Page 32 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

SILAS

I drag Finn down the concrete steps into the basement, my grip tight on his collar. Each step echoes through the narrow space, bouncing off bare cement walls that smell like damp earth and rust. A single bare bulb swings from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows across our storage room.

Finn stumbles when I shove him toward the metal chair in the center of the room. His breathing comes fast and shallow.

“Sit.”

“Silas, please—”

I slam my palm against his chest, driving him back into the chair. The metal legs scrape against concrete as he lands hard. “Three years I’ve trusted you and treated you like family.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Then explain it.” I pull the rope from the shelf behind him, the coarse fibers rough against my palms. “Start with when they first contacted you.”

“I can’t—”

I loop the rope around his wrists, yanking tight enough that he hisses. “You can. You will. Because right now, the only thing keeping you breathing is my curiosity about how much damage you’ve done.”

“They have my sister!”

“Oui, you mentioned Emma. Seventeen years old, finishing high school.” I secure the rope to the chair’s metal frame, each knot precise and unforgiving. “Tell me about the first time they approached you.”

Finn’s chest rises and falls rapidly, shirt darkening with sweat stains. “Three weeks ago. I was leaving work late, cleaning the fryer. Two men in the parking lot, waiting by my truck.”

“What did they look like?”

“Hispanic. One tall with a scar across his cheek, the other shorter with gold teeth. They knew my name, knew Emma’s shift at the grocery store where she works.”

I move to the workbench against the far wall, metal tools scattered across its surface. “Continue.”

“They showed me pictures of her. Coming out of school, walking to work, sitting in her car. Said they could reach her anytime they wanted.” His voice cracks. “She’s all I have left, Silas. After Mom died, Emma’s my responsibility.”

“So you agreed to spy on us.”

“I told them I wouldn’t hurt you. That you were good people, good employers. But they said they didn’t care about my feelings.” Tears stream down his face now, dripping onto his shirt. “They said I could cooperate or watch my sister get carved up piece by piece.”

I turn back toward him, studying his face for lies. “What did you tell them?”

“Nothing at first. Just that you ran some kind of supply business out of the restaurant. Basic stuff anyone could figure out from watching the delivery trucks.”

“But they wanted more.”

“They kept calling. Every few days, asking for better information. Schedules, locations, who you meet with.” His whole body shakes now. “They said if I didn’t provide useful intelligence, they’d start sending Emma pieces of herself in the mail.”

I step closer, close enough that he has to crane his neck to look at me. “What useful intelligence did you provide?”

“Supply run schedules. When you’d be away from the compound. Which routes you take for deliveries.”

“The Mountain View location. How did they know about that?”

“I heard you talking to Jake on the phone last month. Something about expanding storage capacity at the mountain facility. I didn’t know the exact address, but—”

I grab the front of his shirt, pulling him forward in the chair until our faces are inches apart. “But you told them enough that they could find it.”

“No! I swear I never—”

I slam him back against the chair, hard enough that it rocks on its legs. “Don’t lie to me, Finn.”

“I overheard you giving directions to Atlas yesterday morning. Something about the old mining road turnoff. I called my contact when you left for the warehouse.” His words tumble out between sobs.

“They promised this would be the last time if I gave them your location. They said they’d let Emma go. ”

“And you believed them?”

“I had to believe them!”

The basement door opens above us, footsteps on the wooden stairs. Rico appears in the dim light.

“Atlas wants to see you upstairs. Urgent.”

I look at Finn, still tied to the chair, tears and snot streaming down his face. “We’re not finished.”

Rico moves to stand beside the chair. “I’ll watch him.”

“Don’t let him leave this room.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I climb the stairs, leaving Finn’s muffled sobs echoing in the concrete space below. Atlas waits in the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear.

“Understood.” He listens, then nods. “Thanks for the warning.”

“Problem?” I ask as he ends the call.

“FBI. Ben Torres is putting together a tactical team for another extraction attempt. Bigger force this time, with authorization to use lethal force if we resist.”

The next morning, my shoulder aches from sleeping on the couch in the office, keeping one ear open for any movement from the basement where Finn spent the night tied to that metal chair.

Back at the house, Garrett’s bullet wounds kept him restless, tossing and turning while Ember tried to help him find comfortable positions.

None of us slept well.

“It’s been confirmed. They’re moving forward with their operation,” Atlas says, brewing coffee. “They’re treating this as a high-priority terrorist extraction.” He pours coffee into four mugs.

“Terrorist?” Garrett emerges from the bathroom, fresh bandages visible under his open shirt. “That’s new.”

“Ben’s upgraded his narrative. Now we’re not just criminals holding a federal agent hostage—we’re domestic terrorists with ties to international arms dealers.”

Ember laughs, but the sound carries no humor. “International arms dealers?”

“Creative storytelling to justify lethal force authorization.” I light a cigarette, needing the familiar ritual. “Question is, what do we do about it?”

“We could fight,” Garrett suggests, easing into his chair with careful movements. “Fortify the compound, make them pay for every inch.”

“They’re going to have air support.” Atlas shakes his head. “We’d be dead within an hour.”

“We could run,” Ember says quietly. “All of us. Disappear into the mountains until they give up looking.”

“They won’t give up. And running means abandoning everything we’ve built here—the restaurant, the supply network, the families depending on us.”

I study Ember’s face, seeing the wheels turning behind her green eyes. “You have an idea.”

“Maybe. What if I’m not here when they arrive?”

“They’ll tear the place apart looking for you.”

“What if I’m dead?”

