Page 33 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

ATLAS

Dawn creeps over the mountains as I gather my brothers around the kitchen table one final time. Coffee steams in our mugs, but nobody’s drinking. The weight of what comes next hangs between us like smoke.

“Time to move to the next stage,” I announce, my voice cutting through the quiet morning air.

Garrett nods, his wounded shoulder still wrapped, but his eyes clear. “Morrison facility?”

“Morrison facility. We execute this right, and by tonight, Ember Bishop-McKenzie-Delacroix officially exists while Special Agent Natalie Hayes becomes a closed case file.”

Silas stubs out his cigarette, exhaling the last of the smoke toward the ceiling. “Equipment’s loaded in the truck. Industrial accelerants, DNA samples, timer devices. Everything we need to make this look like an accident with criminal overtones.”

“Timing?”

“Fire starts at 0800 hours. By the time Wolf Pike Fire Department responds, the structure’s fully engulfed. Nothing left but ash and enough forensic evidence to satisfy federal investigators.”

I check my watch—0645 hours. Plenty of time to reach the abandoned grain facility and set our trap before anyone expects us to be awake and moving.

“Garrett, you’re driving. Silas handles the technical work. I’ll coordinate timing and cleanup.” I drain my coffee mug, tasting the bitter dregs. “We do this clean, we do this quiet, and we make damn sure nobody can trace anything back to us.”

“What about the Black Wolves?” Garrett asks, gesturing toward the window where our newfound brothers are setting up camp around the compound. “They’re not exactly subtle.”

“They provide cover. Fifty bikers hanging around Wolf Pike gives us a legitimate reason to be moving equipment, having meetings, looking busy with club business.”

Through the kitchen window, I watch Rick Cross directing his men in establishing defensive positions around our property.

Professional work—overlapping fields of fire, clear sightlines, escape routes planned and marked.

These men remember their training, remember why the Black Wolves used to matter.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Ready,” Silas confirms.

“Let’s go kill Special Agent Hayes.”

The drive to Morrison Grain takes us through back roads that wind deeper into wilderness, away from curious eyes and morning commuters. Garrett handles the truck despite his injuries, while Silas checks and rechecks our equipment in the passenger seat.

“Accelerant placement?” I ask from behind them.

Silas answers. “Four ignition points, timed to create maximum structural damage. Fire will burn hot enough to compromise forensic analysis but leave enough trace evidence to confirm victim presence.”

“DNA samples?”

“Hair follicles at three locations, blood spatter near the presumed entry point, partial tissue samples on metal fragments designed to survive initial combustion.” Silas runs through the checklist with mechanical efficiency.

“Enough to prove she was there when it went up, not enough for detailed cause-of-death analysis.”

“Timing devices?”

“Fifteen-minute delay from activation. Gives us time to clear the area and establish alibis before ignition.”

The Morrison facility sits in a natural depression surrounded by pine forest, invisible from the main road and accessible only through a private drive that hasn’t seen maintenance in years. Perfect location for a clandestine meeting gone wrong.

The buildings are exactly what we need—old wooden structures with enough chemical residue from grain storage to burn fast and hot. Add our accelerants, and the whole complex will be ash within an hour.

“Position one,” I call out, pointing to the main storage building. “Silas, set your timer there. Maximum structural damage.”

“Oui.”

“Position two, loading dock. Garrett, place the DNA samples and secondary accelerant charge.”

“Copy.”

“Position three, administrative building. I’ll handle the trace evidence and final ignition point.”

We move through our tasks with the efficiency of men who’ve planned this operation down to the smallest detail. Every placement calculated, every timing sequence verified, every piece of evidence positioned to tell the story federal investigators need to hear.

Special Agent Natalie Hayes came here following a lead on our operations. Unknown subjects were waiting for her. Violence erupted, leading to an explosion that destroyed the evidence and killed everyone present.

Simple. Clean. Believable.

“Timers set,” Silas reports through our radio headsets. “Fifteen minutes to ignition.”

“DNA placement complete,” Garrett adds. “Blood spatter consistent with close-quarters violence, hair samples positioned for discovery during post-fire investigation.”

“Final accelerant charges armed,” I confirm, checking my own timer device. “Exfiltration in sixty seconds.”

We converge on the truck with practiced speed, equipment stowed and secured before the engine starts. Garrett reverses down the access road, putting distance between us and the coming inferno.

