?”

“High-value equipment requires multiple authorizations. Plus, if there’s a problem with the shipment, we need to handle it immediately before word gets out that we’re moving this kind of inventory.”

Garrett appears from the dining room. Silas follows a moment later, wiping metal polish off his hands with a rag.

“Is there a problem?” Garrett asks.

“Denver delivery showed up early. We need to get to Mountain View and verify the shipment before anyone else gets involved.”

“I’ll come with you,” I say.

Atlas’s immediate headshake is predictable. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? I’m part of this family, part of this operation. If you need all three of you there, having backup makes sense.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“I’m also the best shot in this building.” I cross my arms, settling into the stubborn posture that usually wins these arguments. “Plus, if someone’s targeting us, staying here alone makes me a sitting duck.”

“The facility is more secure than the compound,” Silas points out. “It’s not a known location.”

Garrett nods slowly. “If someone wanted to hit her specifically, they’d expect her to be here, not at a warehouse twenty miles away.”

“Fine. But you stay close, you follow orders, and if anything feels wrong, you get to safety first.”

“Understood.”

We get ready quickly. Atlas assigns Finn to handle the restaurant during our absence, a conversation that takes place near the kitchen pass-through, where I’m helping Lizzy reset the tables.

“Finn!” Atlas calls out. “We’re headed to Mountain View to check on a delivery. Hold down the fort until we get back.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Finn replies, looking up from prep work. “Everything okay?”

“Just unexpected timing on some equipment. We’ll be back by lunch.”

“Take your time. I’ve got everything handled here.”

The drive to Mountain View takes us through back roads I’ve never traveled, deeper into wilderness that feels untouched by development. Atlas drives with focused attention, checking mirrors frequently, while Garrett and Silas maintain casual conversation that doesn’t quite hide their alertness.

Twenty miles from Wolf Pike, the landscape opens up into a natural valley, hidden from the main road by a dense pine forest. The warehouse sits at the bottom like a secret, accessible only through a private drive that winds down the hillside.

From the outside, it looks unremarkable. Standard industrial building, metal siding, the kind of structure that wouldn’t attract attention from casual observers.

Inside tells a different story.

Row after row of medical equipment in various stages of processing and distribution. Wheelchairs, oxygen concentrators, and prescription medications sorted by condition and dosage.

Near the back, I see the human impact of this work. An elderly man is testing mobility equipment while his wife watches with tears of gratitude.

“This is incredible,” I tell Atlas, following him through the organized aisles.

“Years of building the network. We process about fifty thousand dollars worth of medical supplies here every month.”

“And all of them are free to people who need them?”

“Yep.”

I notice a truck near the loading dock with tinted windows, its engine running. But before I can point it out, the shooting starts.

Cartel members pour through the main entrance and loading dock simultaneously, firing wildly.

“Office!” Atlas shouts, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the elevated position. “Now!”

We sprint between the rows of medical equipment, staying low while bullets punch through cardboard boxes and ping off metal shelving.

Behind us, I can hear the screams of the other people in the warehouse as well as Garrett and Silas returning fire, their shots more controlled than the spray-and-pray tactics of our attackers.

The office is small but well positioned, with windows overlooking the main floor and a solid desk that provides decent cover. Atlas pushes me down behind it while he takes a position at the window.

“Do you know how many?” I ask, drawing my Glock and checking the magazine.

“At least eight. Maybe more.” He fires two quick shots. “They’re not as organized as the last group, but they’re persistent.”

Through the window, I can see the cartel members advancing through the warehouse, using the medical equipment as cover while they close the distance to our position. They’re exactly what Atlas described—street criminals with guns and attitude.

But they’re still dangerous, especially in numbers.

My first shot drops a man trying to flank our position from the left side. Clean center mass, and he goes down hard.

The second takes out another who thought the oxygen tanks would provide adequate cover.

“Good shooting,” Atlas says, adjusting his own position. “But conserve ammunition. We don’t know how long this will last.”

Now that I’m in a defensible position, Atlas leaves to help the others. The sustained gunfire echoes through the warehouse, punctuated by screams from the beneficiaries who were receiving supplies.

“Get to the loading dock!” someone yells—probably the veteran who was examining mobility equipment moments ago.

“My insulin!” the young mother cries, clutching her son’s diabetes supplies while scrambling for cover behind overturned wheelchairs.

The financial devastation is staggering.

My magazine runs dry after six more shots, and I’m reaching for a spare when a cartel member appears in the office doorway. Young, maybe early twenties, with prison tattoos covering his arms.

He’s faster than I expected, crossing the small office in two quick strides before I can bring my reloaded weapon to bear. His tackle takes us both to the floor behind the desk, my Glock skittering away across the concrete.

I go for his eyes with my fingernails, earning a howl of pain and a wild swing that connects with my shoulder. The blow knocks me sideways, but I use the momentum to drive my knee up toward his groin.

He twists away from the worst of it, but the impact still doubles him over long enough for me to scramble away from his reaching hands. My palm closes around the first weapon-like object I can find on the desk surface.

A letter opener. Brass handle with thin blade.

The cartel member lunges again, and this time I’m ready for him. I sidestep his charge and drive the letter opener into the side of his neck, just below the ear, angling upward toward his brain stem.

Blood sprays across the office walls as he drops to his knees, hands clawing at his throat. His eyes go wide with shock, then glaze over as life leaves them.

The letter opener falls from my hand, clattering onto the concrete floor beside his still body.