The kitchen goes silent except for the coffee maker’s dying gurgles. Atlas sets down his mug with deliberate care. “Explain.”

“Stage my death. Make it convincing enough that they call off the search and close my file.” She looks between all of us. “If Special Agent Natalie Hayes dies during an undercover operation gone wrong, they have no reason to keep pursuing the investigation.”

“How do we fake your death convincingly enough to fool federal forensics teams?” Garrett asks.

“Fire. Warehouse explosion, body burned beyond recognition. Plant enough DNA evidence to satisfy their investigation, but not enough that they can determine the cause of death.”

Atlas leans back in his chair, processing the logistics. “We’d need a location they’d believe you might be. A reason you’d be there alone. Physical evidence that supports the narrative.”

“The old Morrison grain facility,” I suggest. “Been abandoned for three years, dry wood and stored chemicals make it a natural fire hazard. Easy to believe someone might use it for a clandestine meeting.”

“What about DNA evidence?” Ember asks.

“Hair, blood samples. Enough to prove you were there when it burned, not enough for detailed analysis.”

“And dental records?”

“We can fake those. I know a guy in Denver who specializes in creative paperwork for people who need fresh starts.”

Garrett shifts in his chair, wincing as the movement pulls his stitches. “This assumes they don’t find the body.”

“No body to find. Just evidence that you were there when the place went up.” Atlas stares at his coffee, working through the details. “We stage it right, they conclude you died in an explosion.”

I nod. “Ember gets a new identity. Complete documentation package—birth certificate, social security number, driver’s license, employment history.”

“How much would that cost?” she asks.

“Fifty thousand for bulletproof documentation. Another twenty for the physical evidence and staging. We’ll need three days minimum to arrange everything properly. I’ll contact my guy in Denver today to get the paperwork started.”

“I’ll handle the physical staging,” Garrett adds. “Explosive devices, accelerants, DNA placement. Make it look like an industrial accident with criminal overtones.”

“And I’ll coordinate with our people to make sure everyone knows you’re officially dead once this goes down,” Atlas concludes. “Can’t have anyone accidentally revealing you’re still alive.”

Ember looks around our kitchen with an expression I can’t read. “So I disappear. Leave everything behind and start over with a new name.”

“You don’t leave everything behind,” I tell her.

She reaches across the table to take my hand, her fingers warm against my palm. “How long before we know if it worked?”

“The FBI will investigate the fire within hours of discovery. If our staging’s convincing, they’ll close your case within a week and reassign the agents to other operations.” Atlas returns to his chair. “If it’s not convincing…”

“Then we’re back to fighting or running,” Ember says.

I shrug. “Oui. But it will be convincing. We’re very good at making things look like accidents.”

The sound of motorcycle engines cuts through the morning quiet as I’m reviewing the final details for tomorrow’s operation. Multiple bikes, at least six or seven, are approaching fast along our private road.

“Expecting company?” Ember asks from the kitchen table, where she’s been helping sort medical supply invoices.

“No. But those sound like Harleys, not sport bikes.”

We step outside as the first motorcycle crests the hill—Rick Cross on his customized Road King, followed by his brothers Chase and Zane.

Behind them ride Brick Kane and his brothers Maddox and Ryder, their bikes gleaming in the morning sun.

Six men total, all wearing Black Wolves patches, all armed and ready for whatever brought them here.

Rick kills his engine first, pulling off his helmet. “Heard through the grapevine that our founding fathers might need some extra muscle.”

“Word travels fast,” Atlas observes, joining us on the porch.

“Fast enough. Evie mentioned you’ve been having federal problems on top of the cartel situation.”

“We’ve got it handled,” I tell him.

“Do you?” Brick dismounts his bike with fluid grace. “Because from what we hear, you’re about to stage someone’s death while dodging federal agents. Sounds like you could use secure backup locations.”

Atlas and I exchange glances. We’ve been discussing exactly this problem—where to keep Ember safe during the fake death operation and potential FBI investigation.

“Actually,” Atlas says slowly, “we have been looking for a secure location. Somewhere off the radar while we handle the federal situation.”

“How secure?” Brick asks.

“Completely invisible. The woman in question is officially going to be dead, so she can’t be seen anywhere near Wolf Pike until this blows over.”

Brick’s grin spreads across his scarred face. “Well, now that’s convenient. Our compound’s about as off-the-radar as you can get. Plus, we’ve got someone who’s excellent at keeping people safe.”

“Your wife?” Garrett asks, appearing in the doorway.

“Rowan knows how to handle dangerous situations. Daughter of an MC president, trained from childhood to deal with trouble. Plus we’ve got kids—might be nice for your woman to have some family time while you three handle the unpleasant business.”

I look at Ember, seeing the relief in her expression. She needs safety during the operation.

“That sounds like exactly what we need,” she says.

“She’ll need to disappear completely until the FBI investigation closes,” I say.

“For how long?”

“However long it takes. Could be days, could be weeks.”

Brick nods. “Rowan will be thrilled. She’s been wanting to meet the woman who tamed the Bishop brothers.”

“Nobody tamed anybody,” Ember protests.

“Sure they didn’t,” Rick says with a grin. “That’s why you’re all glowing with domestic happiness.”

As the bikers prepare to leave, Ember moves to stand beside me. “Thank you. For thinking of everything, for keeping me safe, for finding people who understand.”

“We protect what’s ours,” I tell her simply. “Toujours.”

“Always,” she agrees.

Tomorrow we’ll fake her death and send her into hiding. But at least she’ll be hidden with people who know how to keep dangerous secrets.