At exactly 0800 hours, the first explosion blooms orange against the morning sky.

The secondary charges follow in rapid succession, each detonation feeding the next until the entire complex burns with the intensity of a small sun. Smoke rises in a black column that will be visible for miles, drawing firefighters and investigators exactly where we want them.

“Beautiful work,” I tell my brothers as we watch our handiwork from a safe distance.

“Magnifique,” Silas agrees. “Federal forensics will find exactly what they expect to find.”

“How long before they identify the remains?” Garrett asks.

“Seventy-two hours for preliminary DNA analysis. Another twenty-four for official confirmation.” I start the truck, beginning our drive back to Wolf Pike. “By this time next week, Ember’s federal file gets stamped DECEASED and archived permanently. Then we deal with Los Serpientes permanently.”

Two days later, the FBI convoy arrives like a funeral procession—six black SUVs moving slowly down Main Street, their tinted windows reflecting morning sunlight like dead eyes. I watch from the restaurant’s front porch, coffee mug in hand, as they deploy.

But they’re not alone on Wolf Pike’s main street.

Fifty Harley-Davidsons line both sides of the road like chrome and steel sentinels, their riders standing beside them in full Black Wolves colors.

Rick Cross commands the formation from the center, his weathered face calm as he watches the federal agents exit their vehicles.

Behind him, his brothers and their units create an impressive display of organized brotherhood.

The message is clear: Wolf Pike belongs to the Black Wolves now.

Assistant Director Ben Torres emerges from the lead SUV, his familiar long neck craning as he surveys the assembled bikers. Even through his tactical gear, I can see his confidence wavering at the sight of so much organized resistance.

“Atlas Bishop!” His voice carries across the parking lot, amplified by a bullhorn that makes him sound like a carnival barker. “Federal warrant for the arrest of Natalie Hayes! Send her out now!”

I set down my coffee mug and walk slowly toward the federal formation, noting how my Black Wolves brothers shift position to provide covering angles. Not threatening, just present. Fifty armed men who’ve made their choice about which side they support.

“Agent Torres,” I call back, stopping about twenty feet from his position. “Good to see you again.”

“Where is she, Bishop?”

“Where is who?”

“Don’t play games. We have federal warrants, helicopter support, and authorization to use lethal force. Send out Natalie Hayes, or we’ll come in after her.”

Rick Cross dismounts his bike with fluid grace, moving to stand beside me. His presence draws more bikers forward, creating a loose semicircle that faces the federal agents without appearing overtly hostile.

“Problem here, Atlas?” Rick asks, his voice carrying the authority of a man who’s commanded respect for decades.

“Agent Torres is looking for someone who isn’t here.”

“She’s here,” Ben insists, gesturing toward our compound with his bullhorn. “Intelligence confirms this location as her primary residence.”

“Your intelligence is outdated.” I meet his eyes across the distance, keeping my expression neutral. “The woman you’re looking for died two days ago.”

Silence settles over Main Street like a blanket. Even the helicopter circling overhead seems to pause in its patrol pattern.

Then Ben laughs. It’s a harsh sound, bitter and disbelieving, echoing off storefronts and empty windows. “You expect me to believe Natalie Hayes just conveniently died before we could arrest her?”

“I expect you to do your job. Which includes investigating suspicious deaths in your jurisdiction.”

“What suspicious death?”

“Explosion and fire at the old Morrison grain facility. Unknown female victim, burned beyond recognition but with dental work consistent with federal employment records.”

Ben’s laughter cuts off abruptly. “You’re lying.”

“Am I? Morrison facility is about fifteen miles north of here, just off the old mining road. Easy enough to verify.”

I can see him processing this information, weighing possibilities against probabilities. His team waits behind their vehicles, weapons ready but not aimed, professional enough to recognize they’re outnumbered by a significant margin.

“When did this alleged fire occur?” he asks finally.

“Day before yesterday. Around 0800 hours. Wolf Pike Fire Department responded and found the entire complex destroyed. Single fatality, female, approximately twenty-four years old.”

“And you think this was Agent Hayes?”

“I think you should investigate and make your own determination. That’s what federal agents do, isn’t it? Investigate suspicious deaths?”

Ben keys his radio, speaking in quick, clipped sentences I can’t quite hear. Behind him, two agents climb back into their SUV and drive away, presumably toward the Morrison facility to verify my story.

“This isn’t over, Bishop.”